Can Anybody Help Me?

by Sinéad Crowley

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Chilling thriller for fans of Patricia Gibney and Angela Marsons. Online you never really know who you're talking to. You can never know their true identity or their intentions. Until it's too late... Recently moved to Dublin and struggling with a new baby, for support Yvonne turns to an online forum for mothers. Drawn into a world of new friends, she volunteers more and more information about herself. When one of these friends goes abruptly offline, Yvonne suspects something is wrong, but dismisses her fears as imagination. Then the body of a young woman with striking similarities to Yvonne's missing friend is found, and she realizes that they're all in terrifying danger. She must persuade Detective Claire Boyle, herself about to go on maternity leave, to take her fears seriously before others disappear. 'Brilliantly original and genuinely scary' Sunday Mirror 'Chilling, riveting and brilliantly written, you'll be up reading this way into the night! Closer

Release date: April 30, 2014

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 281

Sample

It was the ‘Mum’ that did it. Up until then, things had been going pretty well. The traffic had been light, they’d found a parking space within a short walk of the hospital and the waiting room, when they’d finally located it, hadn’t been too full. In fact, by the time Claire realised the wait would be far shorter than she’d anticipated, she had almost convinced herself that she was going to enjoy the experience. And then the nurse gestured towards the long, low bed and wrecked any chance of that.

‘Now, just hop up there, Mum, and Marie will be with you in a second.’

‘Mum.’

Welcome to pregnancy; leave your individuality and your name at the door of the antenatal ward. Sighing heavily, Claire turned towards her husband for an appreciative audience for her eye roll. But Matt had disappeared. In his place was a dewy-eyed stranger, staring at the scan machine the way he had once stared at the barman in Flanagan’s who was renowned for pulling the best pint of Guinness in the Western world.

She was on her own, so. A short, tired-looking woman – Marie, she assumed – bustled through the scuffed white door and busied herself with computer screens and tubes.

‘Now, this may be a little cold …’

Claire winced as the jelly was spread over her lower abdomen. A little cold? It was bloody freezing. You’d think they’d have come up with some solution to that: a heating device or something. Maybe she’d invent one herself, save her getting bored on maternity leave. Ordinarily she’d tell Matt that sort of thing, it’d give them a laugh at least, but instead, the big ball of mush at her side leant over and grabbed her hand.

‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘Um.’

As far as Claire was concerned, it wasn’t hard at all. She’d been living with the puking, jean-straining reality of this pregnancy for twenty weeks; she didn’t need an ultrasound to confirm it. But Matt seemed determined to milk every misty-eyed minute, so she returned the pressure on his hand, briefly.

‘Ah, yeah. It’s great.’

Her pocket vibrated and Marie glared. ‘All mobiles to be switched off please. They interfere with the equipment.’

‘Yeah, right. Sorry.’

Reaching into her pocket, Claire dragged out the phone. As she fumbled for the off switch, she couldn’t help reading the text on the screen.

JURYS GONE OUT

Oh Christ. Her stomach churned. She knew it, bloody knew it. The one day she couldn’t be there … Her finger twitched towards the reply button, but a quick look at Matt’s face told her that was out of the question. Right, so. Forget about it. Concentrate.

With a dramatic gesture, she turned the phone off and replaced it in her pocket before getting back into position on the bed.

‘Now. Where were we?’

But neither Marie nor her husband was listening. Instead, the technician moved the probe over Claire’s stomach – although Claire was finding it difficult to think of it as ‘hers’ any more – and began to mutter to herself.

‘Placenta is fundal … Baby is cephalic … Just trying to get … BPD …’

On the small black-and-white screen, shapes wobbled in and out of focus.

Matt’s hand on Claire’s squeezed tighter.

‘That’s all normal though, yeah?’

Marie was poker-faced. They probably trained them like that, no point in letting the parents know there was a problem until they were sure. Still though, there wasn’t going to be a problem, was there? Claire returned the pressure on her husband’s hand and stared harder at the screen. It didn’t look good though. Well, it didn’t look like anything, but that couldn’t be good, could it? Was that supposed to be a head? Or an arm …?

‘Sorry?’

Marie looked up, blinked, and smiled for the first time.

‘Oh, all perfectly normal! Sorry, just finding it hard to get a good measurement of Baby’s head. You’ve got a little wriggler in there!’

Matt beamed proudly, but Claire found herself in need of further reassurance.

‘But everything looks fine?’

‘Everything looks as we would expect at this stage. I have to take a few measurements here, but look …’

She pointed out a leg, and an arm, a small hand. And then the magic happened. The tiny mouth opened and began to suck the thumb.

‘Ahhhh.’

For a moment the three of them were united in happiness, thrilled by the display on the screen. Claire felt herself relax, and squeezed Matt’s hand once more. Everything was fine. Sure, that was grand, so. Excellent news. Excellent. At this rate she could be back in court while the jury was still deliberating …

‘That’d be the umbilical cord there, then?’

Matt leant over his wife’s body to point, and she stared at him in surprise. Clearly someone had been reading the books he’d pointedly left on the bedside table.

‘That’s it!’

Marie nodded at him. Best boy in the class.

‘I thought it might have been the other yoke.’

Matt grinned wider and Marie shook her head, smiling.

‘No … Do you want to know the sex, though? I can tell you …’

‘Yes!’

‘No!’

The answers came simultaneously. Marie looked confused.

Claire glanced at Matt.

‘I suppose I kinda assumed …’

It wasn’t true. She hadn’t really thought about it at all. But now they were there, and the information was right in front of them, what was the harm? But her husband shook his head vehemently.

‘There are very few surprises in this world. We might as well keep this a secret for another while, yeah?’

‘Sure.’

Claire squirmed on the hard bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Sure. She didn’t feel strongly enough about it to argue. Everything was grand, that was the main thing. They’d find out the rest soon enough. She wriggled again and the phone dug into her pocket. The jury could be back already. Twelve years. Joseph Clarke had spent twelve years raping, abusing. Terrifying his victims. If there was any justice in the world he’d spend at least that long behind bars.

‘Now! You can just wipe that off …’

Absently, she took the tissue paper Marie was holding out and began to clean up the sticky goo. Matt grinned at her.

‘We’ll go for lunch, so?’

‘Yeah. Great.’

The date had been set weeks ago and they’d both taken a half-day from work to mark the occasion. Might be the last chance they’d have for a while. But that was before she got the text.

She dropped the paper in a nearby bin and fixed her clothes.

‘I just need to nip to the loo.’

It wasn’t a lie, never would be at twenty weeks pregnant. But before she finished in the cubicle she took out the phone, switched it on and held her breath. The signal icon flickered before finally settling on just one bar. Come on, will you?

Beep Beep!

One word. But that was all she needed to know.

GUILTY.

She rejoined her husband, her heart beating so quickly she wondered if the baby would notice. Matt grinned at her.

‘That went well?’

‘Yeah.’

She tried to keep the words in, but it was impossible. Matt had lived through the last few months with her. He deserved to know too.

‘They found him guilty, Matt, guilty! I got a text just there …’

For a moment, her husband looked annoyed. She’d promised there’d be no talk of the case today. But then he smiled. He knew how important this was. Reaching forward, he hugged her tight.

‘I am absolutely thrilled for you. Sentence?’

‘Next week, I guess.’

She flicked on her phone again, tapped the twitter app. All of the news sites were now running the story. It had been a major case and many people had been waiting for the outcome. But none more so than her.

‘We’ll take a rain check on lunch then?’

‘I …’

A nice person would have said no, we’ll let the others handle it. After all, there was nothing she needed to do. But Claire knew she wasn’t always a nice person, and in fairness, Matt had known it when he married her.

‘That would be fab. Look, I’ll be home early, okay?’

It was a lie, they both knew it, but why ruin a perfect day? So Matt kissed his wife on the cheek, and Detective Sergeant Claire Boyle bounded out of the maternity hospital, jumped into the nearest cab and headed back to work.

Saturday night

She knew that she’d been a total pushover, but she didn’t care. The truth of it was she didn’t want to go home, not yet, and for one night only she could stay out as long as she wanted.

Five minutes to midnight. She checked the time on her phone and her daughter’s face looked up at her. A big smile on her face, the picture taken that time they’d visited pets’ corner in the zoo. What does a sheep say, baby? Baaa. Réaltín loved sheep. Mad, considering she was growing up on a housing estate in the middle of Dublin. But she was fascinated by them, loved looking at the pictures every night in the big book they kept by the side of her cot. Nearly died of happiness when she got to see one in real life. What does a sheep say, sweetheart? Baaa, she’d said, looking from the sheep to her mother with delight. The big blue eyes wide open as if to say, look, Ma, a real one!

‘Everything okay?’

‘Cool, yeah!’

Jesus girl, let it go. Time to concentrate on the night ahead. She turned the phone off with a slow, deliberate movement and smiled at him. Réaltín would be fine. Her Mam and Dad loved having her, they’d been pestering her to leave her overnight for months. It had just been so weird, packing her little bag full of pyjamas and nappies, finding her favourite toys, putting in those little tubs of fruit she loved. Strange to think they wouldn’t be spending the night together. Their first night apart in almost two years. Weird, but kind of nice as well. She loved the baba, loved her to distraction, but twenty months of broken sleep had taken their toll, particularly when there was no one else there to share the burden. The break would do them both good.

‘The apartment’s just around the corner, we can walk if you don’t mind?’

‘Yeah. Grand.’

Not grand actually, not grand at all. Not in the highest shoes she’d worn since Réaltín was born. But she wasn’t going to start complaining. Instead, she hesitated for a moment before grabbing his arm. He looked … pleased. Surprised and then pleased. Like she’d made the first move towards something.

‘It’s cool, you coming back. I didn’t … well I thought it might be a bit cheeky. To ask. I haven’t done this in a while.’

‘Jesus, me neither! Sure I feel like I’m on my holidays if I’m out past ten o’clock!’

Woah there, Miriam. She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. Cool it. Enough of the whole housebound mother thing. But he didn’t look like he minded. Instead he shook his head, a funny little shy movement and then smiled at her, as if to say it’s okay, this is new to me too.

She stroked his arm, under the coat sleeve. It felt nice. Solid.

The weird thing was that she had felt all day as if she was going on a blind date, even though that wasn’t how it was supposed to be at all. But the build-up had been the same: selecting the clothes, trying to look nice but not too nice. Attractive, but not like she’d made too much of an effort. Like she did this sort of thing all the time. She’d had her hair blow-dried. Sucked the Mummy Tummy in under the waistband of her best jeans. Kept small sticky fingers off her blue top and cream cardigan.

‘Mammy’s getting ready! You play nice with Granda, now.’

‘Baaaa.’

Her Da had offered her a lift to the pub but she’d told him he’d be better off getting Réaltín settled. So they’d left, in a whirl of pyjamas and nappies and toy sheep and Miriam had paused for a second, looked around the living room and exhaled. Breathed in the silence. For a second she’d thought about cancelling, just staying in alone and having a bath, a glass of wine. Renting a DVD and sleeping for as long as she wanted. But her mother would have killed her, she’d been nagging her to get her social life back in gear. And besides, she didn’t have a phone number to call. Just a date, a time and a location. It would be rude not to turn up after all the planning. So there it was then, she had to go.

She couldn’t have taken a lift off her Dad anyway, because she hadn’t exactly been honest about where she was going, and why. Muttered something about a reunion, mentioned the names of a few of the girls from school. Given her Mam the name of a pub that sounded like somewhere a load of women would congregate on a night off the leash. Then got on a bus going in the opposite direction. Well. Her Mam and Dad had been great, the past two years. But they were still her Mam and Dad. Didn’t need to know everything.

And they certainly didn’t need to know about this.

Their walk had taken them to an apartment block, one of the new ones built near the Luas line. An abandoned election poster fluttered from a lamp post, the breeze lifting it high into the air as they approached the huge metal gates which were almost totally covered by For Sale and To Let signs. The place looked deserted, lights showing in barely a quarter of the windows. Miriam shivered as a blast of cold air sobered her up a little. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea …

‘We can just have coffee you know! A chat. Come in out of the cold anyway.’

Yeah, well, fair enough. His hand stroked hers and she felt soothed again. He walked past the large gates and tapped a code into the box beside the small metal pedestrian entrance. Miriam hadn’t noticed a name on the apartment block, but they all looked the same to her anyway. A massive redbrick building, three blocks visible from the street with maybe another two behind, built at the height of the madness, back when they were asking half a million for a two-bed in a place like this. They’d be lucky to get half that now. As if he could read her mind he looked at her, and shrugged.

‘Bought it with herself. Bad move. She left me with the mortgage when we split up. Stuck with it, now. You know how it is.’

She didn’t, but nodded anyway. She had never done the whole property ladder thing. One of her few sensible decisions.

‘So sorry if the place looks a bit bare. Not a lot left in the kitty for furniture!’

‘Ah, no, it’s lovely.’

It wasn’t really. They walked along a narrow dark corridor, half lit by a series of dim fluorescent bulbs. Someone had spilt what looked like a Chinese takeaway on the ground and she was glad of his arm as she stepped, wobbling over the mess.

His door was painted cream, identical to the rest. Number 183. How many apartments were there in this place? And it looked like most of them were empty. He took out a key and fumbled for a moment. Strange, he’d only had a few pints. Maybe he was nervous.

‘You’ll have a glass of wine?’

‘Ah, go on, so.’

The walk had sobered her up, but not so much that she wanted the evening to end. She wasn’t quite sure where she wanted it to go, really. She’d been out of the game for a long time. But there’d be no harm in a glass of wine. He went into the kitchen and she settled herself on the narrow corduroy sofa. He hadn’t been joking about the place being bare. Not a picture on the wall, nothing on the mantelpiece apart from a takeaway menu and a coffee mug. The ex must have taken everything. He was probably still getting over her too. Well that suited Miriam just fine. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. That certainly wasn’t why she’d come out this evening. But a bit of fun wouldn’t do anyone any harm.

‘Red okay?’

‘Lovely.’

The sound of a cork popping, some rattling in the kitchen and then he emerged, carrying two large glasses. She took a big swallow and exhaled, happily. She had forgotten how good this felt. Tipsy, but not drunk, relaxed, but not too pissed. Aware of her surroundings. The cream walls, the wooden floor. The sigh of the springs as she settled further into the sofa. The space she left for him to come and sit beside her.

The conversation was easy, a few gaps in places, but that was okay too. He chatted a bit about the ex, the problems he had with the heating in the apartment. She tried to stay away from the topic of Réaltín but failed. Showed him a few more photos, the ones from her wallet, the baby ones. He said he didn’t mind, just poured her another glass of wine. This time she savoured it. It was nice, feeling like this. Relaxed. A bit tired. But happy. Not drunk. But happy.

Not drunk, but then drunk, or something like it. She sipped at the wine again and blinked as a fog enveloped her. Weird feeling. Distant. Strange. She shook her head gently. Drank wine a lot, at home. ‘Woush ent ushually get…’ She tried to say the words, but her tongue was too thick, too dry. Stupid. Headache …

‘Afther. Drinkingtoomuch.’

‘Ah, no, you’re grand.’

Miriam shook her head again, trying to clear her brain. But the words wouldn’t come out straight and she could feel her eyes growing heavier, the fog descending. She coughed and tried to straighten herself up on the sofa. That was when she realised his hand was around her shoulder. It was firm. Warm. She resisted the pressure for the moment and then found herself curving back against him.

And then he asked her a question. And she couldn’t for the life of her understand why he wanted to know that. So she laughed, and thought instead of her daughter.

Baaa.

What does a sheep say, baby?

Baaa.

She couldn’t say her name. But she was thinking of her, as the fog thickened and her eyelids drooped. She was thinking of Réaltín as they closed.

Can Anybody Help Me?

Della

So there I was, 5am, up to my armpits in poo and wondering how to clean myself, baby and changing table without destroying the carpet … Thinking I have an Masters, dammit Ended up getting into shower with DS, changing mat and all and just kind of sluicing us both down. DH slept through it all of course, or pretended to. So if anyone has tips for getting poo out of bath towels I’d appreciate them … *sigh*

Gleek

Stain remover best for towels, the heavy duty stuff. LOL at DH snoring!

AbbysMum

Just wondering what you mean by you have an MA. Not sure what that has to do with anything. All babies poo and all Mammies have to clean it up. Sorry but thought that was weird thing to say

Qwerty

Thought that was strange myself AbbeysMum … I’m a SAHM, maybe cleaning baby’s bums is for the likes of us?

Della

Jesus girls, I didn’t mean

‘Hi, Honey, I’m home!’

‘In here.’ Yvonne looked up from the laptop, keeping her voice low.

‘Gorgeous day outside …’

‘Shhh!’

‘Sorry, hon.’

Grimacing in an attempt to look apologetic, her husband flopped down on the sofa beside her.

‘Move up in the bed! Whatcha doin’?’

The baby in her arms whimpered and Yvonne jiggled her gently.

‘Talking shit. Seriously, you wouldn’t be interested.’

Closing the laptop cover, she dropped a kiss onto her daughter’s head.

‘Had a good day?’

‘Yeah. Grand.’

It was a very Irish word, grand, and a very useful one. Still sounded kind of funny in her London accent, but Yvonne had been happy to adopt it when she moved to Dublin. Grand. Fine. Alright. Her day had been grand. The baby had fed when she was supposed to, slept when she was supposed to and pooed on cue. Not very exciting, and she certainly didn’t feel like giving Gerry a complete rundown.

‘Great.’

Gerry yawned, his arm hitting against hers as he stretched and the child yelped, disturbed from her slumber.

‘Ah, not now, chick, it’s too early …’

Yvonne hitched up her top and latched Róisín onto her breast in one smooth movement. Amazing what a bit of practice could do. Just five months ago she had thought breastfeeding was the most alien, difficult thing she’d ever had to do. Childbirth had been a doddle in comparison. But now, twenty weeks later, her boobs were her secret weapon in the war against salty baby tears.

‘Sorry.’

‘She needs another bit of a doze or she’ll be like a demon when she wakes up.’

‘Sorry.’

Gerry tried again, with a little more enthusiasm. Happy to have him home at something approximating a reasonable hour, Yvonne decided to let him get away with it. In her pre-baby life, she could never understand mothers’ obsession with sleep, getting it, persuading a baby to have it, bemoaning the loss of it. Now, she knew that the happiness of the entire family could depend on the smallest member getting enough of it. But Gerry didn’t spend anything like the amount of time she did around the baby, and it would be unfair to expect him to understand.

‘You’ll have a cup of tea?’

‘I will.’

God, it must be Christmas. Yvonne smiled and allowed her body to relax back into the sofa as her husband headed for the kitchen. The baby, suckling slowing, drifted back to sleep in her arms. Life was good sometimes. Simple, way simpler than it used to be, but good.

‘A biscuit?’

Ah, too good to be true. Gerry was love-bombing her for a reason. Careful not to disturb the baby, she raised her voice slightly so it would carry as far as the kitchen.

‘Babe, you are home for the evening, aren’t you? We said we’d get a takeaway?’

‘Yeah. About that.’

‘Ah, Ger …’ She could hear the whine rise in her voice, but she didn’t care. ‘You promised …’

‘It’s Teevan. He just texted, he wants us to throw out tonight’s running order, start again. We’re totally up against it. I’m sorry, babe. I have to be back in the office for six.’

Gerry walked back into the sitting room, a cup of tea in one hand, a Jaffa Cake in the other. Yvonne thought for a moment of the plates, unused in the drawer and then decided to keep her anger for a bigger battle.

‘You can’t keep working like this.’

‘I have to, sweetheart.’

Gerry Mulhern was over six feet tall, but standing, looming over her with a melting biscuit halfway to his mouth and a lock of blonde hair flopping over one eye, he managed to look like a guilty schoolboy. As Yvonne glared at him, he pushed the hair back from his face, his blue eyes wrinkling against the blast of sunlight coming through the sitting-room blinds. It was the wrinkles that finally dragged her back from the brink of outright nagging. Yes, he was working like a slave, yes, he’d made a big deal about getting one of the assistant producers to take over to give them a precious evening together, and now he had to go into the bloody office AGAIN. But it wasn’t his fault. This was what they had signed up for. The whole point of moving back to Dublin, at a time when all the traffic was going in the opposite direction, was so that Gerry could take up this job. His dream job, the one he’d spent years in London working towards. Executive producer of Teevan Tonight, a current affairs programme that was rapidly becoming Ireland’s most talked-about television show.

And so, if Yvonne was left spending most of her time alone with the baby, well, that was the price they had to pay. After all, it was Gerry’s new salary that was allowing her to live like this. She knew how stressed other women were, trying to juggle work and children, she read about it all the time on Netmammy, an internet discussion forum to which she was rapidly becoming addicted. She knew she was lucky, sitting in a fantastic house on a designer sofa, feeding her baby and keeping an eye. . .