A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (25 page)

 “Wow,” Ryan exclaimed, “a classic double bluff, designed to totally confuse the authorities no doubt.”

 Dermot nodded. “And of course no-one is acknowledging the arms have even gone missing. The entire investigation is undercover, so much so I wonder myself at times if anyone knows who anyone else is and precisely what the hell is going on.”

“And does this purely
fictional
scenario have any basis in reality at all? Anything to do with the fact that you’ve always wanted to work undercover and this could be your big chance?” Ryan pushed him.

 Dermot shook his head, “Nah.”

 “And you’ll need a hand with this imaginary job when?”

 “Probably the week after next, when I get the intelligence I need,” Dermot said.

 “Is that the real week after next or a fictional one?” Ryan responded.

 “Pretty real, I think.” Dermot replied.

 “Well, I’ll probably be around to help if I’m not showjumping my unicorn or having the moat dug around my fairy-tale castle,” Ryan told him with a grin.

 “Cool,” Dermot said. They chinked mugs. “That’s good, coz you might be needed, you know how dreams come true from time to time.”

 “And nightmares,” said Ryan, drinking back his coffee as he made to go.

The two men clambered down the ladder and onto the marina. Dermot wanted to walk Ryan back to Weathervane, apart from filling him in on some details regarding the forthcoming job, he was also hoping Marianne might prove to be the angel he fantasised she was and have a full Irish breakfast on the go by the time they arrived at the cottage. He was over-optimistic; it was not yet seven on the first day of November and the day before had been very long indeed.

 They were striding purposefully down Main Street when something or someone scuttled across the road. Ryan looked at Dermot.

 “Anyone we know?”

 Dermot shrugged. “I couldn’t see, could you?”

 “No,” Ryan replied.

 “Not someone else after the jewels?” Dermot asked. The post office was next door to the pharmacy.

 “I hope not,” he replied, “besides I wouldn’t take on Miss MacReady and Sinead after the night they’ve had, would you?”

 Dermot smiled. “No way!”

 They carried on; the morning growing brighter as they walked. A cat meowed as a light came on above the pharmacy - the village was awakening.

There was no home-cooked breakfast waiting for them in Weathervane. Marianne was still asleep on the sofa with Monty wrapped in her arms and was far from impressed at being disturbed.

 “Thought I’d make us all a decent breakfast,” Ryan announced as she opened a bloodshot eye.

Dermot lifted a hand in silent greeting. “I’ll make the toast,” he offered, as she slumped back on the sofa, pulling the throw over her face.

 The men retreated to the kitchen and, having decided everything in the fridge needed eating, were cooking up a storm. Dermot took down one of Marianne’s antique meat platters and started piling it with food. Rashers, sausages, white and black pudding, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and the essential ingredient no self-respecting male breakfast can be without - baked beans. Ryan was just finishing off the scrambled eggs, when Marianne, fully dressed with her hair scraped back in a cap appeared in the kitchen. Monty, who had been the happy recipient of two overdone rashers and half a sausage, pricked his ears, wagging his tail at her.

 “Not staying for breakfast?” Dermot asked, laying the table. Ryan was frying bread in a large iron pan.

 “No thanks.” She went to where Ryan was cooking and put her arms around his waist. “Smells good but oh dear, the cholesterol!” She took Monty’s lead from behind the door.

 Ryan looked up; she had her serious walking boots on.

 “Will you be gone long?” he asked.

 “I need a good walk,” she said, “still groggy.”

 “Ah stay and have a decent breakfast first,” he waved the spatula, “we’ve done loads.”

 “I’ll take the healthy option,” she said, spotting yesterday’s barn brack on the dresser. She took a knife, and sliced a piece off, putting it in her mouth. She bit on something hard; it was a parcel of greaseproof paper. She unfolded it to reveal a small brass ring; one of the secret ingredients stirred into the cake mixture during baking. Traditionally the ring foretold of a wedding before a year was out. She looked at it glinting teasingly up at her from the palm of her hand, then pushed it into her pocket, fastening her coat. She popped the remainder of the cake into her mouth and left the men to their feast.

The early November morning was remarkably still. A soft sea mist trailed tendrils across the cliffs as Marianne and Monty walked briskly towards the beach and up the track. They climbed steadily, the lights of the village twinkling in the distance as they went. The ground was moist. Marianne slipped. Dislodged sand and shale tumbled downwards. She gripped a clump of grass and pulled herself upright, checking in her pockets for her flashlight and phone. Monty stopped sniffing the undergrowth and looked up at her, they had been caught out on the cliffs before, he hoped history was not about to repeat itself. But the further they climbed the clearer it became, until nearing the summit and the cliff road, Marianne slipped off her jacket, tying the sleeves around her waist as they pushed on to the top.

Reaching the picnic bench just beyond the lay-by, Marianne sat down gratefully. It was where she and Oonagh spent many happy afternoons, baby Bridget sharing her lunch with Monty and the women dividing whatever delights Oonagh had secreted in her backpack ahead of their excursion. As Oonagh’s cancer took hold and she grew weaker, Marianne would load them all into the 4x4 and take the long shiny black road up to their special place.

She lifted Monty up for a cuddle as they sat gazing out to sea, the autumn sun chasing the mist away as the Atlantic glimmered below. She took a deep, cleansing breath of air which became a sigh, and before she knew it, tears burned her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and dripping into Monty’s fur. Despite the heart-lifting beauty all about her, she was suddenly, inexplicably sad. She missed Oonagh desperately. Her blunt, wise-beyond-her-years chubby chum was probably the closest friend she ever had.

She could have told Oonagh all about Angelique’s unreasonable divorce settlement, the weird ‘non-marriage’ clause in the custody arrangements and Ryan’s half-hearted proposal. Oonagh would have tutted and sympathised and then told her she needed to do
less
thinking and
more
talking. Meaning, tell Ryan how she felt. Oonagh was a great one for telling people, to tell other people all about their feelings. She always said women put far too much pressure on men, expecting them to be able to guess what a female was thinking. Just tell a man what you want, then put on your sexiest outfit and seduce him so thoroughly he will think it was all his idea anyway, was Oonagh’s advice. Marianne laughed, burying her face in Monty’s fur. Oonagh thought that was the best course of action whatever the situation, it usually worked too.

She decided to take the road home, calling into the post office to see how Miss MacReady was after her ordeal. She imagined her mother would be less than fazed by the attempted burglary, yet still furious with the perpetrators. When news of Pat’s involvement reached his other sister Joyce, he would probably be better off staying in gaol for as long as he could.

 Kathleen MacReady was on the phone to Joyce as she let them in. She pointed at the coffee pot for Marianne to help herself.

“Well, I don’t know what’s got into him, he’s always erred on the dodgy side, bringing God knows what across in the
secret
compartment in that old cab.
Secret
, there’s a laugh, sure one of the reasons the guards leave him alone is because he’s so blatant with it, thinking he’s just a fecking simpleton. Anyway Marianne’s arrived, so I’ll go and fill her in on the details. You know journalists, they want everything from the horse’s mouth.” Assuring her sister she was unharmed, Miss MacReady replaced the receiver and swished through the beaded curtain to join her daughter.

Marianne hugged the other woman, who was pale with dark blotches under her usually sparkly shrewd eyes.

“Eejits,” she fed Monty a biscuit, “frightened the life out of me.” She rubbed her wrists where they had been bound.

“What’s the latest?” Marianne asked, handing her a cup. Miss MacReady’s hand trembled as she took it.

“Ah sure, it’s Sunday, can’t see anyone’s lawyer leaving the golf course and a decent lunch for that pair. They’ll be left cooling their heels until at least tomorrow.” She scowled into the mirror at herself.

“You okay really?” Marianne asked. Miss MacReady gave a small smile.

“I’m not surprised there was an attempt at robbing the jewels, Larry warned me that might happen, but never in a million years would I have imagined the perpetrators would be my own people. That’s upset me, I can’t stop thinking about it. They deserve everything they get.”

Marianne gave her a quizzical look; there was something in her tone.

“Well, what did you imagine?” she asked.

Miss MacReady fiddled with the cuff of her kimono.

“Ah, you know yourself,” she said, vaguely.

“No, I don’t know myself. What do you know though?”

There was a silence.

“Mother, I asked you a question?” Marianne pushed.

The phone rang. The post office was also the telephone exchange. The old analogue system was heavily relied upon on the island. Miss MacReady answered it.

“Oh, it’s you. You heard did you? No, not at the moment, I’ll call you later?” she put the phone down.

Marianne folded her arms.

“Larry?” she asked.

Miss MacReady nodded. She hated deceit.

“He heard about the robbery. Wanted to know if everything was okay?”

“That’s good of him.” Marianne felt sure Miss MacReady was expecting Larry’s call. “I bet Larry knows who would benefit if the robbery had been successful and a very large insurance claim was paid out.”

Miss MacReady busied herself at her desk, putting post into piles.

“No doubt.” She was taciturn.

“But it’s all still here isn’t it? All safely locked up in the strongbox?”

Miss MacReady nodded.

“So what happens now?” Marianne asked, prompting Miss MacReady to tell her the plan, because she was sure there was one.

“I’ll have a chat with Larry later, but I think it’s best a security firm be commissioned to take the jewellery away, return it to its rightful owner.” Miss MacReady waved a hand, dismissing the subject.

“Who is?” Marianne was not letting it go, “who
is
?”

“Why, the film company of course, you know that.” Miss MacReady said.

“Just making sure you do,” Marianne said. “Commissioning a security firm to ship the collection back seems a good idea to me.” But Marianne remained unconvinced this was going to happen. She was sure the bungled attempt by Pat MacReady and Phileas Porter had been purely opportunistic, but some sort of heist had been expected, planned even, and she was sure her mother and Larry were at the back of it somehow, and it was not over yet.

The phone rang again.

“Okay thanks for the warning. Marianne’s here, she’ll know what to do.” Miss MacReady replaced the receiver. “A reporter and cameraman just boarded the ferry.” Marianne checked her watch; it was the first trip of the day. “I’ll have to go and get ready. Will you stay and handle the PR?”

“Course I will,” Marianne smiled. There was already a twinkle in the other woman’s eyes; she loved a bit of drama.

“Will you contact the others? I’m sure they’ll want to talk to them too,” Miss MacReady said.

Marianne was not convinced the rest of them, barring Ryan of course, would be keen to be on camera.

“You get changed, I’ll find out what they want to do,” Marianne said. “What about Sinead? Will you wake her?”

Miss MacReady was disrobing as she left.

“You’ll have to ring her, she didn’t stay here after all. Said she’d be better off in her own bed. She was so upset by it all,” Miss MacReady called from the bathroom.

Marianne sat down at the postmistress’ desk and started to dial Weathervane’s number. She wanted to tell Ryan first. The jewels were his late wife’s, they belonged to his employer and he and Dermot had foiled the burglary. The media would definitely want to talk to him. The fact he was also a
world-famous movie star
was a bonus as far as any newshound was concerned.

Ryan said he would be up to the post office as soon as he had given the children breakfast.

“And Dermot?” she asked. There was a mumble in the background.

“Dermot says he’ll babysit. He hates being on camera with me, I always make him look so damn ugly,” Ryan joked.

“Fine, make it snappy then,” she told him, going into professional media-mode. She rang Father Gregory next.

The first reporter and cameraman were followed quickly by a well-known presenter, who had been holidaying on the mainland and then a freelance journalist reporting for both a quality broadsheet and a salacious gossip magazine. Any mention of Ryan O’Gorman had that effect on the media; they came crawling out of the woodwork, especially as the star’s glamorous lifestyle contrasted so starkly with the island he had chosen to make his home.