While She Sleeps

by Arlene Hunt

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

'Page-turning grit lit - compelling characters that blaze a trail through a riveting plot' LIZ NUGENT

'Brilliant ... I was riveted from first page to last' ADRIAN MCKINTY

'Among the cleverest, most accomplished and compassionate of Irish crime writers' JOHN CONNOLLY

When Jody Kavanagh is discovered close to death in her home, it's hard to believe someone wanted to hurt her. Young, talented, loved - she appears to have it all.

As she lies in a coma, Detective Inspector Elliot Ryan and Sergeant Nola Kane begin to piece together a picture of her life - but the image revealed is far from perfect. Is her ex-husband really who he seems to be? Why are her mother and sister estranged? Why is her house full of cameras? Who was Jody afraid of?

Haunted by guilt and in chronic pain, DI Ryan has his own demons. And Kane, who is recovering from an incident where the professional and personal overlapped, needs to prove herself.

From the shaky glamour of Irish high society to the cold heart of two broken families, Ryan and Kane must work against hidden forces to restore their reputations and find who wanted to kill Jody - and why.

'A witty and cleverly plotted mystery' Irish Independent

Release date: August 4, 2022

Publisher: Hachette Books Ireland

Print pages: 352

Sample

November

Jody Kavanagh sat on the edge of her bathtub, staring at her bare feet. She was studying her toes, concentrating on their shape. She had nice feet and took care of them. Even now, despite everything that had gone on throughout the year, she made sure she took the time to have a pedicure once a month.

As always, appearance was everything.

The dog, Cooper, stood in the doorway watching her, his head tilted ever so slightly. Jody had never owned a dog before Cooper, had never realised how intelligent dogs could be, how empathetic. He seemed to understand her in a way most people did not.

It was a little alarming, if she was honest. Being so transparent to an animal.

She looked at him now. ‘What?’

He made a soft huffing sound in the back of his throat and backed up two steps.

Jody sighed. ‘All right.’

Together they went downstairs. Jody put the kettle on and let him out into the back garden while it boiled. She watched him patrol the perimeter, sniffing, cocking his leg here and there, watched him check the back gate.

He was thorough.

Worth every penny.

To keep her mind busy, she put the radio on, made a cup of breakfast tea and drank it standing at the island, staring into the middle distance. Her mobile phone vibrated twice in the charger: she ignored it.

She drained the last of her tea, let Cooper back in and they went upstairs.

The pregnancy test was where she had left it, resting on the edge of the sink, like a foreign artefact.

Slowly, as though approaching danger, she sidled towards it. Before she read it, she closed the door on Cooper, mouthing ‘Sorry’.

This was a private moment.

She opened her palm and stared.

Two clear lines.

Two lines that changed everything.

She stood up abruptly and tossed the test into the bin by the sink. Outside, the morning traffic was building. People going about their day, oblivious to this rip in the fabric of the universe.

Jody stared at her reflection, allowed her mind wander in search of an emotion that could adequately cover this occasion. She found precisely what she was searching for. A fresh, exciting sensation, coupled with one word.

Mine.

Fiona Hynes felt her husband get out of bed, and she lay as still as possible. She heard him get dressed, heard the morning sounds he made, sounds that used to make her laugh but no longer did. Heard his heavy tread as he made his way from their bed to the bedroom door, heard him open it and close it without bothering to be quiet. Heard the creak of the loose floorboard on the landing, and then when she was certain he was gone, she turned onto her back and allowed herself to breathe normally.

Things between them had been strained since the last miscarriage. Malcolm had initially been supportive, though she sensed his anger, his disappointment. Now it was time, he said, to try again, time to refill the vessel.

The night before he had taken her, even as she protested, pleading exhaustion. He had forced her legs apart and lay on top of her. When he was finished, he kissed her hard on the mouth – too hard – rolled over and fell asleep, his work done, his seed spent.

Fiona forced her fist against her teeth and bit her knuckles, savouring the pain. Maybe she deserved pain for what she had done.

Monstrous.

Evil.

God should strike her down.

Not that anyone at the homestead seemed to care how she felt, she thought bitterly. Judith, Malcolm’s mother, seemed to take a malicious delight in what she saw as Fiona’s failing as a woman. Malcolm’s three sisters, big blousy woman who toiled day and night under the guise of cheerfulness, paid little heed to her at the best of times, and less when she was fretful. To them, pregnancy and childbirth came under the catch-all umbrella of ‘God’s will’. They never thought to question it nor wonder about any deviations. Miscarriage was sad, but it was part of the Divine plan.

They bore up. They filled the quivers with God’s arrows.

Fiona allowed herself to drift. The children would be awake soon and so would begin the day proper: hours of food and fights, of washing and scrubbing, of arguments and temper tantrums, of weepy apologies, of cuddles, making food, more food, drinks, energy draining, energy she had little to spare, until night fell and she could escape them, escape them all until he came home, looking for a final scrap of what she had left.

Better to be dead, she thought, staring into the darkness. Better for everyone.

Better for her.

A sin.

Guilt weighed heavily on her mind, pressing down like an anvil. She would never be free of it, never be able to walk a day in the sun without it trailing her like a stray dog. Guilt and regret, two sides of the great spiritual coin.

Under the covers she pressed her hand against her stomach. Flat. The seed was still travelling to find haven, to create life anew. How that must feel, she thought, to have no tarnish, to have no past; new and fresh, potential made form, made flesh as God intended.

She heard a child cry out.

Time to move.

The covers were heavy and casting them aside brought the familiar shock of cold. The farmhouse was old and dilapidated with no central heating. Malcolm’s father had bought it back in the sixties, declaring it an oasis in a sea of sin. Enoch Hynes had a vision. He would raise his children under the only law he recognised: God’s Law. Men provided, women submitted, children were the blessing.

The farmhouse stood now, all angles and draughts, dark corners that never welcomed the sun. Fiona had thought it was charming the first time she’d laid eyes on it – it had been summer, and warmth and climbing roses were admirable stage dressing. Winter revealed the truth, paring existence back to the bare bones and bitter cold.

Marriage had proven much the same.

Sometimes, Fiona watched for the lights of her husband’s truck and felt an overwhelming urge to take down the shotgun that rested on top of the highest press, load both barrels and wait with her finger poised on the trigger for him to enter the back door. She imagined his dark head ducking under the low stone mantel. She imagined telling him she was leaving, her and the children, that she had tried but she had not signed up for this life. Oh, he would be surprised and dismissive. But she would persist. And in the end, her demeanour of certain, quiet determination would make him understand that she meant business.

Well, that and the gun.

In those daydream thoughts, Fiona’s voice did not shake, nor her body quake. She would pack the children into the rust bucket and drive …

Where?

Anywhere but here.

Jody would help, wouldn’t she? Jody understood the way of the world. She could guide Fiona to a new path, a new destiny.

Save her.

A creak outside the door: a child’s hesitation.

‘What is it?’ she called.

‘Rachel got sick.’

Fiona put on her robe, walked to the door and opened it.

Sarah stood in her pyjamas, bare foot, hair mussed, button nosed and pretty. She had turned ten in September, a bright child but quiet for her age, watchful even. Fiona worried about her.

A lot.

She took Sarah’s hand and together they walked across the landing to the bedroom she shared with her sisters – Eve who was nine, Leah who was seven and Rachel who was eighteen months old. Their six-year-old brother had a box room next door all to himself, and when Fiona checked, Joshua was still asleep, flat on his back, blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama. A tiny part of Fiona’s brain, a sliver, a whisper, thought, Well, of course, uncaring like his father. A sick child was women’s work.

Menial.

She chased the thought away, threw mental stones at it. The boy was a child, there was still time.

Rachel was sitting up in her cot, forlorn. When she saw Fiona, her little face crumpled with despair. Only a year and a half and already an old soul. Fiona’s mini-me.

‘I sick on my baby,’ she said, holding the vomit-covered doll aloft.

‘It’s okay,’ Fiona said. ‘It’s okay.’

She reached in and lifted Rachel into her arms, carried her and her ‘baby’ to the bathroom at the end of the hall, where she put the doll in the sink and sat on the toilet with Rachel on her lap. The child’s forehead felt hot to the touch and her pyjamas were damp with sweat.

‘Do you feel sick?’

Rachel nodded, put her thumb in her mouth and leaned against her. Fiona hugged the child and rocked her gently. Sarah stood at the bathroom door, watching.

‘All right,’ Fiona said after a moment. ‘Sarah, go wake your brother and help the girls get dressed. I’m going to drop you to Gamma’s house—’

Sarah’s face fell.

‘It’s only for a little while.’

‘I can watch them.’

‘Do as I say.’

Twenty minutes later they crossed the yard to her mother-inlaw’s home, a converted barn. It was far warmer and nicer than the main house – not that it mattered to Judith, who complained endlessly about living there. She opened the door wearing a sour expression that increased as Fiona explained the situation.

‘Doctor? She doesn’t need a doctor.’ She peered at the toddler. ‘Give her a nip of prune juice, grind some ginger and add—’

‘I’m taking her to the doctor. She keeps getting sick.’

‘Probably all that muck you let her drink, full of e-numbers and chemicals.’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Fiona said, shooing the children inside.

Fiona put Rachel in her car seat and reversed out of the yard without waving. It was all she could do not to give her mother-in-law the finger, and sure what good would that do anyway? Why give her any more ammunition?

The GP’s office was in town and wouldn’t be open until nine. Dr Sullivan was a lovely man, but Fiona dreaded going to see him, dreaded the small talk, the questions, the terrifying receptionist who seemed to think Fiona had a learning difficulty and needed things to be explained in a slow and condescending voice.

Fiona drove without thinking. She put the radio on, glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw Rachel was asleep, one pudgy hand clenched tight around her hastily washed doll.

At last, some time to herself.

She left the motorway and drove along the coast road, pulling in to a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. She got out and stood with her face to the wind, her hair blowing wild, the gulls wheeling overhead, riding the currents with effortless grace.

She could end it right now, take a few steps, nothing to it. The drop was enough, the rocks sharp enough, the sea wild enough.

All of it, enough.

All she need do, her end of the bargain, was take the steps.

Fly.

But when she closed her eyes, she saw Sarah’s face and knew she would not walk further that day. She would go home, clean, scrub, wash clothes, make food.

Endure.

She would endure.

For now.

Monday

It was the fall that did it: the simple stupid accident that had irrevocably undermined his authority with the zeal of a slashing machete. One minute Elliot Ryan was an independent man, sober, upright – all right, a widower, but not a tragic one. He owned a semi-D in Castleknock; drove a decent car; had a full head of hair and a job with a title that still garnered respect, though even that was waning thanks in no part to an endless ‘ACAB’ narrative whipped up by cretins on social media, the same spineless twerps who’d shit their pants if they had to deal with a fraction of the things he’d endured over a near twenty-five-year career and—

He leaned on the sink and pressed his forehead against the mirror.

Stop.

Nothing to be done now, the annoying inner voice chirped. Think of your blood pressure; remember what the doctor told you about getting angry.

Sod off, he thought and paused. Arguing with the voice, that was new. He’d have to keep an eye on that. Here be dragons.

Still, there was no denying it would have been different if it hadn’t been for the bloody fall; if Pauline, his next-door neighbour (nice woman, wouldn’t hear a bad word against her, et cetera), hadn’t been home that day; if she hadn’t called for an ambulance. If they hadn’t called for the fire brigade.

If he hadn’t gone out there in the first place, half cut with a rusty saw and an untrustworthy ladder, none of it would have happened. Why on earth had he decided to drink? He’d hardly touched the stuff in years. Because he was upset? Was that his excuse?

Stupid.

Bone-headed stupidity.

Galling.

One fall, one stupid accident, and his carefully constructed façade had crumbled as though riddled with mica.

‘Dad?’

He stared at his face in the mirror and tried to ignore the hunted look in his eyes.

‘Dad?’

‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

He didn’t move a muscle until he heard her footsteps on the stairs, heard the kitchen door open, heard music, because God forbid anyone should start the day with some quiet reflection …

Stop it.

Don’t blame Shona, she’s doing her best.

He finished shaving and cleaned the rest of the foam off his chin with a facecloth (bending over the sink was still light years away). On his way back to his bedroom he refused to use the walls for balance and kept his torso as steady as a masthead. He might be down, but by God he was not out.

Dressing was a complicated affair, though he’d learned some tricks since his release from the hospital. His suit was laid out on the bed, his shirt and tie next to it, socks pre-rolled for ease of slippage. He had replaced his usual brogues with loafers, and while he didn’t necessarily think that loafers were a good fit with his job, beggars and the injured could not be choosers.

There was, he had to admit, something to be said for the girdle the hospital had furnished. It was a lightweight piece of equipment with two Velcro straps, and it gave him a pleasing shape when worn under his vest and shirt. Not that he was vain – at his age there wasn’t much point – but there was nothing wrong with a bit of self-improvement.

Elliot lay back on the bed and slid his feet into the legs of his pants and used a metal coat hanger to slide them up to his thighs. From there he could roll – carefully – onto his stomach and push himself upright with one arm while holding the blasted pants with the other. This had taken a certain level of trial and error to master, but he had the hang of it now.

Up, shirt tucked, buttons fastened. Now for the socks. They were a struggle, and an ungainly one at that, but he managed.

Christ, why was he sweating so much?

Probably your heart, the voice suggested. Didn’t your old man die of heart disease?

Shut up.

Elliot glanced at the plastic pack of tablets on the bedside dresser. The prescription said he was to take no more than six tablets per twenty-four hours: he had already taken two. How the hell was he supposed to space them out over an entire working day?

Loafers on, tie on, jacket … better leave that until he cooled down.

A quick brush of the hair, dab of aftershave and he was no longer ‘Local man rescued in bizarre accident’ but had become Detective Inspector Elliot Ryan.

Finally, he took a small red diary with gold lettering from the drawer of his bureau and slipped it into the interior pocket of his jacket. He felt the weight of it against his chest, a solid reminder that he had made a promise and he intended to keep it.

‘Dad, come on! Your breakfast is getting cold.’

Instantly deflated, he hooked his jacket over his arm and made his way – carefully – down the stairs. Shona was bustling around his kitchen, already dressed, primed and armed for the day.

‘Honestly, Dad, when was the last time you had a clear-out?’

‘A clear-out of what?’ He eased himself down onto a chair and looked with some dismay at his ‘breakfast’. Fruit? Yoghurt? And a slice of what looked like plasterboard masquerading as bread.

‘These presses, Dad, they’re full of crap.’

He opened his mouth to complain but Shona was standing by the window trying to read a label on a jar. She was twenty-eight years old, dark-haired like him, short and sturdy like her late mother. A no-nonsense woman, efficient and capable.

Terrifying.

‘I knew it,’ she said, ‘2011.’

‘What is this?’ He poked the bread with his finger; it was stiff as a board.

‘It’s pumpkin-seed bread.’

‘There should be a sliced pan in the freezer.’

‘There isn’t – I gave it to the birds.’

Elliot was outraged. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s white processed crap … and what’s this? This one is from 2008? Why would you keep a jar of capers from 2008? What are you keeping them for? Zombie attack? Armageddon? You’re going to survive on out-of-date capers?’

‘I don’t – now hold on a second. What’s this?’

‘Butter.’

‘This doesn’t look like butter.’

‘That’s because it’s plant based.’

‘Shona, I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer right now, but even I know butter starts out with a cow.’

‘Why do you have so many tins of Spaghetti Hoops? Do you even eat Spaghetti Hoops?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve never seen you eat Spaghetti Hoops in my life.’

Elliot ignored her and smeared whatever the plant-based goop was over his single slice of rock-hard toast. He took a bite, chewed and put it down. This was not good; this was so far from good, good wasn’t even invited to the plate.

‘What time will you be home?’ Shona glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to head into the clinic for a few hours, but I’ll be back in time to make dinner.’

‘Oh no, don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. I can grab a takeaway.’

She fixed him with an all-too-familiar expression. ‘Dad, we agreed on this.’

Elliot felt aggrieved. Agreed? Agreed? He’d been off his head on morphine, a sitting patsy, and she’d come at him like a cobra. Now he was caught, trapped in the coils of her predatory concern.

‘Shona, I can manage on my own.’

‘Yeah, I can see that. If you hadn’t fallen off a ladder you could have poison-caper-ed yourself to death.’

‘I had an accident.’

‘I read the hospital report.’ She glared at him, the challenge open, the gauntlet thrown down.

He felt his heart speed up. The damned report. Evidence of his weakness. There were no words powerful enough to stop her.

‘Until you’re back properly on your feet I’m staying here, and I’d like you to recognise that your inability to ask for or accept help should not be a source of pride.’

Elliot winced. Shona had recently taken up with a therapist called Johann who seemed a nice enough fellow, a little quiet, a bit wishy-washy. Elliot wasn’t exactly sure what his daughter saw in him, but he was beginning to suspect she was mining him for ammunition to use against the rest of the world, including him.

‘Half-eight, I’ll be back at half-eight at the latest.’

She smiled. ‘Excellent. Now eat your fruit. I’ve packed you a salad for lunch – don’t forget to bring the Tupperware home.’

He ate his fruit. Some battles were worth fighting and some were not.

Nola Kane opened her eyes.

It took a moment before the reality of her situation dawned hard and fast.

Oh no.

The man next to her muttered something in his sleep and turned over onto his side. Nola slid out of the unfamiliar bed and searched around the unfamiliar floor for her clothes, desperate not to make a sound. There were many bad things in the world, but morning small talk after a one-night stand was right up there with the worst.

Eventually she gathered her clothes up and retreated to the bathroom, where she locked the door and dressed. A quick glance in the mirror over the sink confirmed she looked as bad as she felt.

Crap.

She left the unfamiliar apartment, went downstairs and out of the building. It was still dark, the street empty, no cabs or buses to be seen. She walked nearly a mile before she managed to flag a taxi, so by the time she got home her mother was already up.

‘Where were you until this hour?’

‘Out.’

‘Out where?’

‘Just out, Ma.’

‘Look at cut of you and you back in work today. What are you doing with your life?’

‘No time.’ Nola chugged a coffee and ran upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her sister. She stripped, showered and dressed as quickly as she could, brushed her teeth and ran back downstairs again as the doorbell rang.

She reached the door before her mother and yanked it open. Gracie Conway stood on the front step looking disgustingly fresh as a daisy.

‘Morning,’ she said. ‘Ready to go?’

‘Yeah, give me a—’

‘Good morning, Gracie!’

‘Good morning, Mrs Kane.’

Nola’s mother elbowed her aside. ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea? I’ve the kettle on.’

‘Oh, no thank you, Mrs K. We’d better get shaking.’

Nola grabbed her rucksack from the end of the stairs. ‘See ya, Ma.’

‘Do you have your phone charger? What time will you be home? Will I put on—?’

Nola kissed her mother firml. . .