Either way, it doesn’t look like he was dead straight away. My guess is he got up and staggered away for a bit, then collapsed.’
‘Right.’ Billy knelt in front of the car, looking along the edge of the bonnet. The metalwork was rusty along the rim, flakes and patches of it on the grille too. He picked at a bit and it came away in his fingers.
‘Question is, was it deliberate or a genuine accident? I guess this could get the Mackies off the hook if the police can’t find the car and link it to them, and if their alibis hold together.’
‘Have they any idea what kind of car it was?’ Billy stroked the bonnet. It was warm against his palm. Jeanie came to the pavement and looked at him with her head askew, inquisitive.
‘Not yet. They might get more info with further tests, but they don’t seem too sure. They reckon it’s quite old, apparently they can tell stuff like that from oxidisation of the metal and paint or something. Don’t ask me, I’m not a scientist.’
‘It could still be the Mackies though, couldn’t it?’
‘It might well be, Scoop. We need to do more digging. This story is not going away any time soon. Which brings me to the other reason I called.’
‘Yeah?’
‘How do you fancy a free pint?’
Billy suddenly felt a searing thirst. ‘Could do.’
‘Good. I have a request from our good friend Detective Inspector Price. He wants to meet you for a drink.’
‘Why?’ Billy’s voice came out higher than expected.
‘Take it easy, he just wants to talk to you about Adele Whitehouse.’
‘Adele?’
‘They had her in for questioning earlier about the Jamie Mackie shooting. She’s Dean Whitehouse’s alibi, apparently. Very convenient. She was ice cold, gave nothing away.’
‘What has that got to do with me?’
‘Stuart was impressed with your merry widow interview. As we all were. I think he wants a chat about what she was like, why she might’ve opened up to you, all that.’
‘Right.’ Hesitation in his voice.
‘I’ll come along and hold your hand, OK? It’s completely off the record and informal.’
‘Well…’
‘Good. How about The Montague in half an hour?’
‘I guess.’
‘See you there, Scoop.’
Billy ended the call and stared at the Micra. Mum’s car. Now a murder weapon. He turned towards the house.
‘Come on, Jeanie.’
The dog trotted after him as if she’d known him all her life.
He let them both in quietly. The sound of the television in the living room. One of those CSI things. He walked to the doorway. Charlie and Zoe were on the sofa next to each other, beers in hands. They hadn’t heard him over the television. They looked completely untroubled.
‘Comfy?’ Billy was pleased when they both jumped.
Charlie bolted out of the sofa. ‘Here he is, the lunatic little brother.’ He was trying to sound casual. ‘What was that all about, coming to the hospital today?’
Was that today? Billy was losing track of time.
‘I told you about Jamie Mackie in confidence, you dick. I didn’t expect you to bring the Standard?’s crack crime reporter round to give me grief.’
‘It’s my job, Charlie.’
Charlie shook his head. Zoe was standing up now and she seemed to be mirroring Charlie’s movements. It was like they were his mum and dad, and he was a naughty toddler. They were always together. Every time he came home, there they were, fresh from talking about him. He had wondered earlier how Zoe was, now he couldn’t stand to look at her.
‘Charlie told me what happened,’ she said. She reached out a hand, but she was too far away to touch him. ‘I think you should take a break from that job, maybe even quit altogether.’
‘Quit? I thought we were supposed to act as if nothing had happened? How’s it going to look if I suddenly quit my job, right after getting the best interview the paper’s had in months?’
Zoe looked at Charlie, clearly wanting him to speak. Charlie cleared his throat.
‘We’ve been discussing things,’ he said.
‘I bet you have.’
Charlie put a hand on Billy’s arm.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘I don’t want to sit down.’
Charlie looked nervously at Zoe, then back again. ‘Like I said, we’ve been talking, and I think you might be suffering from PTSD — post-traumatic stress disorder.’
Billy stared at his brother, then at Zoe. The television blared too loud in the background. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Like war veterans?’
‘Kind of,’ Charlie said. ‘In your case, from the accident.’
Billy shook his head. ‘I’m not suffering from anything except guilt because of killing someone and covering it up.’
‘See, this is what Charlie is talking about.’ Zoe stepped towards him. ‘We all feel guilty, of course we do, but…’
‘But I was driving,’ Billy said.
‘Yes,’ Charlie said. ‘We know. We were there, remember?’
‘Don’t fucking patronise me, Charlie.’
Charlie had his hands held out in a peacemaking gesture. ‘I’m not patronising you, Bro.’
Billy let out a laugh and looked from one of them to the other. ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’
‘We’re worried,’ Zoe said. ‘You seem to be losing perspective, having to cover the story as well. Just listen to Charlie.’
‘How have you been feeling?’ Charlie’s voice was even.
‘How the hell do you think I’ve been feeling?’
‘Any flashbacks or bad dreams?’
‘Charlie, I can’t believe you’re trying to diagnose me with this bullshit.’
‘It’s not bullshit, it’s a real medical condition. Have you been having panic attacks?’
Billy didn’t answer.
‘Amnesia, difficulty breathing?’
Billy remembered fainting in the toilets and at the press conference.
‘What about strange physical sensations?’
Billy thought about his tingling body, his twitching leg, his numb face. The throbbing pain that even now was coursing through his neck and shoulders, making him crick his neck. The solid lump on his temple, pulsing his guilty secret out into the ether.
‘Look.’ Charlie put an arm round Billy. He was distracted by Jeanie entering the room. She must’ve been sniffing out the bedrooms first, checking her new territory.
Charlie and Zoe stared at the dog.
‘What the hell is that?’ Zoe said.
‘I got a dog.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘What the fuck? Why?’
Billy shrugged. ‘I was at the Dog and Cat Home seeing if they had the Whitehouse dog…’
‘Wait,’ Zoe said. ‘The Whitehouses have a missing dog?’
Billy nodded. ‘Frank was walking it when…’
