Page 77 of Final Betrayal

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?’

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