Stevie avoided looking at Granger’s face for as long as she could. Her gaze flitted to the shattered remains of the parrot’s cage. Somehow she found her voice through the dryness of her throat. ‘Good for us, bad for you; everyone in the street will have heard that racket. Better leave while you still can.’
‘It never worried them before, love,’ Granger said, picking a pale feather from her hair. She examined it between her manicured fingers, let it go and watched it flutter to the floor.
Stevie searched the woman’s plastic perfect face. ‘You mean when you shot Delia Pavel?’
Granger turned to The Crow. ‘See, what did I tell you, son, she knows far too much.’
The Crow looked at Stevie and licked his beautifully shaped lips.
‘What’s wrong with you, don’t you talk?’ Stevie demanded, relieved to hear no sign in her voice of the tremble that shook her from the inside out.
The Crow reached for the open bottle of brandy, took a long pull then wiped his bare arm across his mouth. He inspected the bottle, turning it over in his hand. When his eyes met those of his mother, Stevie was reminded of an animal looking to its trainer for instructions. Granger gave him a go-ahead nod.
He was going to smash the end off the bottle, cut her with it. Stevie tensed, looked at the sewing table and wondered if there was anything she could use as a shield or weapon. The objects on the table were still covered by the tapestry. She had trouble remembering what was there, let alone imagine how her dulled reflexes could dodge the jagged end of the bottle.
He took another swig of brandy; eyes never leaving hers. He wiped his mouth again, then trickled the rest of the brandy in a circle around the armchair. When he’d finished, he put the empty bottle carefully back on the table and picked up Stevie’s phone.
He wasn’t going to cut her after all, she thought as he crunched her phone under his boot. And then a thought drove the reality home. She remembered what Col had told her about The Crow. No, he wasn’t going to cut her.
It was worse than that.
She turned her head and risked a glimpse at Lilly who still sat rigid in her chair, one hand resting on Stevie’s undamaged shoulder. Stevie felt an energising jolt of anger. Some of the fogginess lifted. Lilly hadn’t come so far to die like this.
Hell, neither had she.
The Crow took a silver cigarette case from his shirt pocket, removed a cigarette and lit it. After a puff he squatted at the ring of brandy and put the glowing tip to the alcohol. Within seconds a blue ring of fire surrounded them.
Mrs Hardegan gasped. Stevie patted her hand. ‘It’s okay, he only wants to frighten us.’
The Crow smiled at her, cigarette hanging from his mouth like James Dean. He handed the shotgun to Granger and left the room.
‘Christmas pudding,’ Mrs Hardegan said as the last of the impotent blue flames petered out.
‘Why doesn’t he talk?’ Stevie asked, tipping her chin to the back door through which The Crow had disappeared.
‘Just a temporary problem according to the doc. Smoke inhalation from the last burning,’ Granger said. ‘He can’t resist the sizzle and smell of burning meat. Put his face too close to Pavel’s body and damaged his voice box.’
‘Poor baby,’ Stevie said.
Lilly chuckled.
‘I wouldn’t be thinking that was so funny if I was you, Senior Sergeant Stephanie Hooper.’
Stevie stared unwavering at the woman before her. ‘How long have you known who I was?’
‘From the moment you reserved that DVD: name, address the works. After a quick word with that tall, blabbermouth cop, I figured out what was behind all them questions of yours; you weren’t the painter you were pretending to be, you were some bitch of a cop.’
‘And you killed Skye?’
‘He did.’ With the shotgun, Granger pointed in the direction her son had gone. ‘Nice girl; often picked up takeaway from us. He heard her phoning you outside the deli, knew she must have found something out from the old dear. Well whaddaya know—we thought she only spoke gobbledegook.’
Mrs Hardegan stiffened in her chair.
‘And he had a go at me in Freo, too.’ Stevie deliberately omitted Fowler’s name, even though she had a feeling he would be next on their list. ‘Was it The Crow who gave my daughter the magazine?’
‘Just one of his little jokes, always had a great sense of humour.’
Using the side of the chair Stevie hauled herself to her feet. Granger didn’t try to stop her, although she did keep the shotgun barrel pointing steadily at her chest. Stevie staggered as another wave of dizziness swept through her, forcing her to reach for the arm of the chair. When she looked down, she noticed the front of her shirt saturated with blood.
The Crow entered the room through the back door with a sloshing can of fuel.
Something cold rolled down Stevie’s spine. ‘You’ve been using Pavel’s car—where’ve you kept it hidden?’ she said, desperately bidding for time.
‘Just at the deli garage, love; changed the plates, only use it at night.’ Granger paused and looked to her son as he circled Mrs Hardegan’s chair with the fuel, the same way he’d done with the brandy. ‘You’d have liked to have used that car more often—wouldn’t you, son? We can have it painted when this business is over with, then you can use it whenever you like.’ To Stevie she explained, ‘The Crow loves the finer things in life. Lucky our delis pay so well.’
A horrible rasping sound escaped through the sneer of her son’s mouth. Eva seemed to understand what he was saying, though Stevie hadn’t a clue.
‘You bought that deli so you could keep an eye on the Pavels?’ Stevie asked.
‘One of many small businesses.’
‘A handy way of laundering money. And I guess you staff them with ignorant teenagers like Leila who wouldn’t think to ask too many questions.’
‘But more than anything, The Crow likes the sound of cooking meat.’ Granger was clearly keener to terrorise them with tales about her son than to explain her business practices. ‘Nothing like the sizzle and pop of the eyeballs as they explode like overcooked eggs—isn’t that right, son?’
The Crow smiled, revealing a row of perfect, bone-white teeth. He finished pouring the circle of petrol, grabbed Mrs Hardegan’s telephone and yanked out the cord. He looked toward his mother. This time it was he giving the silent instructions. These two didn’t seem to need words. With an eerie sense of wonder Stevie marvelled at the bond between them.
‘Grab the cop’s stuff first,’ Granger said. ‘We may as well take it with us and get rid of it—it’ll make identifying her body that bit harder.’
The Crow pulled Stevie’s wallet from her jeans pocket and put it in her bag from the coffee table along with the pieces of her crushed phone. He placed the bag by the door to collect on their way out.
Mamasan gave Stevie two sharp prods to the stomach. Stevie doubled up, making the pain appear worse than it was and collapsed across the sewing table. As she lay there, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs, she thought, I only have one chance. Reach under the tapestry into the open sewing basket and grab the sewing scissors. Leap at the skanky bitch before she gives the shotgun back to her son. No mercy, rip right into her.
The scissors felt cold in her hot, blood-sticky fingers. Still bent over the table she made a play at gathering her breath, poking the small pair of scissors up the open cuff of her shirt, blades pointing towards her wrist. She pushed her palms against the table and readied herself for the spring.
And slipped on a pool of her own blood. Chin-first she hit the table hard.
She groaned, more from frustration than pain. Another vicious prod of the gun barrel made her pull back and she found herself crammed next to Lilly on the armchair.