Page 3 of Final Betrayal

Boyd let out a loud laugh, and Lottie couldn’t help it. She had to laugh too.

As it turned out, it was a bookcase that had been in the box. Now Boyd was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the sitting room, instructions in one hand and a handful of screws in the other, and slats of timber everywhere.

Lottie switched on her new red kettle and got two mugs from the cupboard. Maybe Boyd was right, she thought. She had to admit that he knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. They had been going through a good patch over the last few months. He was a loyal friend. More than a friend at times, if she wanted to be totally honest with herself.

Her hand stalled on a jar of coffee as she realised the truth. Boyd was her only friend. What kept him around? He’d got his divorce from his wife, Jackie. He seemed content. But she knew he wanted more of a commitment from her. Of that she was certain. She couldn’t give him any more, though. Not now. Not yet. She’d lost her husband Adam to cancer five years ago, and ever since she had struggled with grief, widowhood and raising her children.

The house was going to be full of life soon. Her twenty-one-year-old daughter Katie with her baby son Louis, seventeen-year-old Chloe and Sean were due to move in tomorrow. They’d already snapped up the bedrooms they wanted, without any major rows, and most of their clothes were now hanging in newly painted wardrobes. She wondered how Rose, her mother, would cope with an empty house. She smiled. Rose would probably be delighted to have her own space back, after the long months of them all living there like transient gypsies.

‘I think there’s a screw missing,’ Boyd shouted from the other room.

‘I knew that about you a long time ago.’ Lottie smiled and started to make the coffee. Maybe it was time to leave Adam’s ghost resting among the ashes of her burned-out house. Maybe.

THREE

Tony Keegan opened the door and felt his jaw drop as he tilted his head to one side.

His one-time best friend, Conor Dowling, was standing on the doorstep. Shit. He gathered his wits quickly and arranged his face into a forced smile.

‘Hello, bud. Didn’t know you were out.’

‘You’d have tidied up a bit better and locked the door if you’d realised, is that it?’

‘What are you on about?’ But Tony knew all too well what Conor was referring to. ‘Thought you had another year to serve.’

‘See what thought did to that numbskull brain of yours.’

Tony felt himself being slapped back against the hall wall as Conor pushed past him.

‘Home alone?’ Conor asked.

Closing the front door, Tony followed the tall, skinny figure into the kitchen. A lot had happened in the last ten years that Conor didn’t know about. And Tony wasn’t at all sure he should tell him.

Conor had opened the fridge and was bent over, hands inside, pulling out packets of cheese and ham.

‘Got any bread? I’m starving.’ He slammed the fridge shut with his booted foot and stacked the food on the table.

Before Tony could move an inch, Conor had found the bread and taken a knife from the drawer. He flicked the lid off a tub of Flora and began spreading, slamming cheese on the thick buttered slices. When he seemed happy with his work, he kicked out a chair, sat down and began to eat.

Tony didn’t know what to do, so he sat down too. ‘Good behaviour, was it?’ he said.

‘No. I sliced the governor’s throat and escaped.’ Conor laughed, his mouth wide open, cheese and bread stuck to his teeth.

‘Don’t be messing with me.’ Tony noticed that his friend’s eyes were not laughing, so he picked up a crust from the table and began to chew. When he could no longer hold Conor’s cold stare, he dropped his gaze to his buttery fingers.

‘Messing?’ Still Conor wasn’t laughing. ‘Thought you knew me better than that.’

Tony glanced up cautiously and almost recoiled at the hardness of Conor’s eyes boring into him. He knew instantly that his friend had changed. Prison would do that to you, he supposed. Not that he’d ever been inside himself. He’d cleaned up his act after Conor had been convicted. Now that he was out, he’d have to be wary once again, and watch his back.

‘You’re my friend, Conor. Course I know you.’ He put down the half-eaten crust. ‘What are you going to do with yourself?’

He held his breath as Conor wiped his hands on the white lace tablecloth. For God’s sake! It was the good one. The cloth his gran had brought home for his mother from Spain, like a million years ago. And now Mam, Dad and Gran were all pushing up daisies. So it shouldn’t matter. But it did.

Sniffing loudly, Conor said, ‘I have plans. But first you have to tell me why you were putting your mucky paws all over my workshop.’

‘What workshop?’

‘My shed. In my garden.’

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