Page 80 of Final Betrayal

‘Spooked by what?’ Rose held her breath, hoping that Bernie hadn’t already made her move.

‘I’m not sure. We were talking and then some sort of coin fell out of Louis’ jacket pocket and she kind of freaked.’

‘Don’t worry your head about it. I’ll have a chat with her when she gets home.’ Rose wondered just how that chat would turn out.

Tony nursed his pint. Sniffed at a cold that he felt was surely trying to take hold and found his thoughts returning to Conor. Mrs D was putting on an act. He was sure of it. He’d seen her a few weeks before Conor had been released, and no way was she that bad. Was she making him pay a second time for the disgrace he’d brought to their door? Conor had served his time, but Vera Dowling was a proud woman, and now that Tony thought about it, she could be a dangerous one also.

The creamy head of the Guinness was seeping down into the black liquid.

‘Here, Darren, put a head on this for me.’ He handed the pint to the barman.

If Tony hadn’t dirtied his bib, he’d still be married. He’d still have the house and not be living back in his old place. Just as well he hadn’t sold it. He missed his parents. One after the other they’d died, two years ago. A month between them. And only in their sixties.

‘Life’s a bitch.’

‘What’s that, Tony?’

‘Oh, nothing, Darren, just drowning my sorrows.’ He took the pint and swallowed half of it in one go.

‘Sad about those young women.’

‘The murders?’

‘Yes. The first two were in here Saturday night. Happy as anything. And now they’re gone.’

Tony felt his breath lodge in his throat. ‘It is sad.’

‘Wasn’t one of those found this morning the daughter of the builder fellow?’

‘Cyril Gill.’

‘That’s the man. He’s your boss, isn’t he?’

‘You know everything that goes on in this town, Darren.’

‘I know a good bit, to tell you the truth.’

Tony lowered his head. Too many people knew too much.

‘Saw your ex in here a while ago,’ Darren said.

‘I don’t care.’ But Tony felt the alcohol flip in his stomach.

‘With a detective. That Kirby fella. Lost his girlfriend a few months ago.’

‘Darren, I don’t want to know about her or anyone she cares to go out with.’ But he did care. Jesus Christ. A detective. That was all he needed.

He finished his pint and left the pub with more confusion than resolution.

When he had emptied the last basin of filthy water down the sink, Conor dressed his mother in clean clothes. He cringed every time his hand touched her skin. It wasn’t right. Sons were not supposed to have to do this. If he didn’t know it was impossible, he’d say she had developed her disability as a way of punishing him.

He shoved the dirty clothes into the washing machine and thought about that for a moment. She did have rheumatoid arthritis, didn’t she? He’d seen the knobbly bones protruding every which way on her hands and knees. When had it got so bad? Was it just before he returned home, or had she been like that for years? He didn’t want to bother the neighbours by asking them questions to which he, her son, should know the answers. They probably wouldn’t tell him anything anyway. He’d have to speak to Tony.

He switched on the washing machine and dried the dishes. When the tiny kitchen was reasonably tidy, he peeped into the sitting room. She was snoring loudly. The odour was a little milder now. He’d sprayed Febreze on every surface, including the floor and curtains.

Sneaking out the door, he felt like a fifteen-year-old escaping for an illicit cigarette. The thought gave him the urge for nicotine. He had Tony’s pack, but no lighter. Maybe he’d walk up to Tesco. The air was cold but fresh. The sky was dark. He didn’t mind. After years of artificial light in his cell, he welcomed the black sky above his head.

At the end of his road, a car approached with full headlights on. It swerved up onto the footpath. Conor tried to jump out of the way and fell into a neatly trimmed evergreen hedge. Thorns tore through his jeans and scratched his hands as he pulled himself upright.

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