Bad Sister(88)

‘We found the white van used in Hargreaves’ murder yesterday,’ Lindsay said, ‘and in following that up, today another lead has come good. That’s where we were when you called.’

‘That’s excellent, Lindsay. Finally, eh? I hope the van proves fruitful.’

‘Forensics have been all over it and we’ve seized enough evidence – a partial print and DNA – to be able to link it to a suspect. When we get a valid one to try for a match, that is. I’m certain we’re getting close – this Flint character might be it. Up to now, there’ve been several people in the frame, but none have been anything other than hopeful. I mean, I think Niall is a creep, but I don’t think he’s capable of all this.’ Lindsay leant back against the window ledge, her hands in her trouser pockets.

‘No, me neither – not now. I think he’s weak when it comes to women, and Kelly played on that, pulling his strings for her own gain. I’m wondering if the bird tattoo on Hargreaves’ body was to make us think Niall was involved. A red herring.’

‘Poor sap,’ Lindsay said, making a face and rolling her eyes. ‘And we’ve got his DNA on file, we took all the prison officers’, so we’ll be able to rule him out once we get the results back from the van. Although, I guess that only rules him out of the actual murder. It doesn’t mean he didn’t have something to do with it.’ Her face looked tired, but her eyes sparkled.

‘Oh!’ Connie sat forward. How could she have forgotten. ‘Kelly has photos, possibly, of the two men that were following me. Supposing they aren’t blurry from the running.’

‘Really? She’s a canny one. I’ll get on that. Before she prints them in the paper.’ Lindsay sat back down next to Connie. ‘You might be able to make a positive ID from the photo, then we’ll have a solid enough reason to haul this Flint guy in, and then get a DNA sample. We could have our murderer locked up tomorrow, Connie.’ She clinked her glass against Connie’s. ‘In the meantime, I’m staying over.’

Connie didn’t argue.





CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN


Then


He hid in the shadows, ducking between the sofa and dresser when he heard the footsteps. If he was caught out of bed at this time that would be bad enough, but if caught with the lighter too, then he’d be punished for days.

A soft glow illuminated a patch of hallway where the street lamp shone through the glass half of the front door. The footsteps stopped there. He dared to peek out from around the arm of the sofa. Was that her? The silhouette looked right. But why was she standing so still like that? He didn’t know if she sleepwalked, he’d never seen her do it before. He wished she’d hurry up and move, go back upstairs to bed. He rubbed at the pins and needles in his feet. He was only short, and wiry-thin, but being crouched, tucked into a small space, was uncomfortable all the same. And now he needed to pee.

Typical, why had he chosen this moment to steal the lighter from its hiding place?

Another glow took his attention. Not from the street lamp. This light came from inside the house, in the hallway.

He recognised it immediately.

Fire.

His breathing shallowed. What was she doing? He watched, his eyes transfixed on the dancing flame. It was beautiful.

Then she was gone – he heard the soft padding of feet overhead.

He uncurled from his position and quickly ran towards the growing flame, a gentle crackling noise now accompanying the waving tendrils of flame. The smoke was thickening already, and it snapped him out of his trance.

His first thought was to get a bucket of water, but the flames were now creeping up the wall. Soon they’d be at the stairs, blocking anyone’s exit. There was no time. He jumped past the ball of fire and took the stairs two at a time. He was aware of shouting, cries of ‘Fire!’ filling his head. His voice.

His dad was at the door, a look of terror on his sleepy face. He looked dazed.

‘Dad, we have to get out!’ The boy tugged at his arm, but he didn’t move. What was wrong with his eyes – he wasn’t looking straight; his eyelids were puffy and half-closed.

Suddenly he was being pulled backwards.

‘Come on, hurry Brett.’ Jenna was dragging him.

Cold soaked him. A wet blanket wrapped around him. They were in the back bedroom. She was there too. The window was open wide, she was half hanging out, screaming.

‘He’s not there, Jenna. The fucking gobshite isn’t there!’

‘We have to get out now, Mum, we’ll have to try the stairs. Quick.’

Jenna was gone. The smoke was so thick, black, choking.

‘Stay low, put the blanket to your mouth,’ Jenna told him.

He liked fire, his small, beautiful fires, ones he could control, not like this. The heat was so bad, even through the wet blanket. He followed Jenna down the stairs, the flames leaping across one side of the stairwell. His pyjama bottoms touched the fire, he smacked them with part of the blanket.

‘Where’s Dad?’ he shouted.

‘He’ll be behind us – Mum went back for him.’

They only just made it past the fireball into the lounge, then kitchen, then the black night air touched his face. They were out. Jenna led him up the path at the side of the house to get to the front.

She hadn’t come out of the house yet. Neither had his dad.