Chapter 37

THIRTY-SEVEN

His mother’s voice carried out to the hall door before he’d hardly had a chance to step inside.

‘What are you doing home at this hour of the day?’

‘We were let off early,’ he lied, and put one foot on the stairs. He’d been lucky. This time. His solicitor had got him released immediately. The guards had had no evidence to hold him on.

‘Come here!’

He sighed and went into the sitting room. His senses were now accustomed to the stench and dirt but his eyes could not deny the vision of degradation. He really should get his mother into a care home. How had she managed while he’d been away? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

‘What?’ He remained standing behind her.

‘Come over here where I can see you.’ She tapped her walking stick on the floor beside her.

‘Give me a minute.’

Back in the hall, he draped his jacket on the banister and went to the kitchen. He needed a drink. The fridge only held a carton of milk. Instead he poured a glass of water from the sink tap, drained it, then went back to his mother.

‘Okay. I’m here. What’s all the rush for?’

‘I need a wash.’

For the first time since he’d left prison, he noticed the balding patches on the top of her head. Pink scalp peeked out in odd spots, and the strands of hair that remained were oily and plastered to her head. Suddenly he realised that in the two months since he’d been home, she hadn’t had a proper wash or shower. No wonder the room smelled putrid.

He straightened his shoulders, preparing himself for a battle he could do without after the day he’d just had. ‘Mam, I think you need a proper carer. I can’t work and look after you.’

She said nothing. He took that as a good sign.

He hunkered down, stared into her watery eyes. ‘Would you consider a care home? I can make enquiries and?—’

The first smack of the walking stick caught him above the ear and knocked him backwards. The second smashed across his knees and he fell on top of the commode, turning it over. Urine spilled across the floor and seeped into his jeans. He wondered why she wasn’t using her catheter.

‘Wh-what did you do th-that for?’ he stammered, and rubbed a hand over his head trying to find the wound he knew must surely be there.

‘You will not put me in any home. Do you hear me? This is my house. If anyone has to go, it will be you. Good-for-nothing jailbird. Thief. Murderer.’

‘I didn’t murder anyone, you crazy bitch.’ He tried to stand, wanting to exude the impression of bravery. But she was the one person in the world who could reduce him to a snivelling wreck.

‘Is that the type of respect you learned in prison? Who do you think you are, calling your only living flesh and blood crazy?’

She was standing now. Leaning heavily on the stick she had wielded so strongly a moment ago, and Conor wondered if it was all an act. He’d hardly seen her on her feet in the last two months. But as she stood, her knees wobbled and she fell back into the rancid armchair.

‘You break my heart, Conor. Crushing your poor mother’s spirit with talk like that.’

He was saved from offering an insincere apology by a knock on the door. As he moved, she raised her stick again.

‘Send them away. I want that wash. Now.’

He eased out of the room and opened the front door. Tony bundled in past him.

‘Put the kettle on and tell me all about that long-legged detective.’

Conor groaned, but for once he was glad of Tony’s presence.

Lottie stemmed her anger at Dowling’s release and stared at the photographs of the four victims on the incident board. On the second board someone had pinned photos of Richard Whyte and Cyril Gill.

‘Who put those up there?’

The detectives in the room all muttered and shrugged their shoulders. The new guy put up his hand. ‘I did, Inspector.’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Sam McKeown.’

‘Where’s Kirby?’

Her new detective shrugged. She thought he looked handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Square jaw, neatly shaved head, eyes as green as her own. His shirt was creased, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She hoped that was a sign he was a hard worker. Time would tell.

She was about to unpin the two fathers’ photographs, then thought better of it. Leave them there. She opened a file and took out Conor Dowling’s photo, pinning it alongside the others.

He was their only real suspect.

‘I want to know every single thing about Conor Dowling. What he got up to in prison and what he’s been up to since he was released.’

‘Yes, boss,’ McKeown said.

She went back to her office. Boyd had dropped a bag of notebooks and folders belonging to Louise Gill on her desk. Hopefully she would find something. Through the open door she saw him sitting at his desk fiddling with Louise’s laptop.

‘Thought you were going to send that to technical.’

‘I’m having a go first.’

‘You haven’t the first clue how to unlock it.’

‘At least I can remember my password without having to write it on a Post-it,’ he said without raising his head.

She grimaced at his dig. She couldn’t even think of a retort. She opened the plastic bag and took out one of Louise’s notebooks. ‘Where’s Kirby?’

‘Maybe he went out for something to eat.’ He looked up at her. ‘I’m kind of peckish myself. Fancy anything?’ Then he grinned.

‘Perhaps later.’ She smiled back at him. Maybe the day would improve. Maybe not.

‘How are you doing, Mrs D?’ Tony said, sticking his head into the sitting room and just as quickly extracting it. ‘What’s that whiff?’ he said to Conor.

‘Shh. She’s in a foul mood.’ Conor switched on the kettle and shook the milk carton to make sure it wasn’t sour.

‘Foul smell, if you ask me.’

‘I didn’t ask, so shut up.’ He placed two mugs on the table. ‘What happened after I left?’

‘What are you whispering for?’ Tony said. ‘Oh-oh. You haven’t said anything to Mommy dearest?’

‘No, I haven’t, and she won’t have to know if you keep your gob shut.’ Conor eased the door closed with his boot.

‘I’ll have a cup of whatever you’re making.’ His mother’s voice was still audible from the sitting room. Conor ignored her and sat at the table.

Tony eyed him expectantly. ‘Go on. What did the detective want? Nice set of legs on her. I like them skinny. How about you?’

‘Shut up, Tony. She’s a pig. And she’s the one who got me put away.’

‘Thought it was the witnesses who did that.’

‘Those two little bitches.’ If he was still in prison, Conor would have spat on the floor, but he thought better of it and kept his mouth closed.

‘Two little bitches who are now dead.’ Tony attempted to fold his arms over his girth, but gave up and placed his hands in his lap.

‘Yeah, well, your skinny-legged detective thinks I might have had something to do with it.’

‘Really?’ Tony dropped his eyes, and Conor noticed the colour rise up his cheeks.

‘Afraid to be friends with me now that I could be a serial killer?’

‘No. Not at all. Jesus, man. This is all … too weird.’

Seeing Tony at a loss for words, Conor realised how serious the situation could get. If Inspector Parker was out to pin these murders on him, how was he going to stop her? He’d need Tony on his side.

‘For your information, I didn’t kill them.’

‘Where’s me tea?’ His mother’s voice had risen to a screech.

‘Coming.’ Conor threw a tea bag into a mug. ‘Here, you bring it in to her,’ he told Tony.

‘Ah man. I’ll puke my ring up. Can you not smell it?’

‘Oh, fuck off then.’

Taking a biscuit from an opened packet, he brought it with the tea to his mother.

‘What about a plate?’

Biting down a retort, he went back for one, then returned to sit with Tony.

‘She’s doing my head in,’ he complained, grabbing a biscuit from the pack before Tony ate them all. ‘What about the body in the tunnel?’ he said, anxious to change the subject.

‘What about it?’ Tony said, crumbs sticking to his stubble.

‘Is Cleary going to report it? What happened after I left?’

‘Not a lot. The boss was in a state. Shouting and roaring about his daughter. He was looking for you. Screaming that he was going to string you up.’

‘Me? Just because I’ve served time, everyone has me tagged as a mass murderer.’ When Tony remained silent, Conor added, ‘Cleary said nothing to him about the body in the tunnel?’

‘He didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgeways.’

‘I think he should forget it’s there and continue with the job. We all need the work. If that body’s reported, the site will have to close.’

‘I think the boss is more concerned about the murder of his daughter than some old bones that’ve probably been down there for a hundred years.’ Tony slurped his tea, then dunked the remainder of his biscuit into the liquid.

Conor was about to say that the rags of clothing on the bones didn’t look like they were a hundred years old, but he decided to say nothing. He’d have a word with the foreman. He couldn’t lose this job. Then again, maybe Gill would sack him anyway. He heard his mother calling him.

‘Conor? Take this cup away before I let it fall. My poor hands are in bits.’

‘Tony. Be a best friend and get it for me.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Please? And I’ll forget that you messed up my workshop.’

‘I didn’t mess it up, you wanker. Some friend you are.’ Tony grabbed his jacket and was out the front door before Conor got another word out.

‘Is Tony leaving already?’ Vera shouted as the cup shattered on the floor.

Conor clenched his hands into tight fists.