Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(13)

The attack is played out in my mind. It was sudden and ferocious. The poker kept swinging long after the old man had stopped moving.

‘The killer was angry and frustrated,’ I say.

‘Why?’

‘He doesn’t like making mistakes.’

We’ve reached the police car. Lenny radios the control room, asking for the latest intel on Paulie Brennan. Within minutes, the despatcher comes back with the details. Brennan, aged twenty-five, has a history of boosting cars and has served an eight-month sentence for malicious wounding. On the night Maya made the complaint, Paulie was stopped by a patrol car less than two streets from her house. He told police he was walking home from the pub and denied looking in her bedroom window.

Lenny puts the two-way radio back in the cradle.

‘You said you knew the family.’

‘His grandmother.’ She glances at her watch. ‘You should meet her.’

‘I thought this was Hoyle’s investigation.’

‘We’re in the neighbourhood.’





8


Cyrus


Marlene Brennan lives less than a hundred yards from where Rohan Kirk was murdered. Her house is an eyesore, with an overgrown front garden, a broken fence, and a disembowelled sofa perched on a builder’s skip. The neighbours must love her.

Lenny has been filling me in on the ‘Brennan clan’, describing Marlene as the matriarch.

‘She used to run a pub in Liverpool, down near the docks, one of those places with tiled floors so they could hose out the blood every morning. Old man Brennan was a union leader during the Liverpool Dock strike in the late nineties when Mersey Docks locked out their workforce in a dispute about overtime pay. The strike lasted two years. Failed.

‘Brennan lost his job. He and a few mates bought a pub near the waterfront, but drank most of their profits, or gave it away on credit. When he died of a heart attack, Marlene took it over and managed it better.

‘They had five children. Three girls and two boys. Both sons were shot dead in an armed hold-up of a bank in Manchester when they were still in their twenties. The manager triggered the alarm and police had the place surrounded within minutes. The gang was trapped inside. Twelve hours later, the police stormed the building and the boys died. One of them was Paulie’s father.

‘In the aftermath, Marlene sued the police, claiming her sons were murdered. She lost the case and sold the pub. Moved to Nottingham. Raised Paulie from the age of five.’

‘What about his mum?’

‘A junkie. Died of an overdose.’

‘Sad.’

‘Too common.’

Lenny presses her thumb to the old-fashioned doorbell. It echoes from inside. We wait. She sniffs the air. ‘I smell cigarette smoke.’

Crouching, she yells through the mail flap. ‘We know you’re in there, Paulie. We only want to talk.’

Silence and then another sound. Slippers on wood. Locks and chains disengage. The door opens. Marlene Brennan looks like a small brown onion that has been pickled in vinegar. Eighty if she’s a day, her eyes are like dark holes, and she has the sort of permed hair they seem to provide with every pension cheque.

‘Hello, Marlene, you’re looking well,’ says Lenny.

‘Do I know you?’ asks the old woman.

‘Detective Superintendent Parvel.’

‘A female detective – are you a dyke?’

‘Would it make a difference?’

Marlene shrugs. ‘You see a lot of dykes these days. Dressed like men.’

An old coffee tin is hanging on a string around her neck. She dips her head and spits into it.

‘Is Paulie home?’ asks Lenny.

‘He’s gone to get my pills.’

‘Will he be long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘I fancy a cup of tea,’ says Lenny, stepping past Marlene, who is too slow to block her way. She starts to protest, but a voice interrupts her.

‘I’m home, Gran.’

Paulie is standing in the doorway of the kitchen with the light behind him. He’s dressed in old track pants and a moth-eaten sweater. Barefoot. Mullet-haired. Bum-fluff on his top lip. He’s holding a miniature poodle with a head like a clump of cotton wool. The dog snaps at my elbow as I pass. I jerk away and Paulie smiles.

The kitchen smells of apples just starting to rot and cigarette smoke. It has a scrubbed pine table and mismatched wooden chairs. Unwashed dishes fill the sink, and the lone window has a yellowing net curtain.

Marlene lowers herself into a chair, mumbling under her breath. She fixes her rheumy eyes on me.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a forensic psychologist.’

‘Most shrinks can’t tell their arse from their elbow.’

‘We must know some of the same people,’ I say.

She cackles. Paulie fills the kettle. Lenny looks small beside him.

‘Are you staying out of trouble, Paulie?’

He ducks his head as he nods.

‘He’s a good boy,’ says Marlene, spitting into her can. ‘He looks after me.’

‘How does he do that?’

‘I work,’ he says truculently.

‘And he gets my medicine,’ adds Marlene. ‘Council send a girl to clean up, but she’s a lazy cow. She hasn’t been around for days. I told Paulie to slap her or sack her.’