Chapter 31

Terry's personal interest in the Dominic Griffiths case was playing on his mind. He hoped more than anything his godfather, Harry White, hadn't decided to take the law into his own hands. One way to find out was to ask him, but he needed to do that on his own. He told Kyra to make her own way back to the station and take a team out to the crime scene to do house-to-house enquiries – talk to Dominic's neighbours, find out what they had heard and seen the previous night.

He drove away from Langdale Crescent at speed, oblivious to Kyra standing on the pavement wondering how the hell she was going to get back to the city centre.

Terry's mother, Helen, had died from breast cancer when he was four years old. Despite knowing what she looked like thanks to the many photographs his father had taken of their life together, he couldn't conjure up a single memory of his mum, as hard as he tried.

His dad fell apart following the death of Terry's mum. He avoided being at home, where her memory lingered in every room. He threw himself into his work and allowed cases to consume him. He'd fall asleep in his office from exhaustion and run home whenever he had a quiet five minutes to shower and change his clothes. He neglected Terry. That's when Barbara had stepped in.

Barbara and Harry White were Terry's godparents, but they had become so much more, like his substitute parents really. Barbara had picked him up from school and taken him home. Sometimes, there would be a note scrawled on the back of a receipt or bill from Ian saying he might not be home that night, and Barbara would take charge. She'd tell Terry to grab a few clothes for tomorrow and his pyjamas, and he'd go home with her and Stephanie. If he was honest with himself, Terry had preferred being at the Whites' house. He knew he'd get a hot meal, his clothes washed and ironed, a comfortable bed in a warm room. He was loved there. Stephanie was his best friend and was like a sister to him. Then she went missing.

Terry pulled up in the Astra at the bottom of Harry and Barbara's driveway. Harry's Peugeot was parked outside, and there was a light on in the living room. He had no idea how they would take the news of Dominic's death. Harry and Barbara had been living with the aftermath of their only child's murder for twenty years. They had tried to move on and live comparatively normal lives, but whenever something happened to Dominic in prison, it made the newspapers. Whenever a child went missing, Stephanie was mentioned. Dominic's release and his compensation payout from Maxton-Schwarz had made headlines around the world, and once again, it had brought back the torment Stephanie had suffered at his hands. They never seemed to be free from the pain of their daughter being murdered. They would never forget her, but they were never given the chance to move on. Now, with Dominic's murder, Stephanie would be splashed all over the papers once more, and the nightmare would continue.

He knocked on the door and stepped back. He looked up at the house that had been his second home for most of his childhood. He had good memories here. He also had disturbing dreams that were set here. Watching Barbara and Harry fall to pieces after Stephanie was found, gathering in the living room for the wake after the funeral and listening to his father apologising over and over again for failing to find their daughter alive. This was a house of grief and sadness. It leached from the walls. Even birthday and Christmas celebrations couldn't be relaxing and happy. There was always a hint of melancholy in the air.

Barbara's face lit up when she opened the door and saw a familiar face. He was welcomed in with open arms, shown into the living room and told to sit down.

‘You've lost weight,' she said. ‘You're not looking after yourself, are you? When was the last time you had a cooked meal? That shirt could do with a good iron, and the hem is coming down on those trousers. You can come over here any time you want for something to eat. This is your house as much as is it ours. Tell him, Harry.'

‘I don't need to. You've told him for me,' Harry said, with a smile and a roll of the eyes as Barbara headed into the kitchen. ‘Barbara's right though, you don't need to wait for an invitation to come round.'

‘Thanks, Harry,' Terry said. He proffered a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He felt uncomfortable here today. He sat on the edge of the armchair, taut like a coiled spring. He had no idea how he was going to bring Dominic Griffiths back into their lives without having to watch them falling apart all over again.

Barbara came in with a tray. She always was a good host. Terry turned down the offer of a sandwich, or a bacon butty, or scrambled egg on toast. A cup of tea was enough.

‘So, how are things at Northumbria Police?' Harry asked.

‘Oh, you know, the usual. Overworked, understaffed.'

‘Nothing changes.'

Terry took a sip of his tea. He knew he was stalling.

‘I need to tell you both something,' he said, not making eye contact. ‘There's been a murder that I'd rather you heard about from me than the news outlets.' He swallowed hard. ‘There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just going to come straight out with it.' He took a deep breath, still unable to look at them. ‘Dominic Griffiths has been killed.'

He was still looking down into his teacup. When neither of them spoke, he looked up at two blank faces staring at him.

‘How?' Harry asked quietly.

‘I'm waiting to hear back from forensics, and the PM hasn't been done yet, but we think he may have interrupted a burglary. He was stabbed.'

‘Oh' was all Harry could say.

‘Barbara?' Terry prompted.

Her face was impassive. ‘I don't know how to react. I feel like I should be pleased.'

‘Barbara!' Harry chastised.

‘Well, what am I supposed to say? I can hardly feel sorry for the man, can I? Anyway, I said I feel like I should be pleased. I didn't say I was pleased. I'm… I don't know how I feel, to be honest.'

‘Have you identified a suspect yet?' Harry asked.

‘No. I've got a team interviewing his neighbours.'

‘Who found him?'

‘His daughter.'

‘Dawn?' Barbara asked. ‘Oh, that poor girl. She must be in pieces.'

‘Is she a suspect?' Harry asked, knowing the person who found the body was often the most likely perpetrator.

‘Harry! Of course she isn't,' Barbara said.

‘She doesn't have an alibi, but I don't think so,' Terry said.

‘Well, it's karma, isn't it?' Barbara placed her cup on the tray and stood up. ‘An eye for an eye and all that. He got what was coming to him.' She folded her arms across her chest and went over to the mantelpiece, picking up a photograph of Stephanie.

‘It's not right, though,' Harry said. ‘Nobody has the right to take the law into their own hands. Justice always prevails. I've said that all my life.'

‘Well, it didn't in this case, did it?' Barbara said, almost shouting. ‘Where was the justice for us, for Stephanie? He got life in prison, then he was let out twenty years later and given a million pounds to live comfortably for the rest of his life. That's not justice. That's sticking two fingers up at the law. That's rewarding someone for taking a life.'

‘Barbara, not again. Not now,' Harry said, his face wrinkling at the notion of having to repeat the same argument. ‘He wasn't just released. He wasn't a free man.'

‘He should have been locked away without the possibility of parole. He cut my daughter into fifteen pieces. I don't care what kind of medication he was taking; he knew exactly what he was doing when he stuffed her into those bin bags.' She looked at Terry with tear-filled eyes. ‘I'm not sorry he's dead. I'm glad. I'm thrilled that someone decided to stand up and take the law into their own hands. When you find out who did it, I know he'll have to go to prison for what he did, but I'll go see him, and I'll shake his hand and thank him for what he did.'

‘Barbara!' Harry barked.

She replaced the photo of Stephanie on the mantel and slowly left the room and headed upstairs.

Harry and Terry fell silent while they listened to Barbara's footsteps. They heard a door open then slam shut.

‘She's gone into Stephanie's room,' Harry said. ‘She always goes in there when she needs to have a good cry.'

‘I had to come and tell you, Harry.'

‘Of course you did. Don't worry, she'll be fine.'

Terry cleared his throat. ‘Harry… I have to ask…'

‘You want to know where we were at the time of his death.'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘When was he killed?'

‘Some time last night.'

‘Well, I was with your dad until gone eleven. I drove straight home and was back about half-past. There was very little traffic on the roads.'

‘And Barbara?'

‘She was at home all night. She doesn't go out on her own after dark. She was in bed by the time I got back.'

‘Why didn't she go with you to see my dad?'

‘Because I took my Clint Eastwood box set with me.' He smiled. ‘She's never been a big fan of westerns.'

‘Understandable.'

‘Are you thinking this was some kind of vigilante delivering justice for him being released early?'

‘I have to consider that possibility. A quick recce of the house showed there wasn't anything missing. He had a decent-sized TV, but it was smashed up rather than stolen.'

‘You're going to hit a wall of silence – you know that, don't you?'

‘This is not going to be an easy case to solve.'

‘I wish you all the luck in the world, Terry.'

‘I'm going to need it.'