blue and had a shine in them, and for once her clothes seemed just
right. They not so much fitted her as blended into the whole air of confidence she was exuding.
For the first time in ages she took a full look at my place. In truth, it wasn't much. The sitting room, one battered sofa, the small television and, of course, the bookshelf, jammed with volumes. She checked the carpet – dust motes in every corner – then her eyes hit the small kitchen: the cups left in the sink, the dishcloth that badly needed to be thrown out, the packets of cereal way past their sell-by dates, and, in the bin, takeaway cartons of fast food, pizza and Chinese, testifying to the lonely bachelor in all his shabby glory.
She crinkled her nose.
'Do I smell smoke? Are you smoking again?'
I snapped, 'Who are you, my mother?'
Before she could lash back, I softened with, 'Any new information?'
She told me what she'd learned.
The Willises' eldest son, Rory, had killed a woman in a hit and run, been arrested, got bail and skipped, to England, they thought.
The woman he'd killed, Nora Mitchell, had two children in their late teens, early twenties, who had been living in Brixton. Her family were not reachable and Ridge said, 'They
probably moved. Families often do after such a tragedy.'
All the sleep I'd been getting had me alert and – thoughts, ideas, hunches, whatever – my mind was getting crystal-clear pictures of a pattern. I waited a moment to put it together then dropped my bomb.
'Oh, they moved all right, and I think I know where.'
She paused.
'You're not suggesting her family are responsible?'
It was one of those rare moments, once every ten years, when I let my intuition act in unison with my experience.
I said, 'There's a connection, has to be.'
Ridge was highly sceptical, said, 'I'm highly sceptical.'
My mind was in hyperdrive and to stall I
offered her coffee, then to rile her added, 'Or vodka?'
She looked like she was going to hit me.
'That was a one-off. And I'm off coffee, I
don't need stimulants.'
Ignoring the mini lecture, I said, 'You need to get yer head out of yer arse is what you need.'
Her eyes danced in anger, but before she
could reply I asked her about King, the warehouse guy, and told her about Eoin Heaton drowning in the canal.
She was vicious in her dismissal.
'Oh, for Christ's sake, he was a drunk, they go in the canal all the time, and if you ask me, not enough of them.'
I didn't rise to the taunt, asked, 'And what about the dog tied to his stomach?'
She gave a bitter, nigh twisted laugh, said, 'It's what drunks do, bring the innocent down with them.'
She was a piece of work.
I asked, 'Will you find out about King for me?'
'I'm not wasting time on a wild goose chase.'
Then I said, 'Maria Willis's funeral – I'm going to go.'
Ridge was horrified.
'God, how morbid are you? Why would you attend?'
'Call it a hunch.'
She looked like she might call it a lot of things, hunch not being one of them. She stormed past me, out the door.
I waited till she was in the hall, heading for the stairs and said, 'You're wrong.'
She didn't even look back. 'About what?'
'Geese. It's a dog chase. Get your terms of reference right.'
And I slammed the door.
Childish?
But very satisfying.
Back in the days of the Tinkers, when I'd worked with them, I'd met an English cop, name of Keegan. Now I've known crazy, been crazy, but he was so far out there, you'd have to invent a whole new order of madness. He'd been a great help to me and then, ignoring his advice, I'd made a tragic error of judgement.
But we were friends and I called him.
Took a time to get him to the phone and his opening gambit was, 'Taylor, yah mad bollix.'
Same old greeting, same old banter.
We did the polite dance of asking for each other's health and all that stuff, then he went, 'So, whatcha want?'
Cut to the chase. I didn't bother feigning offence that he should think I was only calling for help, so I outlined the details of the
right. They not so much fitted her as blended into the whole air of confidence she was exuding.
For the first time in ages she took a full look at my place. In truth, it wasn't much. The sitting room, one battered sofa, the small television and, of course, the bookshelf, jammed with volumes. She checked the carpet – dust motes in every corner – then her eyes hit the small kitchen: the cups left in the sink, the dishcloth that badly needed to be thrown out, the packets of cereal way past their sell-by dates, and, in the bin, takeaway cartons of fast food, pizza and Chinese, testifying to the lonely bachelor in all his shabby glory.
She crinkled her nose.
'Do I smell smoke? Are you smoking again?'
I snapped, 'Who are you, my mother?'
Before she could lash back, I softened with, 'Any new information?'
She told me what she'd learned.
The Willises' eldest son, Rory, had killed a woman in a hit and run, been arrested, got bail and skipped, to England, they thought.
The woman he'd killed, Nora Mitchell, had two children in their late teens, early twenties, who had been living in Brixton. Her family were not reachable and Ridge said, 'They
probably moved. Families often do after such a tragedy.'
All the sleep I'd been getting had me alert and – thoughts, ideas, hunches, whatever – my mind was getting crystal-clear pictures of a pattern. I waited a moment to put it together then dropped my bomb.
'Oh, they moved all right, and I think I know where.'
She paused.
'You're not suggesting her family are responsible?'
It was one of those rare moments, once every ten years, when I let my intuition act in unison with my experience.
I said, 'There's a connection, has to be.'
Ridge was highly sceptical, said, 'I'm highly sceptical.'
My mind was in hyperdrive and to stall I
offered her coffee, then to rile her added, 'Or vodka?'
She looked like she was going to hit me.
'That was a one-off. And I'm off coffee, I
don't need stimulants.'
Ignoring the mini lecture, I said, 'You need to get yer head out of yer arse is what you need.'
Her eyes danced in anger, but before she
could reply I asked her about King, the warehouse guy, and told her about Eoin Heaton drowning in the canal.
She was vicious in her dismissal.
'Oh, for Christ's sake, he was a drunk, they go in the canal all the time, and if you ask me, not enough of them.'
I didn't rise to the taunt, asked, 'And what about the dog tied to his stomach?'
She gave a bitter, nigh twisted laugh, said, 'It's what drunks do, bring the innocent down with them.'
She was a piece of work.
I asked, 'Will you find out about King for me?'
'I'm not wasting time on a wild goose chase.'
Then I said, 'Maria Willis's funeral – I'm going to go.'
Ridge was horrified.
'God, how morbid are you? Why would you attend?'
'Call it a hunch.'
She looked like she might call it a lot of things, hunch not being one of them. She stormed past me, out the door.
I waited till she was in the hall, heading for the stairs and said, 'You're wrong.'
She didn't even look back. 'About what?'
'Geese. It's a dog chase. Get your terms of reference right.'
And I slammed the door.
Childish?
But very satisfying.
Back in the days of the Tinkers, when I'd worked with them, I'd met an English cop, name of Keegan. Now I've known crazy, been crazy, but he was so far out there, you'd have to invent a whole new order of madness. He'd been a great help to me and then, ignoring his advice, I'd made a tragic error of judgement.
But we were friends and I called him.
Took a time to get him to the phone and his opening gambit was, 'Taylor, yah mad bollix.'
Same old greeting, same old banter.
We did the polite dance of asking for each other's health and all that stuff, then he went, 'So, whatcha want?'
Cut to the chase. I didn't bother feigning offence that he should think I was only calling for help, so I outlined the details of the
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