‘You got a problem with the men?’ he could see himself leaning against his old wooden desk as she stood straight-backed in front of him. ‘You want to make a complaint?’
‘No complaints, but if one of them sends me out on any more fucking wild goose chases with that Merton, who wants to open fire on any kid he sees within ten yards of him, then I will. He’s a lousy back-up, he’s in need of treatment and everyone on this unit knows it.’
Rooney had promised to look into it but he never did. Even when the shoot-out happened and she was almost killed he had not given her anyone decent. Just suggested she take a refresher course at the shooting training gallery.
‘I’m the crack shot, Bill. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t and neither would my partner. It’s him that needs a refresher course.’
Lorraine had taken two weeks off for further training and her ex-partner died in a shoot-out the next time he was called out. Maybe she’d been right but no one ever bothered to make an official inquiry. Officer Colin Merton was given a posthumous medal for bravery and Lorraine a new partner. Rooney had expected fireworks from John Lubrinski when he’d been told he was to partner a woman but he’d said nothing. He wondered if it was Lubrinski that had started Lorraine on her drinking sessions. The two of them were always in the bars together, Lubrinski a famous hard drinker, and it was rumoured that she was matching him. It was Lubrinski who nicknamed her Hollow Legs.
They were partners for three years. When he was injured in cross-fire, she’d made a tourniquet round his leg with her tights. He’d taken three bullets, one in his thigh, one in his shoulder and a third in his stomach. It was the last that had killed him. She had returned to duty the next week and had never spoken about Lubrinski until the internal investigation, He, too, received a posthumous award and she gained a commendation, which many of the men opposed, insinuating that, had the officer had one of them as back-up instead of a woman, they would still be alive. She had never complained or asked for an easier assignment or taken up the offer of a few weeks’ compassionate leave. She had gone straight back to work and remained on the same beat for another year. Rooney wondered if perhaps she had begun drinking alone then. Then, at her own request, she was moved from Vice to the Drug Squad. Six months later she had shot the kid. No one ever knew what she had felt on that night or why she had been drinking.
Rooney pushed his half-eaten ham and eggs across the table. For the first time he felt guilty that he, like everyone else, had given Lorraine the cold shoulder. He decided that, even though it was too late, he would talk it through with her. Maybe because he himself felt as if he could finish his bottle of bourbon and not care that he was on duty. He was past caring and he wondered if she had felt that way all those years ago. Angry. In some ways they were similar because he had never complained; he was the man who had always drummed into his officers, get on with the job no matter how tough, never complain, complaints are for losers. It didn’t matter if they were male or female, nobody deserved any favours. If they couldn’t take it then they weren’t tough enough to gain respect. Nobody respected him now, he reckoned, and nobody had respected Lorraine Page.
‘My name is Lorraine Page,’ she said to a nervous Mrs Hastings. ‘I wonder if I could come in and talk to you for a few moments, to iron out a few things about the inquiry into your husband’s murder. It won’t take long.’
Sitting in the living room, Lorraine was relaxed and complimentary about the neat house, calming Mrs Hastings’s nerves.
‘I’ve told that detective Rooney everything. I just can’t understand what more there is to discuss. This only makes it worse, these constant questions.’
Lorraine opened her file and smiled. ‘Well, let’s get this over with as fast as possible, shall we?’
She asked if Norman Hastings had ever owned a vintage car, or used a garage in Santa Monica, which specialized in imported vehicles. She went through the different makes of car to see if Mrs Hastings reacted, but the woman shook her head and said that her husband could never have afforded anything so expensive. Lorraine asked if he owned a car before they were married.
‘Yes, of course, but I’ve no idea what kind it was.’ Lorraine said nothing, seemingly more interested in her file. ‘I’ve got a photograph of it, I think,’ Mrs Hastings added.
Lorraine looked up and smiled encouragingly. ‘Can I see it?’
Mrs Hastings left the room and Lorraine took out the photographs she and Rosie had taken. She then made a quick drawing on a blank sheet of paper. Mrs Hastings returned with a photograph album and began to sift through the pages until she found what she was looking for. ‘I think that’s it. ‘I’ve no idea what make it was and I’m sure it wasn’t one of the cars you mentioned.’
Lorraine looked at the snapshot taken in 1979, the date neatly printed below the photograph. Norman Hastings, in shirt sleeves, stood beside the car. It was a low sports car, a British-made Morgan — and, by the look of it, quite an old model.
‘Do you have any idea where he bought it?’
Mrs Hastings shook her head again. She had never seen it.
‘Your husband was a few years older than you,’ Lorraine observed, about to turn the album page, but Mrs Hastings took it back.
‘Yes, fifteen, but we were happy.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose you know about Norman’s little problem. I told that man Rooney.’
‘I don’t think we need discuss it. You were brave to tell Captain Rooney about it — it must have been very distressing.’
Lorraine passed over her drawing. ‘This isn’t very good but I wondered if your husband owned a pair of cufflinks like these? They could be gold or silver but with that distinct S and A logo in the centre.’
Mrs Hastings looked at the picture. ‘They’re silver, but the chain’s broken.’
‘Do you still have them?’
She left the room again and Lorraine leaned back in the sofa. Next she wanted Mrs Hastings to look at the photographs. It was going well but the woman was tricky, nervous and jumpy. Lorraine wanted her nice and calm. The cufflinks were still in their little cardboard box and one was broken. Lorraine examined the links, then looked at the box. No date, just the same logo and the Santa Monica address.
‘What do you want to see these for?’ Mrs Hastings asked.
Lorraine replaced the cufflinks, shut the box. ‘We may have a possible link to the killer. We think he was wearing something similar. Can I keep these?’
Mrs Hastings agreed. She was beginning to pluck at her dress in agitation. ‘Will it all come out? About Norman?’
Lorraine put the box into her purse. ‘I doubt it. I always think personal details that have no connection to the case should not be released to the press, especially if the family have requested them not to be.’
Mrs Hastings clasped Lorraine’s wrist. ‘Oh, thank you. ‘I’ve been so worried — the children — then there’s Norman’s parents and his friends at work.’
‘He was an engineer, wasn’t he?’