They followed the mud-covered path for several metres. Directly ahead was the pool from which Molly Lawrence’s handbag was recovered. They skirted it, walked on, picking up subtle sounds within the undergrowth, then a sudden, high-pitched whine starting up from heavy tree cover to the right. A sudden rushing from within the trees, followed by a frenzy of barks, sent Watts grabbing for Judd’s coat as the big dog bounded towards them. Judd grabbed Watts’ arm as Traynor went forward, seized its collar, the dog jumping up, pounding its muddy paws on the ground and against Traynor’s legs.
‘Easy, boy. Easy,’ he whispered to the big chocolate-coloured Lab. ‘Shhh … good boy.’
He looked up at his two colleagues, his hands either side of the dog’s shoulders. ‘He’s not a threat. He’s young and very upset about something.’
They moved forward, the dog now darting ahead of them, doubling back, running on again.
‘I don’t like the feel of this place,’ whispered Judd. She pointed to where the dog was disappearing into some trees. ‘And, what’s wrong with him?’
They followed the muddied path through heavy trees and on to a small clearing. Brendan Lawrence was there, lying on cold, damp ground. The dog ran to him, moving to and fro, with more whines, more drumming of paws. Traynor went to it, held it by its collar, led it away and crouched beside it as Watts approached Lawrence, knelt and placed his fingers against Lawrence’s neck.
‘Is he dead?’ whispered Judd.
Watts reached into his pocket for a disposable glove. ‘Call an ambulance. One unconscious adult male in need of urgent assistance.’ He carefully inserted his index finger inside the mouth of a half-empty brandy bottle lying nearby. ‘Tell them the indication is that he’s dead drunk.’
The ambulance arrived within fifteen minutes. Its crew walked to where Lawrence was lying. They checked him, removed him to their vehicle where they continued working on him. Watts waited with Judd, Traynor and the dog at the open doors. One of the paramedics jumped down to them, speaking quickly.
‘Information provided by the family indicates that he’s a regular drinker. Preliminary exam indicates no physical injuries but he’s taken a lot of alcohol on board in a relatively short time. He was pale and unresponsive when we arrived, with a blood alcohol count of 0.39. Fortunately, no signs of other substance use. We’ve got him lying on his side and we’re taking him to hospital. On the way he’ll be given oxygen, intravenous fluids, probably glucose.’
Watts grimaced. ‘When will he be in a fit state for us to talk to him?’
‘Lap of the gods, sorry.’
They stood back, watched as the ambulance doors closed and it moved away.
Traynor looked down at the Labrador, gently rubbed the soft fur between its ears. ‘What happens to you in the meantime, boy?’
The dog looked up at him and gave a quiet whine.
Watts pointed at it. ‘Can you keep it overnight? The family will have enough to think about when they find out what’s happened.’
Traynor stroked the dog. ‘I need to call into the university. I’ll take him with me, then pick up some food for him on the way home.’
12.05 a.m.
Traynor gazed down from his university window at relatively light, inner-city traffic, reviewing the latest developments in the case. Developments which had taken them from a double shooting, its solution rooted in the area he was looking down at, to a possible grudge-attack by someone who knew one or both of the Lawrences, and now to the victims’ family. His phone rang. He reached for it.
‘Yes?’
‘Dad! It’s me. Where are you?’
Hearing her anxiety, he looked at his watch, saw how late it was. ‘I’m sorry. I should have phoned you. I got caught up with the investigation, then I had to come back to the university.’
‘DI Watts rang to tell me what happened, that you might be late but there was no reply at the house.’
‘I’m on my way home in the next ten minutes.’ He frowned, picking up an insistent, rhythmic beat. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m with Beth at her halls.’
‘It’s well past midnight.’ Hearing her light laugh, he rubbed his eyes. ‘As long as I know where you are.’
‘I left pizza for you. Its looks might improve, once you heat it up.’
‘No calls for me?’ he asked, keeping the hope out of his voice.
‘Nothing on the machine while I was home. See you!’
He glanced at the phone in his hand, then out of the window, feeling a familiar dull ache. He went to his desk, leafed through his office schedule, seeing entries made by students requesting his time, saw that it was Christmas Eve. Was it three days ago that he’d made the phone call? One he had never envisaged making? He located the number and tapped it, immediately halting the connection because of the lateness. It rang almost immediately.
It was Watts with news from the hospital. Brendan Lawrence’s condition was stable. ‘Depending on his progress during the next few hours, their plan is to discharge him. I’ve told them to inform me before they do. We’re having too many late nights, you and me, Traynor. How’s the dog?’
Traynor looked across his office to the sofa, the dog lying on one of Traynor’s sweaters, saw the rhythmic rise and fall of soft fur.
‘He’s sleeping.’
‘It’s what we should all be doing.’
THIRTY
Monday 24 December. 8.45 a.m.
Traynor drove into headquarters and parked close to the building, well away from the press waiting around the entrance. Getting out of the Aston Martin, he pulled the seat forward and reached for the lead, whispered, ‘Come on, boy.’ He quickly reviewed the plan he had worked on until four that morning. It needed Watts’ endorsement. His phone rang.
‘Traynor.’
‘Merry Christmas, Will Traynor. This is Jess Meredith, returning your call.’
Stopped by a dopamine surge of pure pleasure at the warm, low-pitched voice with its hint of laughter, he smiled. It was just as he remembered it from the investigation he had worked on with Watts back in the hot summer.
‘Jess. I
