She took a drag on her cigarette, setting the tip glowing bright orange in the gloomy morning. ‘I ask for God’s guidance, I really do, and I want to believe that it’s all part of His holy plan and that Andrew’s at His side. And I tell people I believe in love and forgiveness. But what I really want is for the man who killed my baby to be tortured in hell for all eternity.’
Alice shuffled her little scarlet feet, rain pattering on her ladybird brolly’s cheery red-and-black surface. ‘You don’t have anything to feel ashamed about, Mary, it’s natural to be angry. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t.’
‘I want to wrap my hands round his throat, and squeeze the life out of him myself. An eye for an eye...’
Yeah, we all knew how that worked out.
My turn: ‘And you didn’t see anyone hanging around the place, before it happened? Anyone always walking their dog, for instance, or taking a bit too much interest in the waste ground? Maybe someone trying to get the place done up?’
She glowered at me, through a fug of exhaled smoke. ‘Why do you lot always ask the same bloody questions? Why can’t you do it the once, then leave me alone? Why do you have to rake it all up, over and over and over?’ Cheeks hollowing as she dragged in an angry lungful of menthol. ‘How do you think it feels?’
Yeah.
The memorial’s black marble was cool against my back as I eased further out of the rain. ‘What about the people who go out there to take drugs? Would you recognise any regulars? Any names you could give us?’ Thankfully, Huntly had taken the not-so-subtle hint and kept his tactless arse in the church, but that didn’t mean his druggie theory wasn’t worth a go.
‘And you never answer anything, do you? You ask and ask and ask, and I get sod all back.’
Alice wrinkled her nose. ‘It always looks so easy on the telly, doesn’t it? The detectives rock up, ask a couple of questions, there’s an ad break, then next thing you know the killer’s in handcuffs and everyone lives happily ever after.’ She squatted down in front of Mary Brennan, took hold of her free hand. ‘It takes a lot longer in real life, and we’re really, really sorry about that, but we have to find the man who hurt Andrew before he hurts anyone else. So I know it must be almost unbearable, but please: we need your help.’
A shrug, but she didn’t take her hand away. ‘Local kids use it to drink the booze they’ve shoplifted... Now and then you’ll see someone smoking weed, cos you can’t do it inside or you’ll get kicked out of your flat. Maybe a couple of junkies, but only when the weather’s good. There are nicer places in Kingsmeath than this.’ She sucked on her cigarette again, hissing out a cloud of bitter menthol. A hint of steel in her voice: ‘You think they’re the ones hurt my Andrew?’
Alice shook her head. ‘We’re keeping an open mind, but it’s not likely. They might have seen who did, though. We can get someone to bring round a few mugshots, maybe you can recognise some of them?’
Mary Brennan curled one shoulder up to her ear. ‘Maybe.’
‘OK.’ I took out my phone, called up the memo app and hit record. ‘Can you take us through what happened that day — Thursday the eighteenth — doesn’t matter what it is, anything you can remember could help.’
Mary Brennan looked out across the rows of headstones, back towards the waste ground, with the railway line towering above it on thin metal legs. ‘It was...’ She licked her lips. ‘I wasn’t... good that day. Charlie’s lawyer came past the day before with the legal papers, you know? Wanting visiting rights to Billy. I...’ She bit her top lip. ‘So I woke up, Thursday morning, with a killer hangover. What right’s that bastard got to demand access to my Billy? Never bothered about him before, did he? Not when he could come home reeking of drink and beat the crap out of me.’ A shudder ran its way through her, ending with another furious puff of menthol smoke. ‘And now, all of a sudden, I’m supposed to take my Billy up to prison to visit his violent arsehole dad?’
She gave a small bitter laugh. ‘Yeah, so: hangover like you wouldn’t believe. And Andrew’s begging me to take him to feed the ducks again, but I can’t... You try spending all morning throwing up and changing a toddler’s shitty nappy.’ Deep breath. ‘It was kinda cold and foggy, so I bundled him up in his duffel coat, wellies, and mittens, and stuck him out in the back garden. Was supposed to stay there, where it’s safe.’ Mary’s voice got quieter and quieter. ‘Only he didn’t, did he? And now I’m stuck here, every morning, praying for guidance and wishing I could kill the bastard who took my baby...’
Somewhere, on the street above, a lorry went past, rumbling its way across the bridge as Mary Brennan chewed at her ragged nails. Then a train — rattling the rails above us, sending down a smear of grit and dust to clatter against the church roof. The five carriages taking forever to pass as it made its way south towards the station.
I pulled out the wodge of LIRU business cards from my pocket and slipped one free. ‘If you remember anything else, anything at all, give me a call.’
She took the small rectangle of card and nodded. Biting her bottom lip. Blinking. Breath shuddering.
‘I’m so, so sorry.’ Alice put her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘I know you think nobody cares, but we understand, we really do.’
She shook the hand off. Scrubbed away the tears. ‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t understand, I mean, how could I... I can empathise, but no one can understand unless they’ve been through something as horrific as that, but Ash has.’ Alice pointed at me. ‘He knows what it’s like.’
‘Alice, don’t.’ Not this. Not now. And certainly not today.
‘His daughter was taken by a man who tortured and killed her. It might feel like the police don’t care, but I promise you, he really, really does.’
The old fire ignited behind my eyes, reached its burning talons deep into my guts. ‘I said, that’s enough!’
Mary stared at me with hungry eyes. ‘Your daughter?’
My Rebecca...
And I’m standing in the kitchen, in my crappy dilapidated council house in Kingsmeath, opening those homemade birthday cards with her photograph on them. One every year. The blood and the pain and the horror in her eyes.
I curled my hands into fists, the knuckles white and aching. ‘This isn’t—’
‘So, you see, Ash and I want to help you find out who did this. We want to make sure they’re punished for what happened to Andrew.’
‘Someone killed your daughter?’
‘Enough.’ I backed away from the memorial, into the rain again. Forcing the words through clenched teeth. Jaw throbbing with the pressure. ‘I don’t want to talk about—’
‘Mary?’ It was a man’s voice, slightly high-pitched. A generic Scottish accent that went up at the end. ‘I brought you a cup of tea. Thought you might...’ He couldn’t have been much over five four, with a beer belly that paunched out over the belt of his brown corduroy trousers. A combover that wouldn’t have fooled Stevie Wonder on a dark night. A podgy face having difficulty holding onto the wispy beard he’d inflicted upon it. His eyes went wide behind his glasses as he saw me. ‘I...’ A mug with, ‘PRAISE THE LORD FOR TEA & BICCIES!’ on it trembled in his hand, steaming beige liquid slopping out to splash against the leg of his cords — darkening the fabric, as if he’d wet himself.
Why did he look so familiar...?
Of course: Steven Kirk.
The same Steven Kirk that swore blind he’d been taking care of his dying mother when all those wee boys were abducted and killed. And he just happened to be at the same church as Andrew Brennan’s mother?