Strange Sally Diamond

In the taxi from the train station to Farnley Manor, the radio was on and the taxi driver tried to engage me in conversation about the headlines: ‘First case of coronavirus confirmed in the Republic of Ireland. The man, from the eastern part of the country, recently travelled from Italy. A statement from the Minister for Health is imminent.’

I turned up for work just in time. I had never needed the piano more. Lucas asked me if I was all right. I guess my eyes were puffy and I was not communicative. He sent me a pot of hot coffee and some cake and insisted that I eat something before I started, but I carried the tray to the piano and forced myself to play. I started with the last movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14, a fast and fiery piece, my fingers flying up and down the keyboard in a frenzy, trying to work the anger out through my hands. It was the first time I’d played since I learned that Conor Geary had been an accomplished pianist.

Lucas interrupted and asked me to play my usual repertoire, soft, soothing music. The rage within me took over. I swept the tray on to the deep, pale carpet, coffee splattering the sofa and the guests nearest to us. Everyone stopped to stare. Lucas went immediately to the guests. I went to the staff cloakroom and retrieved my bag and coat. I called another taxi to take me home. It arrived mercifully fast because if Lucas had attempted to reprimand me, I know I would have hit him.

I cried again on the journey home. I tried the breathing exercises, I tried putting myself in Aunt Christine’s shoes, in Angela’s shoes, but my rational self asked why they couldn’t put themselves in my shoes. Was anger never justified?

I took a hammer from my toolbox and was in the act of smashing my piano when the doorbell rang. I ignored it and swung the hammer harder, but then I heard loud knocking at the window right behind me. I turned in irritation to see who it was. Mark.

‘What’s going on with you? I must have left ten messages and voicemails. Did something happen? Martha said –’

‘Mark, please go away, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Please?’

I tried to keep my voice calm. While Mark stood in the open doorway, a garda squad car pulled up behind him. Detective Inspector Howard approached with a uniformed guard. She was smiling.

‘Sally, I think we finally have news for you regarding Conor Geary. May we come in?’

She looked at Mark, expecting him to go away.

‘I’m Mark Butler, Mark Norton, I’m Denise Norton’s brother, Sally’s uncle. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’

Detective Inspector Howard looked at me. ‘I … is it okay with you, Sally?’

I felt drained of all emotion and utterly exhausted. I had not renewed my prescription for Valium as it was so addictive, but I needed something. To hell with what Tina said. Alcohol.

I let them all in and fixed myself a glass of Jameson. Mark was shocked that the piano was in pieces but I told him I was not prepared to talk about it. The guards exchanged looks.

I didn’t offer anyone anything, but Mark did, as if my house were his own, and set about making coffee.

Detective Inspector Howard began to tell me so much I already knew. Only I knew more. They had good reason to believe Conor Geary died in 1985. He’d lived in New Zealand under an assumed name. He had a son, named Steve Armstrong. Mark stepped in and corrected her. I said nothing as Mark told her everything about Peter and how he had been staying in this house. That stopped Howard in her tracks.

‘Here? When?’

‘Since, I think, mid-December, up until just over a week ago, right, Sally?’

‘What? How did he make contact?’

I let Mark do all the talking. Howard and her associate took copious notes. She asked the inevitable questions about why we hadn’t alerted the guards. Mark told them I had insisted on Peter’s privacy.

‘And where is he now?’

‘He’s gone travelling around Ireland. Sally is in touch with him, aren’t you, Sally?’

They all looked at me, and here came the tears again, rolling down my face. Mark moved over and put his arm around my shoulders.

‘What is it? What did he do?’

With shaking fingers, I found the text I’d received just two days previously.

I passed the phone first to Mark and then to DI Howard.

Mark said nothing but breathed what I think was a sigh of relief.

Detective Inspector Howard asked us to come to the station on Monday morning.

‘He’s not a criminal. He’s a victim, as much as Denise or I am,’ I wailed.

They stood up to leave.

‘Did he ever mention Linda Weston or Rangi Parata?’

‘No, not to me. Sally?’

I shook my head.

They were at the door when Detective Inspector Howard turned and said, ‘Did he ever mention Amanda Heron?’

‘Yes, that’s his daughter. We did DNA tests before we met him. He said he’d never met her. She was the result of a one-night stand,’ said Mark.

55 Peter, 2020