‘In the aftermath, Marlene sued the police, claiming her sons were murdered. She lost the case and sold the pub. Moved to Nottingham. Raised Paulie from the age of five.’
‘What about his mum?’
‘A junkie. Died of an overdose.’
‘Sad.’
‘Too common.’
Lenny presses her thumb to the old-fashioned doorbell. It echoes from inside. We wait. She sniffs the air. ‘I smell cigarette smoke.’
Crouching, she yells through the mail flap. ‘We know you’re in there, Paulie. We only want to talk.’
Silence and then another sound. Slippers on wood. Locks and chains disengage. The door opens. Marlene Brennan looks like a small brown onion that has been pickled in vinegar. Eighty if she’s a day, her eyes are like dark holes, and she has the sort of permed hair they seem to provide with every pension cheque.
‘Hello, Marlene, you’re looking well,’ says Lenny.
‘Do I know you?’ asks the old woman.
‘Detective Superintendent Parvel.’
‘A female detective – are you a dyke?’
‘Would it make a difference?’
Marlene shrugs. ‘You see a lot of dykes these days. Dressed like men.’
An old coffee tin is hanging on a string around her neck. She dips her head and spits into it.
‘Is Paulie home?’ asks Lenny.
‘He’s gone to get my pills.’
‘Will he be long?’
‘Long enough.’
‘I fancy a cup of tea,’ says Lenny, stepping past Marlene, who is too slow to block her way. She starts to protest, but a voice interrupts her.
‘I’m home, Gran.’
Paulie is standing in the doorway of the kitchen with the light behind him. He’s dressed in old track pants and a moth-eaten sweater. Barefoot. Mullet-haired. Bum-fluff on his top lip. He’s holding a miniature poodle with a head like a clump of cotton wool. The dog snaps at my elbow as I pass. I jerk away and Paulie smiles.
The kitchen smells of apples just starting to rot and cigarette smoke. It has a scrubbed pine table and mismatched wooden chairs. Unwashed dishes fill the sink, and the lone window has a yellowing net curtain.
Marlene lowers herself into a chair, mumbling under her breath. She fixes her rheumy eyes on me.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a forensic psychologist.’
‘Most shrinks can’t tell their arse from their elbow.’
‘We must know some of the same people,’ I say.
She cackles. Paulie fills the kettle. Lenny looks small beside him.
‘Are you staying out of trouble, Paulie?’
He ducks his head as he nods.
‘He’s a good boy,’ says Marlene, spitting into her can. ‘He looks after me.’
‘How does he do that?’
‘I work,’ he says truculently.
‘And he gets my medicine,’ adds Marlene. ‘Council send a girl to clean up, but she’s a lazy cow. She hasn’t been around for days. I told Paulie to slap her or sack her.’
‘I don’t think he’s allowed to do that,’ says Lenny.
Marlene grunts.
Lenny is carefully moving plates in the sink, looking for mugs she can wash up. I study the room, the bric-a-brac magnetised to the fridge. Holiday snaps. Birthday cards. A postcard from Marbella. A child’s crayon drawing.
‘You have grandchildren,’ I say.
‘Eight of them,’ replies Marlene proudly. ‘Cops killed two of my boys, but I still got three girls, all good breeders. We grow through the cracks.’
‘Like weeds,’ says Lenny.
‘Yeah, like weeds.’
Lenny returns to Paulie. ‘Where are you working?’
‘He’s self-employed,’ says Marlene. ‘Buying and selling cars. Always been good with his hands.’
‘Very light-fingered,’ says Lenny.
The old woman scowls.
‘I’m going to be a race-car driver,’ says Paulie, jutting out his chin. ‘Got myself a low-flying rocket.’
I pull aside the curtain and gaze into the rear garden where two car chassis are jacked onto blocks. A third vehicle, a souped-up Ford Focus RS, is partially covered by a tarpaulin.
‘Street-racing?’
He grins. ‘That would be illegal.’
‘When was the last time you saw Maya Kirk?’ asks Lenny.
Paulie looks at her blankly.
‘You can’t have forgotten already. You were peering through her bedroom window.’
‘Weren’t me,’ says Paulie. The whiskers on his top lip barely move.
‘You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,’ says Marlene.
‘Where were you last night?’ asks Lenny.
‘He was here with me,’ says Marlene. ‘Is that true?’
Paulie lowers his head, but I’m not sure it’s a nod.
‘Why are you so interested in Maya?’ asks the old woman.
‘Rohan Kirk was murdered last night. Maya has disappeared.’
The old woman’s face folds into creases, which could signify genuine concern or acid reflux.
‘That poor mite.’ She looks at Paulie. ‘You seen Maya?’
‘No, Gran.’
‘Good.’ She nods, as though the matter is settled.
‘How do you know her?’ I ask.
‘Maya used to babysit for me when Paulie was little. She and her sister would ride their bikes up and down the road.’
‘And they both worked in Powell’s,’ says Paulie, finding his voice.
‘The bakery,’ explains Marlene. ‘On weekends. They used to slip Paulie an iced bun when the owner wasn’t lookin’。’
‘Did you fancy her?’ asks Lenny.
Paulie looks shocked. ‘I was seven years old.’
‘I mean later, when you grew hair on your bollocks.’
‘Nah, she was too old for me.’
‘Yet you were seen peeping through her bedroom window.’
‘It weren’t me.’
‘Did you take pictures?’
Paulie’s eyes flash with anger and his fingers have curled into fists, causing a vein to bulge on his forearms, blue against white.
‘Why are you picking on Paulie?’ asks Marlene. ‘Haven’t we suffered enough? You lot killed his father and his uncle.’
‘They were armed,’ says Lenny.
‘With starter pistols.’
‘Replica handguns are regarded as illegal firearms.’
‘They were boys!’
‘They were twenty-two and twenty-five.’
The two women glare at each other. Lenny sighs and looks embarrassed for getting involved in the argument.
I motion to the yard. ‘What are you driving, Paulie?’
‘Depends.’
‘What were you driving last night?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘We’ll find out if you weren’t at home,’ says Lenny. ‘We can track your phone using GPS.’
‘I went out to the pub with a few mates,’ says Paulie, making it sound like a God-given right.
‘Which pub?’
‘The Lord Kitchener.’
‘What time?’
‘About nine. We had a few pints then drove around a bit.’
‘When did you get home?’