Page 131 of Her Last Walk Home

After a sermon about not losing it, Ms Molloy handed over the key and Lottie gratefully escaped.

It was dark, the streetlights throwing shadows, and she found it difficult to insert the key in the unfamiliar lock. Once inside, she switched on the hall light. A fold-up buggy stood at the end of the stairs and a pile of coats hung on hooks on the wall.

She checked the kitchen, where she’d seen the disturbance from outside. Now that she was here, the mess didn’t look quite so frantic, but it was evident that someone had been searching. Apart from the open cupboards and drawers, the room was relatively tidy – just a couple of mugs in the sink. The fridge held some food, so did Diana intend to return?

The sitting room was similarly dishevelled. Cushions from the armchairs and couch were on the floor. Dresser drawers hung open.

Upstairs, she entered Laura’s room. It looked almost the same as when she’d had a quick search on her visit after her murder. In the stillness, the room breathed loneliness and sorrow; its occupant was never returning. She closed the door softly and checked the other rooms.

In Diana’s, the trail of destruction was more frenzied than downstairs. Clothes hung off hangers in the wardrobe and draped out of drawers. Two boxes were open on the floor, with paperwork strewn around. She kneeled to inspect them.

Among the many bills, invoices and calendars, she found a set of house deeds. She snapped off the elastic band and opened up the yellowing parchment, mentally crossing her fingers. But the deeds turned out to be for the house she was now kneeling in. She put them to one side and continued to delve into the box without making any earth-shattering discoveries. Had Diana found what she’d been looking for and brought it with her?

She shoved the papers back in the boxes and sat on the floor looking around. She could not put her finger on what had made Diana flee. Before getting to her feet, she noticed a corner of something sticking out from behind the bedside cabinet. She eased it out with two fingers. A single page folded over in three. It was old and creased. Spreading it on the floor, she discovered it was a birth certificate. When she read the baby’s name, and then the date of birth, she frowned.

‘Who are you?’ It made no sense.

She wondered if this might tie everything together, or rip it all apart.

91

Feeling she was on to something tangible, Lottie wished she could work longer, but she was exhausted, and she’d already punched in far too many hours. The dead needed her, but her family needed her more. Despite their falling-out, Katie’s face brightened with relief when Lottie arrived at Rose’s house.

‘I know we fight and argue, Mam, but we need to talk seriously about Gran’s care. With Betty away last week, I think her condition deteriorated. It’s not good for her, being alone. Louis has been great, and when he’s around, she perks up. But she confuses him with someone from her past. She called him Eddie earlier. Wasn’t that your brother who died when he was little?’

‘Yes, and you’re right.’ Lottie took off her coat and slumped onto a hard chair. ‘I was about to look into getting her a live-in carer, but then I latched on to Betty. She’s good for Rose, but Betty has her own life and I can’t be relying on her all the time.’

‘It’s a tough one.’

‘True. How were things today?’

‘Gran is very confused. She cried for an hour. Then she fell asleep on the chair by the stove. Eventually I got her to lie down.I don’t mind looking after her, but I could be saying or doing things wrong.’

‘Don’t worry. You did brilliant. Head home and I’ll stay with her. Sean is cooking dinner.’

‘Really? Sean? No, it’s fine, I’ll stay. I’ve plenty of our stuff here and Louis is content enough. You’re wrecked, Mam. A decent night’s sleep would do you good. We can discuss Gran’s care when you finish with this case.’

‘About Greg?—’

‘Not now, Mam. Go on home.’

Lottie hugged her eldest child, then, without waiting to see her mother or find her grandson for kisses, she left, bone-weary and brain-tired.

Amy opened the door to Boyd.

‘Hello there. Sergio is in the sitting room,’ she said, hobbling on her crutch as she led him into the kitchen. ‘I wanted a quick chat with you.’

He wondered if she was about to decline minding Sergio the following day. If so, he’d have to ask Chloe or Katie. They always obliged when he was stuck, but he needed to sort out a permanent arrangement for his son, at least until he started at the school.

Amy made two mugs of instant coffee and placed one in front of Boyd. ‘Milk?’

‘A drop. I’ll get it.’ He opened the refrigerator and dashed it into his mug before returning the carton.

‘I know it’s none of my business,’ she said, ‘but do you think Sergio might need therapy?’

‘He is in therapy.’ He wondered what had sparked Amy’s comment. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘He kept talking about his mama. He misses her, Boyd. I know you were divorced and you had a fraught relationship, but your child is hurting. Badly. He seems to blame himself for her death.’

---