‘Good, good … I take it no eyewitnesses have come forward?’
‘No. The available CCTV information suggests that the two possible shots heard by workers at a local convenience store at around nine thirty are too early, although I’ll keep them in mind. Unfortunately, it looks like Mrs Lawrence is our sole witness, so we have to wait until she’s fit enough to talk.’ He picked up Brophy’s muttered ‘Wild West’ and felt his eyes on him.
‘What about carjackers convicted in the past? Any of those known to have used violence?’
‘None of them known to “carry”, sir.’
Brophy gave him an absent look.
‘None of them known to go equipped—’
‘I know what you meant.’
Brophy’s odd mood was unsettling Watts, making him wish for his previous chief, Maurice Gander, with his direct approach and hands-off management style.
‘The November carjacker had detailed knowledge of the area in which he and his accomplice were operating. As Traynor said, he probably lives close to where they were committed. The scene of the Lawrence shooting is no real distance from there.’ He decided to give Brophy what he knew about Jonah Budd. ‘There’s somebody with a carjacking history named Jonah Budd who lives in the area and is known to have used a hammer on one of the female drivers he attacked.’
Brophy focused on him, eyes widening.
‘He struck her on the shoulder. Got sent to Young Offenders. He’s on probation for subsequent offences of theft. I’m planning to see him.’
‘Good. What are your plans for interviewing Mrs Lawrence when she’s fit enough?’
‘Like I said, sir, we’ll be guided by the hospital. Will Traynor will talk to her. He’s got specialist skills in communicating with traumatized victims.’ He paused, waited for Brophy to respond. He didn’t. ‘Given the importance to this investigation of getting all the information we can from Mrs Lawrence, we’re lucky we’ve got his expertise. He’s fully aware of the requirements of the PEACE framework.’ He waited, then added a verbal nudge. ‘You know, sir, planning and preparation beforehand, engagement with the witness, followed by obtaining an account, then clarification—’
‘Do you have children, Bernard?’
Wondering where the conversation was going, Watts gave him a direct look, revising a past assumption that Brophy was younger than himself. ‘One daughter, sir.’
‘My wife and I don’t have children.’
Watts made no response to this first personal comment Watts could ever recall from Brophy.
‘Actually, that’s not accurate. We had a son. Kieran. He was given the wrong blood in the hospital when he was born. We watched him die.’
Watts said nothing.
The wall clock ticked on. Brophy straightened. ‘You’re confident about your current investigative direction?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In that case, carry on. I’m anticipating that the local officers now seconded to the investigation will prove useful.’
‘I’m sure they will, sir.’
Leaving Brophy, thinking that a couple of constables with a working knowledge of the inner city was better than nothing, he returned to his office.
Judd looked up. ‘What did the Bro have to say?’
‘Funny you should ask. It looked like Brophy. It almost sounded like Brophy. It wasn’t. Watch yourself, Judd. There’s body-snatchers in the building.’
‘Wha’?’
He reached for his coat. ‘The Lawrence family is expecting us.’
Watts slid into a space between vehicles parked outside several large semi-detached houses and pointed. ‘The one with the dark blue front door is Mike Lawrence’s parents’ place.’
They got out into damp cold and headed for it. The door was opened before they reached it by a tall, dark-haired man so unexpectedly familiar to Watts that he was instantly back at the scene that night, looking at Mike Lawrence inside his car, already dying. This had to be the brother, unshaven, wasted-looking, his eyes shadowed. Watts took out ID.
‘Mr Brendan Lawrence?’
Lawrence gave a brief nod. They went inside the house. It was full of people, the low, steady buzz of conversation dropping to almost nothing as Watts and Judd appeared. A man and a woman stood, came to them, looking shattered, the man speaking quietly.
‘Detective Inspector.’ He grasped Watts’ hand. ‘John Lawrence, Mike’s father. This is my wife, Bernice, Brendan, you’ve just met and over there are our daughters, Rhoda and Oona and Oona’s two little girls.’ Unsmiling, the two young women acknowledged Watts.
Watts introduced Judd, catching sight of food and drink laid out on a nearby table. ‘Our apologies for intruding, Mr Lawrence. I was hoping we could talk to you and your wife, but we can come back when it’s more—’
‘Please, stay. It’s not a problem. You’re welcome to have some food with us, maybe a drink?’ Conversation in the room had resumed.
‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk, Mr Lawrence?’
‘Believe me, this is quiet for this house.’
They followed the Lawrences through the press of people, Watts glimpsing a priest sitting on a sofa, cup and saucer in hand. Averting his eyes, Watts walked on and into a quiet, comfortably warm room. He closed the door.
‘Mr and Mrs Lawrence, on behalf of West Midlands police and all at headquarters, please accept our condolences for what has happened to your son, Michael and your daughter-in-law, Molly.’ Both murmured quiet thanks. Watts let a few seconds drift by.
‘If you’re able to talk to us about them, it could assist our investigation. We’d really appreciate it.’
The Lawrences exchanged glances. Mr Lawrence said, ‘I don’t think we can be of much help. Mike and Molly left here for dinner in town …’ He paused. ‘And that’s the last we saw of them.’
‘They didn’t mention any other plans for that evening?’
‘No. We assumed that after dinner they would be going directly home.’
‘Any information you’re able to provide about your son and daughter-in-law’s lives could be useful to us.’
Another exchange of glances. Mrs Lawrence sent him a confused look. ‘How might our talking about Mike and Molly help you find whoever did this? They wouldn’t
