Chapter 35

Lavender House Nursing Home was on the outskirts of a village called Edmundbyers in County Durham. It was twenty-five miles away. There were many homes closer to the city that could cater for Ian's needs, but this was the only one Terry could afford without having to sell his father's house. That was something Ian would not allow to happen.

After Ian had suffered the stroke two years before, it was decided that he could no longer live on his own. Terry had sold the flat he hated and moved in with his father, but his demanding job wasn't compatible with his being a sole carer. Harry and Barbara helped as much as they could, but Ian needed specialised care from qualified nurses. Reluctantly, Terry had admitted defeat and began looking for nursing homes that could accommodate his father.

Lavender House was a privately run home. It catered for residents who had suffered massive strokes or were in the final stages of dementia. Despite the newness of the building, the soft lighting, the plush furnishings and the smiling staff in their pastel-coloured uniforms, the atmosphere was heavy and depressing. Even to a visitor just sitting in the car in the car park and looking up at the bright place with its well-manicured lawns, neatly trimmed hedges and rooms with balconies, the place gave off an atmosphere of false hope and abandonment.

The staff knew Terry by name and greeted him like a friend. He didn't need to explain who he was visiting or be shown where to go. He just signed in, exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries with the receptionist, then headed for the stairs to the third floor.

Terry tried to remain positive when visiting his father, but the more visits he made, the more he was there to witness his dad's slow decline, the more painful they became. He could feel his hope ebbing away with every step along the overheated pastel corridor.

He pushed open the door to his father's room and entered. When he'd first started visiting, the intense heat used to stifle him. It was energy-sapping, and he often felt himself nodding off in the easy chair. Now, he was used to it and sat by his father in exhausted comfort. He could already feel his shirt sticking to his back.

Ian was sat up in bed. He looked a decade older than his sixty-two years. His eyes were wide and devoid of their old sparkle, and they were blank as he stared at the far wall. He was unable to feed himself, dress himself or even bathe himself, and his memory was patchy.

He recognised his son, and Harry and Barbara, when they visited. However, once they were gone and staff asked if he'd enjoyed their visit, he wouldn't recall that anyone had been to see him.

‘Hello, Dad,' Terry said, taking his father's hand and shaking it.

‘Who is it?'

‘It's me. Terry. Your son. You feeling all right?'

‘I'm tired.'

‘Aren't you sleeping well?'

‘Not that kind of tired.'

Terry bit his bottom lip and dropped his gaze. He quickly changed the subject. Living in denial of the inevitable wasn't easy but ignorance really was bliss at times. ‘Dad, do you remember me telling you about Dominic Griffiths being released last year?'

‘Bastard,' he spat.

‘Dad, he's dead. Someone killed him.'

Ian turned to look at his son. The sparkle in his eyes was back. ‘Dead? Someone murdered him?' Terry nodded. Ian clapped his hands together and let out a hearty laugh. ‘Excellent. That's wonderful news.'

‘Dad!' Terry admonished.

‘Oh, come on, Terry, the man was a killer. There are very few people who witnessed first-hand what he actually did. I was one of them. I had to pick Stephanie's body parts out of bin bags. Do you really expect me to mourn that evil bastard?'

‘No. No, I don't,' Terry said, taking his father's hand.

‘Who did it?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Are you investigating?'

‘I am.'

‘Don't bother.'

‘What?'

‘Leave it. His killer doesn't need putting away; he deserves an OBE. Tell your boss you've hit a dead end. He won't even care.'

‘Dad, I can't do that.' Terry was shocked. He was surprised his father was even suggesting it.

‘Of course you can. He deserved everything he got. I hope he rots in hell. Have you told Harry and…?' He struggled to find Barbara's name in his memory. Terry didn't help him. His dad liked to remember himself rather than be reminded. ‘Barbara. Barbara. Have you told them?'

‘I have.'

‘I bet they were elated, weren't they?' he asked, with a grin.

‘No, Dad, they weren't.'

Ian looked at his son suspiciously. ‘Hmm. I bet when you left, they were dancing around the living room. Oh, Terry, that's the best news I've heard in a long time. Stephanie can finally rest in peace now that fucker's dead and gone.'

‘There are people mourning him. He's got a daughter. I told you, remember?'

‘Harry has a daughter?'

When Ian became confused, his eyes changed. It was as if a fog had descended. He was looking at Terry, but he wasn't seeing him. Terry knew not to push the conversation. If Ian couldn't remember, it would only make him more agitated. Terry stood up.

‘Where are you going?' Ian asked.

‘I'm going to check your bathroom, see what you need.'

Ian's room was designed to be a small flat. There was an en-suite bathroom and an off-shot kitchen. A table for two beneath a window. It was warm and cosy, but he wasn't at home, and that's what Ian wanted more than anything else.

Terry came out of the bathroom, making a note in his mobile of the things his father needed.

‘Can you put a few more books on here for me?' Ian asked, holding out his tablet.

‘More books? You read those quickly.'

‘What else have I got to do all day? I can't even go out into the gardens because it's too bloody cold.'

‘Has Harry been to see you?'

‘Has he fuck,' he said, tutting and rolling his eyes.

Terry knew he'd forgotten. Harry had been there just yesterday. And Barbara was always popping over with something she'd baked for him.

‘You've read all the Lee Child novels. Shall I choose a new author for you?' Terry asked, scrolling through his tablet.

Ian crawled off the bed and went over to the window. He looked out at the barren winter landscape.

‘Dominic had a daughter,' he said.

Terry looked up. ‘I know, Dad. I told you.'

‘She'll know who killed him.'

‘Why will she know, Dad?'

Ian turned back from the window. ‘Because she knew him. She'll have spent the most time with him over the last year.'

‘I've spoken to her twice, Dad – she doesn't know.'

‘Do you believe her?'

‘I've no reason not to.'

He sat back on the bed and picked up the tablet. ‘You've every reason not to. The Firm. Wasn't that a film?'

‘Yes, it was,' Terry said, a frown on his face.

Terry stayed with his father for another hour. He always felt a lump in his throat when he was leaving, just in case it would turn out to be the last time he saw his dad. He could have another stroke that could kill him. He could become confused and fall, crack his head open on the toilet or something. Ian was the last blood relative Terry had. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to him yet.

On his way out, Terry wanted to ask the receptionist to check the visitor book and see if Harry's alibi stood for the night of the murder, but nobody was behind the desk. He made a mental note to follow it up another time and made his way outside. He felt uneasy. It was more than just a niggle in his brain. What Ian had said about Dawn was right. He didn't know much about her at all, and now her father was dead, she would inherit his compensation claim. Money was the biggest motive for committing murder, and who needed money more than a trainee paralegal with a massive university debt hanging over them?