‘He’s been locked up since 2007.’
‘Since he came out,’ Rachel said.
‘He never,’ said Connor, ‘they’re nutters, them.’
‘Connor, shut it,’ his mother said. ‘He never told me anything,’ she said to Rachel. ‘I wouldn’t want to know anyway.’
‘Did your husband, to your knowledge, bring any weapons into the house?’
‘You want to ask me any questions like that, you’d best caution me and get a brief.’
‘He hasn’t done nothing,’ Connor said defensively, ‘it’s harassment, innit?’
‘Connor,’ Gloria warned.
Connor kicked at the kitchen table. ‘It’s all shit.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Gloria bawled, ‘you are doing my head in. It’s bad enough having this lot crawling all over the place without your bloody chuntering.’
Connor glowered at his mother.
The minutes ticked by and finally the police came downstairs empty-handed.
‘Would you like to wait upstairs while they search down here?’ Rachel said.
‘In the kitchen,’ Gloria said. ‘I want to see what they’re doing. They leave it like a pigsty if you don’t watch.’
The trio moved into the kitchen while the searchers began systematically checking the living room. Gloria Tandy’s phone went and she began a conversation with someone about a christening, going through the living room to wait by the front door as she did so.
Connor moved over and got a can of Coke from the fridge. He popped it open and drank, watching Rachel the whole time. Finally he said, ‘If I tell you something, you won’t say who told you?’
‘I can’t promise that,’ Rachel said. ‘Depends what it is.’
He rubbed his nose, thought for a moment. ‘You was asking about the warehouse, well, the Perry boys, they was there Friday.’
Rachel’s spine stiffened. ‘You sure?’
‘I saw them coming away over the bridge,’ he said.
‘What time?’
‘About nine.’
‘You’re sure they’d been at the warehouse?’
‘Well, they’d come up the hill from there. I seen them from my window.’ He shook his drink as if testing how much was left.
‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’ Rachel said.
‘Didn’t want to mess with them. They’re off their heads.’
‘They’ve been charged already,’ Rachel tried to reassure him, ‘they won’t be out for a long time.’
‘It could still go wrong, innit. Not even go to trial for months. Anything could happen. I ain’t no witness.’
‘Connor-’
‘What you on about?’ Gloria was back, phone in hand.
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly.
Why was he telling her now, Rachel wondered? Because the twins were in custody and he felt safer? It had been on the news: two men who have been charged with the murder of Richard Kavanagh continue to be questioned on further serious charges.
Or was it because Connor suspected his dad’s involvement and he wanted to throw the police off track? She knew Connor wouldn’t say anything else with his mother back in earshot. So instead Rachel tried Gloria. ‘Did your husband know Victor and Lydia?’
‘Who? Did he heck?’
‘Done in here,’ the man leading the search team said and Rachel and the Tandys shuffled into the living room while the police examined the kitchen and the back yard.
They found nothing.
Rachel had done the babysitting and was able to leave but whether the new information she had got was gold dust or dirt, she’d no idea. If Connor Tandy really had seen the twins coming from the warehouse on Friday at nine, did that actually help matters given it seemed evident that the twins were not responsible for the double murder? Or did it just muddy the water even more?
Janet had looked at Rachel’s interview with Greg Tandy. The guy was no comment all the way. He was an odd-looking man, doll-like, his round eyes and high eyebrows gave him a surprised look. But his repeated answer was dull and flat, stripped of any intonation.
Janet wondered if she would do any better now evidence was stacking up against him.
Greg Tandy hadn’t shaved; his jaw was dusted with back dots like pepper where his stubble was growing in. His disposable suit added to the impression Janet had of him looking like a toy, or a puppet, Andy Pandy, Thunderbirds.
‘Mr Tandy, there are two separate matters I wish to talk to you about today,’ Janet said. ‘I’d like to begin by informing you that a search of the house in Crescent Drive where you were staying revealed a cache of firearms, as seen in this picture. I’m now showing Mr Tandy a photograph, exhibit number MG4. Can you explain to me what you were doing with these weapons?’
‘No comment.’
‘Can you tell me how you acquired them?’
‘No comment.’
He had long teeth, uneven and protruding so his lips never fully closed. And he’d a smoker’s cough.
‘Have you supplied a weapon to anyone since your release from prison?’ she said.
‘No comment.’
‘You understand possession of a firearm is an offence punishable by law?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He coughed, cleared his throat, a sound like a car revving and trying to catch.
‘Did you supply Neil Perry with a weapon on Tuesday May the eighth?’ she said.
‘No comment.’
‘A search is currently being carried out at your home in Manton Road. Can you tell me if there are more firearms there?’ Janet said.
‘No,’ but he looked sick. Because they’d find something there or because his family would be affected?
‘Mr Tandy, is there anything you wish to tell me in relation to the firearms found in your possession?’
‘No comment.’
Janet nodded. Turned over the page of her notes, skimmed over them, then sat back. ‘Have you fired a gun recently?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Are you certain about that?’ Janet said.
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t fired a weapon since your release from prison?’ Leading him along the path, closer to the trap.
‘No,’ he said, with some impatience.
‘I am now showing Mr Tandy exhibit number MG10. A photograph. Do you recognize this bag?’
He stared at the picture, whistling in his throat. Something, consternation rippling through his expression? ‘No comment,’ he said.
‘This bag was found on top of the wardrobe where you were staying. You own a bag like this?’
‘No comment.’
‘This is exhibit number MG16. You recognize these gloves?’
‘No comment.’
‘They were found, along with a balaclava and a boiler suit, in the bag. Are they your gloves?’ she said.
‘No comment.’
‘We believe they are. We expect DNA testing to corroborate that.’
He gave a hacking cough.
Janet continued, walking him up to the gaping big hole in his account. ‘You have just told me that you have not fired a gun recently, yet the gloves recovered from your belongings contain significantly high levels of gunshot residue. How do you account for that?’
He snorted, eyes hot, the patches of colour on his cheeks darkened. ‘It’s a bloody fit-up,’ he said, ‘you can’t do that.’
‘I can assure you that none of the evidence recovered has been tampered with and we have watertight continuity for everything here,’ she said.
He shook his head, rattled off a cough. ‘It’s a fucking fit-up.’ He turned to his solicitor, ‘I want that on the record.’
Janet didn’t give him time to compose himself. ‘We also found significant traces of kerosene, that’s like paraffin. Highly flammable, sometimes used as a fire accelerant.’
He caught on quickly. ‘No way, no fucking way. I had nothing to do with that, with them shootings. No way.’
‘You refer to the murders of Lydia Oluwaseyi and Victor Tosin.’
‘Any murders. You can’t put that on me. I didn’t even know them,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you can explain then how your gloves came to be drenched in lighter fuel and thick with gunshot residue?’