Dead Wrong - [60]

Sheila waited until they’d gone. ‘I’ve never seen him like that. I thought he was going to throw something.’

‘Remember that time just after you’d moved in,’ I replied, referring to a previous case, ‘when I’d been-’

‘Your nose, you’d been thumped.’

And drugged and kidnapped. But my nose wore the visible damage. ‘He was like that then. He thinks I’m taking unnecessary risks, and maybe the violence freaks him out.’

‘He can’t protect you,’ she said. ‘It’s your job and you obviously love it, but sometimes you get hurt and he can’t do anything about it.’

I looked at her. ‘We’ve never had that sort of relationship. I don’t need protecting.’

‘Precisely,’ she stood up and began to clear the cups, ‘and he just has to stand by and watch.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I washed up. Outside, sunshine streamed in oil-painting rays from beneath clouds dark as bruises. Rain on the way. I gave Maddie another dose of medicine and got her ready for bed. She had some colour in her cheeks and she no longer complained about her ear. Tom was happy to get ready too. I plugged in Maddie’s cassette player and put on a tape she’d picked from the library. Magnus Powermouse was about a giant baby mouse. It was full of jokes and puns in Latin which I could barely understand and were way above her head, but it still worked as a great story. It was also long enough to last until they fell asleep.

A bath, that was what I needed. It had been a long, pig of a day, the triumphs of completing the stalker case and convincing Pitt to act, soured by the subsequent events. Yes, a bath. Deep, hot, scented. Followed by cocoa, something soothing on the radio, a few pages reading in bed and sleep. Eight hours. I held it out like a carrot on a stick while I dialled Mrs Deason’s.

I heard Ray return from his walk, go upstairs.

When she answered, her voice was breathy, almost a whisper. Had I woken her? Was she ill?

‘Mrs Deason, it’s Sal Kilkenny here. I promised to ring you after I’d seen Joey. I did try earlier but there was no answer.’

She made a noise. Peculiar. It made my neck prickle.

‘Mrs Deason. Are you all right?’

‘He’s dead.’

A punch to my gut. ‘What?’

‘My grandson. He’s dead.’

Oh, God. They’d killed him. I’d led them to Joey and they’d killed him.

‘No!’ I protested. ‘What happened?’

‘I had to go to Chester, this morning, to identify him. That’s where he was living. He would never tell me, you know, I always had to wait for him to ring me. But now…excuse me, I can’t talk anymore.’ Her voice was flat. I remembered the love for him brimming in her eyes as we’d talked that first time.

‘I’m so sorry. Please, Mrs Deason, how did he…? Did the police say?’ I had to know. ‘Was it an accident?’ It was my fault. My face felt cold. Gooseflesh crawled along my limbs.

‘An overdose,’ she said.

The relief buckled my knees. He hadn’t been murdered. One trip too many, that’s all. I wasn’t to blame. Disgusted then at my selfish response.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Yes,’ she said. And hung up.

I shivered. Tried to adjust to a new picture of Joey D, still, silent, dead. I heard the first spatter of rain against the window panes and went and ran my bath.

Cocoa. Milky, rich, just a smidgeon of sugar to take the edge off the bitterness. Always too hot to drink at first. I’d scalded my tongue countless times with my impatience. The phone went. My mobile – in my bag. It was in the corner of the kitchen, underneath Digger. I shook him awake and pushed him out of the way.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Kilkenny?’ A woman’s voice but I didn’t recognise it at first.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should ring or-’ Debbie Gosforth.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Ricky,’ she cried. ‘He’s gone. I shouldn’t have told him. I never should have told him.’

‘What? Gone where?’

‘He’s gone after him. He said he’s gonna kill him,’ her rising voice reached shrieking pitch.

Oh, God.

‘Debbie,’ I said sharply, ‘stay there. I’ll try and stop him. When did he leave?’

‘Just now,’ she sobbed.

I tipped half my cocoa down the sink, filled the cup with cold water and gulped it down. Sacrilege.

I scribbled the Ayres Road address on a piece of paper and took it in to Ray, who was in his room, at his computer.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ I said.

He looked at me as if I needed my head examining.

‘A different case,’ I said pointedly. ‘This is where I’m going. I may be a while but I’ll ring when I’ve an idea of how long. I’m taking my mobile.’

‘What’s the big hurry?’ he asked coldly.

‘Some guy playing vigilante. I’ve got my personal alarm, too. If he’s there I’ll call the police. I’ll be careful.’

He nodded, turned back to the screen.

‘Ray?’ What did I need? His benediction?

He looked at me then swung his eyes away. ‘I don’t have to like it.’

‘No. But you could wish me luck.’

A pause. He looked back, his eyes softening. ‘Yeah.’ A small, rueful smile. ‘Good luck.’

Of course I checked for the white van before leaving the house. Nothing. I drove as fast as I could, breaking the speed limit when it looked safe to do so but retaining control of the car. It was twilight. The rain was steady – a summer downpour that would make mud puddles on parched lawns and bruise the petals of large flowers. The wind had dropped and it was quite warm.