deep. What would happen if they touched? Cass wondered. Would their terrible controlled heartache finally flow free?
Cass pitied them. Despite their big salaries, another world had crossed paths with theirs. Choices had been made by people they would never meet, and they needed to find some meaning in it, not just that their children’s deaths were merely the outcome of someone else’s bad choices. These were men used to making decisions and calling the shots, and the fact that this random event had been so completely out of their control must surely be tearing Paul Miller and Isaac Jackson to shreds. They could call it bad luck, or fate, but naming it would not ease their pain. They’d realise that soon enough.
‘There has been a development,’ he said, trying, in the presence of ladies, to gentle his rough accent. ‘We’ve been sent a film of the shooting.’ Eleanor Miller flinched slightly as if the word itself were a gunshot.
‘A film?’ Isaac Jackson’s eyes widened in his grey face. Like Paul Miller, his usual veneer of success had abandoned him. ‘Someone filmed it? But why—?’ For the first time, the two men glanced at each other, for the briefest moment.
‘We’re not sure yet. But hopefully it’ll give us some fresh leads.’
‘Fresh leads?’ Eleanor Miller snorted, a mockery of a laugh. ‘You haven’t got any leads.’ Tears filled her bloodshot eyes and Cass saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped Clara Jackson’s hand. They were a contradiction, these two, locked into each other’s pain and yet completely alone. It didn’t look like their men were giving them much in the way of comfort. Cass thought of John Miller, still fixated on his broken friend’s body as the bullets ripped through him, and then Carla Rae, dead in the rotting flat. Everyone was alone in the end.
‘I appreciate your pain and frustration, Mrs Miller.’ He chose his words carefully. He hadn’t ever experienced their pain, and he wouldn’t insult them by suggesting he had. ‘But you have to believe that I really want to get the bastards who did this.’ Behind him, a mobile rang and Claire moved out into the hall to answer it.
The tension in the room was threatening to swallow him. ‘And I just wanted to let you know that we do now have some more information to go on.’ He watched her eyes as the anger was replaced by a fragile and terrible hope. ‘I wanted you to know that first.’
Both women nodded, slowly and carefully, as if the action might snap their necks like autumn twigs.
‘But I can’t tell you what those leads are,’ he continued, talking slowly now, as if to a child. ‘It’s important they stay confidential. But I promise you that I will do everything that I can to find out who was responsible for killing your boys.’ He couldn’t tell them that the leads were minimal; that the best they had was a licence plate for a taxi-cab, a partial print and a few minutes of grainy image. They had leads now, for the first time, and that was all that mattered.
‘Cass.’ Claire stood in the doorway, chewing her bottom lip. She looked very young.
‘Cass, we have to go.’
Cass frowned. She never called him by his first name; not in front of other people. He stared at the slight flush in her cheeks and the way her eyes bored into his. His stomach froze.
‘What’s happened?’ He hadn’t realised he’d already got to his feet. For a brief moment he saw his father, screaming as the flames raged, and then the image was gone. The sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.
‘We have to go. Kate’s at home waiting for you.’ She couldn’t look at him, but her own eyes were reddening, like Eleanor Miller’s had only seconds ago.
There was a roaring in Cass’s ears, drowning out any other sound. He stood in the doorway now, examining the cream-coloured walls. He could almost smell the paint. Behind Claire, a painting hung unevenly. It looked expensive, and Cass thought it was a shame
Cass pitied them. Despite their big salaries, another world had crossed paths with theirs. Choices had been made by people they would never meet, and they needed to find some meaning in it, not just that their children’s deaths were merely the outcome of someone else’s bad choices. These were men used to making decisions and calling the shots, and the fact that this random event had been so completely out of their control must surely be tearing Paul Miller and Isaac Jackson to shreds. They could call it bad luck, or fate, but naming it would not ease their pain. They’d realise that soon enough.
‘There has been a development,’ he said, trying, in the presence of ladies, to gentle his rough accent. ‘We’ve been sent a film of the shooting.’ Eleanor Miller flinched slightly as if the word itself were a gunshot.
‘A film?’ Isaac Jackson’s eyes widened in his grey face. Like Paul Miller, his usual veneer of success had abandoned him. ‘Someone filmed it? But why—?’ For the first time, the two men glanced at each other, for the briefest moment.
‘We’re not sure yet. But hopefully it’ll give us some fresh leads.’
‘Fresh leads?’ Eleanor Miller snorted, a mockery of a laugh. ‘You haven’t got any leads.’ Tears filled her bloodshot eyes and Cass saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped Clara Jackson’s hand. They were a contradiction, these two, locked into each other’s pain and yet completely alone. It didn’t look like their men were giving them much in the way of comfort. Cass thought of John Miller, still fixated on his broken friend’s body as the bullets ripped through him, and then Carla Rae, dead in the rotting flat. Everyone was alone in the end.
‘I appreciate your pain and frustration, Mrs Miller.’ He chose his words carefully. He hadn’t ever experienced their pain, and he wouldn’t insult them by suggesting he had. ‘But you have to believe that I really want to get the bastards who did this.’ Behind him, a mobile rang and Claire moved out into the hall to answer it.
The tension in the room was threatening to swallow him. ‘And I just wanted to let you know that we do now have some more information to go on.’ He watched her eyes as the anger was replaced by a fragile and terrible hope. ‘I wanted you to know that first.’
Both women nodded, slowly and carefully, as if the action might snap their necks like autumn twigs.
‘But I can’t tell you what those leads are,’ he continued, talking slowly now, as if to a child. ‘It’s important they stay confidential. But I promise you that I will do everything that I can to find out who was responsible for killing your boys.’ He couldn’t tell them that the leads were minimal; that the best they had was a licence plate for a taxi-cab, a partial print and a few minutes of grainy image. They had leads now, for the first time, and that was all that mattered.
‘Cass.’ Claire stood in the doorway, chewing her bottom lip. She looked very young.
‘Cass, we have to go.’
Cass frowned. She never called him by his first name; not in front of other people. He stared at the slight flush in her cheeks and the way her eyes bored into his. His stomach froze.
‘What’s happened?’ He hadn’t realised he’d already got to his feet. For a brief moment he saw his father, screaming as the flames raged, and then the image was gone. The sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.
‘We have to go. Kate’s at home waiting for you.’ She couldn’t look at him, but her own eyes were reddening, like Eleanor Miller’s had only seconds ago.
There was a roaring in Cass’s ears, drowning out any other sound. He stood in the doorway now, examining the cream-coloured walls. He could almost smell the paint. Behind Claire, a painting hung unevenly. It looked expensive, and Cass thought it was a shame
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