‘Check that,’ Janine said. ‘And Simon was their son. Multiple injuries, what’s that mean? Car crash? Shooting? Was there any foul play? Lisa find out more about how Simon Carter died.’
Roy Gant, what had they missed? Dr Halliwell had seen Gant on the Tuesday lunchtime when the GP certified Peggy’s death. Janine recalled the man, vaguely, returning the oxygen canister on the Wednesday, swapping condolences with Ms Ling.
‘Got it, boss,’ Lisa shouted, ‘Newspaper reports.’
Janine bent over Lisa’s shoulder and read the headline: TRAGIC TEEN SUICIDE ON M60.
‘You remember this?’ Janine said to the others. Richard nodded.
‘Jumped off a motorway bridge,’ Shap said.
Lisa scrolled down, clicked on a second website, showing pictures of Simon and his parents, Roy and Peggy Gant.
Janine scanned the text, Being treated for depression by his GP. ‘Oh, Christ,’ she said.
Janine rattled through what they now knew. ‘Simon Carter is depressed, Dr Halliwell prescribes for him, and soon after the boy kills himself. But the Gants never complain. Peggy’s already ill, she has a bad heart and emphysema and Simon’s death makes it worse. They move house, Peggy deteriorates. Gant nurses her. Then she dies. Gant’s on his own. He’s lost them both.’
‘He blames Halliwell,’ Richard said.
‘Gant had Simon’s gun, he must have kept it after Simon died,’ Janine said. ‘We bring him in now. You three,’ she gestured to Richard, Shap and Butchers, ‘set off. We’ll co-ordinate armed response, get them to rendezvous with you at Gant’s, then we’ll follow on.’
Chapter 43
Armed police were in position near to the house, and the area was already cordoned off, as Richard, Shap and Butchers emerged from their cars. One good thing you could say about the terrorist threat, Shap thought, people got their shit together far quicker these days.
‘Any sign of him?’ Richard asked the leader of the armed unit.
‘No. We’ll go in.’
Richard nodded.
The armed police moved into position and the pair at the front used a battering ram to break into the house. It only took two blows and the door swung open.
‘Clear.’
‘Clear.’
The shouts and the drumming of boots on the stairs came as the unit checked each room.
The leader of the armed unit came outside to them, then. ‘No one present.’
‘Thank you,’ Richard said, ‘we’ll take it from here.’
He turned to Shap and Butchers. ‘See if the neighbours know anything, I’ll start looking for the gun.’
Richard pulled on latex gloves. The living room was bare looking, almost monastic. Richard went through to the kitchen, it had an abandoned feel but it was tidy. He looked in the fridge and it was empty. Completely empty. Who had an empty fridge? Richard opened the back door and looked in the wheelie bin, it was almost full. On top of the rubbish were a tomato sauce bottle, a pack of butter and half a loaf of bread.
Shap struck lucky at the first house. ‘He’s not here,’ the neighbour said, ‘he’s at his wife’s funeral. The car left a couple of hours ago.’
‘Where’s the funeral?’ Shap said.
‘Southern Cemetery,’ she said.
Shap told Richard who rang and told the boss. The boss said she and Lisa would go to the cemetery and see if Gant was still there while the others continued the search for the weapon. It’s crucial, the boss told them, no gun and I’m not sure we can make a case.
On the way to the cemetery, Janine waited for word back from Richard that they had found the gun. She feared that Roy Gant might elude them. The case had been one lead after another turning to disappointment: Fraser McKee, Aaron Matthews, Neil Langan, Norma and now Gant. Was he really the one? Or would he turn out to be just like all the other suspects? It was like studying pictures made of sand, which disappeared when the wind changed direction. But this time it did all add up, she told herself, it did. And she pressed the accelerator down even further.
Chapter 44
There were so many questions. Norma sat in an anteroom with a psychiatric social worker who went through the forms. Evaluation. Risk assessment. Care package. There was talk of a rehabilitation programme. Perhaps some people did turn their lives around, make a fresh start. For her it seemed like a fantasy. What would she do with her life? Even if she battled the addiction and won, her only work experience was teaching piano. Money wasn’t an issue, anyway, the mortgage was paid off and Don had life insurance. She’d be able to manage. And what was the point, really? There was no hunger in her for anything but oblivion. She’d no close friends or family to cheer her on. The pit was waiting, wider and deeper than ever.
‘Have you had any suicidal thoughts in the past twenty-four hours?’ the woman said.
Too harsh, that word, it made Norma recoil. All she wanted to do was sleep, sleep and not wake. Already her skin was itchy and her stomach cramping. She felt wild and anxious. One of the nurses said she’d be able to have some medication for the symptoms only after she’d been evaluated. Without Don, without the medicine, what was there to live for?
‘Sometimes,’ Norma said.
The social worker made a tick on the form. ‘Have you made any attempt to act on these thoughts?’
‘My husband has just died,’ Norma said, suddenly sick of it all, cross with the way they were treating her.
‘I know. I am sorry,’ the social worker said, ‘this must be very, very difficult for you. But we need to go through this so we can get you in the system, access services to help you.’
Norma didn’t want to be in the system, she didn’t want to be here at all. Lonely, widowed, sixty-two years old. Yes, people built new lives, like the police inspector had said, they joined clubs or volunteered, they lunched and golfed and started charities. Other people. Not her. She’d never been a joiner, never had any interest.
She wanted to go back, to the woods in France and the time when Pierre played the harmonica, and kissed her neck. When life lay ahead like a promise, or before the baby when she and Don were giddy with love and punch drunk from studying and working. He would test her at the breakfast table, regions of the brain or indications of pulmonary heart disease.
She wanted to go back, not forward.
The woman repeated the question. ‘No,’ Norma said, ‘no attempts.’
And there was no chance in here. The medicines came round in the trolley, two nurses carefully unlocked it and measured and ticked off what was dispensed.
The social worker carried on. Norma answered the questions, she had to because the hunger was growing and she was more and more desperate, her throat dry and tight, her vision pitching and blurring. She must do as they said to get the methadone or whatever they would put her on. For now that was all that mattered.
Chapter 45
When Howard came into the living room, Adele had all the papers from the inquest and all the cuttings from the papers strewn around on the couch and the coffee table.
The laptop was on her knee and she was copying something onto a pad of paper.
‘What’re you doing?’ Howard said.
‘Research,’ Adele said. She tapped her pen on the pad. ‘All the groups who are campaigning for a change to the drugs law.’
‘Seriously?’
She turned to him. ‘You think I should just give up now, because Halliwell’s dead?’
‘You’re exhausted,’ he said, ‘and all this…’ He waved his hand across the papers.
‘This keeps me going,’ she said, ‘I’m doing it for Marcie, for all the others who end up shooting up in some rat hole because they’re treated as criminals not patients. Because the politicians decide that they’ll win votes if they keep banging on about a war on drugs. Never mind that it doesn’t work.’