‘Hello, Jess.’
She held out her hand to him, drew him inside, took the plastic bag from him and looked down.
‘I didn’t come alone, sorry.’
‘So, I see.’
‘He’s between families. I have temporary custody. I bathed him earlier. He was really muddy …’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know. I call him “boy”.’
He followed her into the large, warm kitchen filled with good smells. She looked inside the plastic bag and lifted out the bottle. ‘Mmm … Moet. How did you guess it’s my favourite?’
She reached inside the bag again, took out a small soft item with dangling legs. ‘What’s this?’
The dog looked up at it and gave a low whine.
‘It’s a dog toy. It’s actually a mouse but he’ll probably think it’s a dog. I thought he might get lonely at night.’ He reached for it and pressed its middle. ‘See? It’s got a squeaker, but if it’s too loud or he …’ She put her hands around his, her voice soft.
‘It’s all right, Will. Everything’s fine.’
He watched as she took a folded rug off the back of a sofa, opened it out, arranged it in one corner and patted it. The dog looked up at him, then went to her. She stroked its head. It jumped on to the sofa, turned twice and settled down, head on paws, its eyes fixed on Traynor. She placed the mouse beside its paws.
She looked up at Traynor, came to where he was standing, reached for him and gently drew his head down on to her shoulder. She held him, listening to the vast wave break inside his chest. They stood together, her arms around him.
‘It’s OK, Will. It’s all OK.’
Tuesday 25 December, 6.30 a.m.
A long time later, he was lying beside her, at the point of falling asleep. His next conscious movement was sitting upright. He was used to sudden wakefulness. It still happened on occasions when sleep made him vulnerable to memory. Now it was memories of the case which were crowding into his head. Molly Lawrence had her own memories, as did her brother-in-law. He and Watts would be hearing them soon.
‘Will?’
He turned to Jess, lowered his head to her face, her neck, exalting in the contact, the scent of her, the softness. Like a man long deprived of water, he pushed his face against her skin. ‘Sorry, there’s somewhere I have to be. For work.’
She looked up at him. ‘Come back as soon as you can, Will.’
The Aston Martin hummed along the road as the pale sun rose. Traynor watched it, thinking about the power of trauma coming from nowhere, wrecking us physically, scrambling us emotionally, demanding we rethink all we ever believed about life, relationships, time. He wanted to hear again from Molly those she had experienced.
THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday 25 December. 9.15 a.m.
‘It’s going to hit the news today that Brendan Lawrence is here.’ Watts looked at open files covering the table between them, then at the dog lying close to Traynor’s feet. ‘The update from the custody sergeant is that Lawrence is now loudly denying every word he said to us and demanding to be released. I’ll interview him before he is. I want to know how he thinks he’s going to get out of the fix he’s in.’
Traynor reached for the phone, dialled the number and switched it to speaker. ‘Hello, Molly.’
‘Will? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
‘There’s been a development in the investigation and I wanted you to hear it from me.’
‘What kind of development?’
‘Brendan Lawrence has been arrested.’ He waited out the long silence.
‘I don’t understand. What has he done?’
‘He has told us that he was involved in the attack on you and your husband.’ He waited. ‘Molly?’
‘I don’t know what to … He must have been drinking. He drinks a lot.’
‘I regret having to give you the news but you need to know. As and when we know any more, DI Watts or I will ring you.’
‘Thank you. What happens now?’
He answered carefully. ‘We’re working on your sighting of the two or three young people in close proximity to the scene on the evening of the shootings. We’re going there again later to look around.’ He listened, hearing only her breathing.
‘Thank you for letting me know.’
He ended the call. They looked up as Judd came into the office. Watts stood, then reached for his jacket and his homicide file. ‘I was about to ring you. You’re with me. I want more from Brendan Lawrence.’
With a glance at Traynor, she followed him out of the office. At reception, Watts said to Reynolds, ‘Give Gemma Lawrence a call. Remind her that somebody needs to collect the dog.’
Reynolds reached for the phone. ‘On to it, Sarge.’
They continued upstairs to one of the interview rooms. ‘What’s up with Will?’ she asked.
‘He’s doing some heavy-duty thinking.’ His phone buzzed. ‘Yeah? Right.’ He ended the call. ‘Sod it.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Lawrence’s legal representation has shown up. It’s Lang and Yeo.’
‘And that’s bad?’
‘For us, it is. It’s a firm which prides itself on getting its clients off, no matter that they were witnessed at a scene, bloodstained and wielding a chainsaw. Running legal rings around us is their forte.’
He pushed open the interview room door, dropped his files on the table, straightened his tie and reached for the phone. ‘Let’s see if we can run some rings of our own.’
Following a silent eight-minute wait, the door opened and an officer appeared, ushering Brendan Lawrence inside, followed by an austere, immaculately dressed man. He and Lawrence
