I’m at the front gate when I hear a voice.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ says Lenny, stepping from her car.
‘Are you having me followed?’
‘I know how you think.’
‘Daisy Thompson died eight months ago. That’s the sort of trauma that could tip a person over the edge.’
Lenny glances up the path. ‘You should leave this to the task force.’
‘Hoyle didn’t believe me.’
‘You gave him no time.’
‘He’s convinced that Mitchell Coates is Foley’s accomplice.’
‘Or he’s keeping his options open.’
I ring the bell and listen as two pairs of bare feet come thundering towards the door, racing to be first. Hands reach for the latch. Two breathless boys, aged about five, with tea-brown hair and pink cheeks, are blinking at us.
A woman’s voice follows them. ‘Don’t you dare open that door until I get there.’
‘Oops,’ says the taller of the boys, who is wearing a Liverpool FC shirt.
Lenny holds a finger to her lips and motions for him to shut the door.
He does so. A few moments later, it opens again. The mother has pushed the boys behind her, telling them to watch TV.
‘Orla Thompson?’ asks Lenny.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Parvel and this is—’
‘What’s he done now?’ she asks.
‘Pardon?’
‘My husband. What’s he done? Punched someone? Crashed his car? Walked into the wrong house?’
‘Nothing like that,’ says Lenny.
Mrs Thompson is looking at me, as though I’m familiar. She hears a noise behind her. The boys are still listening. She shoos them away and invites us inside, leading us down a long hallway to an open-plan kitchen and dining area, with picture windows overlooking a soggy garden with a plastic swing set and a bird feeder hanging from a tree. The kitchen looks new, with a large island bench and polished steel appliances.
Orla takes a seat. Thin and fair-haired, with sharp cheekbones and a narrow nose, she’s wearing trousers and a white blouse, loose around her neck. The boys are wrestling or chasing each other upstairs. Something falls and breaks. She sighs but doesn’t bother to investigate.
‘They’ll tell me if they’re hurt,’ she explains. ‘Or if they’re hungry, or if they’re bored, but they never tell me they’re dirty, or sleepy, or naughty.’
‘Are they both yours?’ I ask.
‘Oh, God no. Leo is mine. Jamie lives next door. His mum and I take it in turns to give each other a break.’
‘Where is your husband?’ asks Lenny.
‘We’re separated.’
‘When did he move out?’
‘During the summer.’
‘I heard about your daughter,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Her fingers reach for a small silver crucifix on a chain around her neck. ‘God took her home.’
‘I know this is a very personal question, but was Daisy’s death a factor in the separation?’
Orla nods and lowers her eyes, using her sleeve to wipe at an invisible mark on the benchtop.
‘We looked after Daisy for almost eight years. Twenty-four hours a day. She couldn’t talk or hear and barely ever smiled. She was on a dozen different medications for seizures, body pain, spasms, acid reflux, constipation, you name it. It wore us down. When Leo was born, I worried that he’d grow up resenting us for spending so little time with him, because Daisy took up so much of our attention. I hope he doesn’t hold it against us.’ She sighs and smiles tiredly, before beginning again. ‘I discovered the strangest thing when Daisy died. I learned that all I had in common with my husband was a sick child. Without her, we didn’t have a marriage.’
‘That must have been hard.’
She gives a little shrug of her shoulders.
‘Does he still see Leo?’
‘Of course. He picks him up from preschool two days a week and has him most weekends. He should have had him yesterday, but he cancelled.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No, but he was drunk, which is another reason I left him. Mark has always called himself a wine collector – Pinots mainly. He calls them investments, but he drinks everything he buys and then moves on to whisky and port and whatever else he can find. He’s an alcoholic, but he won’t admit that. But I make sure he’s sober when he comes to pick up Leo.’
She points to a small handheld breathalyser on the counter, which has a blowing tube on one side.
‘Where is he living?’ asks Lenny.
‘This week? Who knows? Couch-surfing at some mate’s house, most likely, until he wears out his welcome. I could call him, but he doesn’t answer his phone on Mondays. It’s his day off because he works most Saturdays showing properties.’
‘He’s an estate agent,’ I say.
‘Yes, but mainly he does property management.’
‘You’ve renovated recently,’ I say, admiring the kitchen.
‘Thanks to the settlement,’ she replies, taking no pleasure in the statement. ‘We almost lost this place. We had to remortgage and borrow from family to pay for Daisy’s care. I gave up work and we were surviving on whatever Mark could make until the hospital paid up.’ Her mouth curls and eyes narrow. ‘They dragged out the negotiations because they knew Daisy was going to die.’
‘How did your husband feel about that?’ asks Lenny.
‘Bitter. We both did.’
‘Did you blame the nurses for what happened?’ I ask.
‘It was an accident. I understand that. One of them wrote us a letter afterwards, saying how sorry she was.’
‘Which one?’
‘Lilah Hooper. She was in charge that night, but none of them took responsibility.’
‘Did that make you angry?’ I ask.
‘For a while, maybe, but I’m a New Testament sort of Christian. I believe in forgiveness, not an eye for an eye.’
‘Does Mark feel the same way?’
‘He’s not a Christian, if that’s what you’re asking. More an agnostic, but he’s very passionate and headstrong. He gets teary when he hears the National Anthem, or when the Liverpool fans sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at Anfield.’ She smiles sadly. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Maya Kirk was murdered twelve days ago,’ says Lenny.
There is a flash of recognition in Orla’s eyes. ‘I saw it on the news. I thought it must be her.’
‘And Daniela Linares disappeared over a week ago from outside a bar in Nottingham.’
Orla opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. She tries again. ‘And you think Mark had something to do with it?’
‘We need to talk to him,’ I say.
‘He would never … I mean, he’s not like that. He’s a drunk, not a killer.’
Orla’s defence begins to falter. Something breaks upstairs, followed by a cry of pain. A mother is wanted.
61
Evie
Lilah is a talker. A chatterbox. A stater of the obvious. She says things like, ‘Doesn’t the grass look green?’ and ‘Ducks have such funny walks’， and she tries to catch the falling leaves, saying it’s good luck.