The Sister(107)

Leaving the trademark jar at the scene, he gathered up the rest of the apparatus and took it with him. Later, he stashed it alongside the mask and the seven remaining jars he’d planted in Kennedy’s garage some time back.

She was still unconscious when he left.





Chapter 91



It was late. Lynch had been trying to reach Melissa all night. It was unlike her to ignore his calls. At first, he didn’t let it bother him. After the fifth successive unanswered call, he decided he’d check up on her. She always took his calls, if not straightaway, she’d get back to him usually within an hour or so. There had to be something wrong.

He arrived a little after 11 o’clock. He’d wanted to talk to her about staying on Saturdays nights as well, he’d tried talking about it earlier, but she became evasive. He imagined what he’d do if he caught her with another man. Then he remembered what she’d told him the night before. Maybe Kennedy was round there, and that was why she wouldn’t take his calls. He was firing himself up for trouble.

As he approached the entrance, he looked up. All her lights were on. He pressed redial as he ascended the stairs. Her telephone was ringing. It sounded different, louder, he started taking the steps two at a time without quite knowing why.

The front door was open. A burst of adrenaline surged through him. He bunched his fists and not wanting to alert the neighbours to his presence, pushed the door noiselessly all the way back against the wall.

Satisfied no one was hiding behind it, he called out, ‘Melissa – are you there?’ Senses in overdrive, he marched down the hallway to the lounge. The TV was on low. A newspaper lay on the couch. An opened bottle of tonic water sat on the coffee table with the lid next to it as if she’d left the room only moments ago. An unfamiliar feeling descended on him. For a moment, he felt afraid. Anxiety evident in his voice, he called out, ‘Mel, stop messing about…’ He knew, even as he said it that she couldn’t be messing around with him. She hadn’t known he was coming. He paused in the hallway and looked at her bedroom door; it was ajar, and the light was on. A disembodied question from a TV interviewer filtered down the hall and registered in his consciousness. 'Do you think there was anything you could have done about it at the time?' The answer failed to register. He cocked his right fist to his shoulder and using his left hand, opened the door fully.

Nobody. No sign of her in the bedroom. No one was hiding behind the bedroom door. He approached the wardrobe where she kept her safe; he wouldn’t want someone sneaking out behind him after he left the room. The thought made him check under the bed first.

Nothing. The mirror door rumbled on its runners as he quickly slid it open.

No one. Then he saw the safe door. It was open, the key still in the lock, the safe empty. Apprehension turned to anger in the instant it took for his brain to comprehend. She’s run out on me. Then he saw her car keys. Why didn’t she take her car?

He ran out into the hall. Guided by some instinct, he went into the kitchen and there he found her, naked and lifeless, sprawled across the floor.

‘Mel!’ Lynch was not a man known for expressing any emotion other than anger or hatred, but he cried out for her, raw and without restraint. He sank to his knees next to her; he knew death when he saw it.

Someone had found out about the money. Killed her for the money, and when he found out who it was, they'd better hope the Old Bill got them first.

He needed to think. His hands floated above her body. He wanted to caress her one last time. The urge to touch her was almost too much. Standing up, he looked down at her. ‘Jesus, Mel,’ he said, wiping his face with his palm. ‘I’m going to get whoever did this, I swear – whoever they are.’

On the worktop was an empty plastic shopping bag. He put his hand inside and used it to pick up the red-cased telephone. There were five missed calls, and all of them were his. He checked the call register. There was one number other than his recorded there. JFK. Using the camera on his mobile, he photographed the entry on its screen and put it back to where he’d found it. Next, he checked her white phone; there was a message icon on the display. He listened to it. It was Tony trying to smooth his way in with her. ‘Listen, I got to be with you again. I’ll call round in an hour. See you.’

What Kennedy told her was true, Tony was moving in on him. He disconnected from the message, replaced the phone on the worktop and screwing up the plastic bag, put it in his pocket.

‘You know what, my love,’ he said, ‘I didn’t really believe you when you told me, now I’m going to do what I said I'd do. Give him enough rope and then I’ll finish him.’

Careful not to touch her, he leaned over and blew a kiss close to her face. She smelled as if she’d had a lozenge. It puzzled him. He’d never known her to eat sweets before, chocolate maybe.

He stood, about to leave. An empty jar. It looked out of place. The same sweet, chemical lozenge smell became stronger as he approached it. He leaned over the counter and sniffed. A residual, head-spinning belt from the odour took his breath away. His senses reeled. What the f*ck was she sniffing out here in the kitchen?





In the morning, the paperboy pushed the paper through the door. It swung open.





Chapter 92



When Lynch heard the message on Melissa’s phone, he knew for sure what she told him was true. Tony had gone behind his back, trying to steal his girl. That was just the start, now he was after his business as well. Jesus! He punched himself hard in the forehead. He needed time to think. Tony called her at 8:30 p.m. A couple of hours later, she was dead. Tony! It was Tony. He told her to tell him Kennedy said it. It made more sense now; all he needed to do was keep himself in check until he understood why. He would do as he said he would. Give Tony enough rope. All this keeping calm is killing me! He took a deep breath, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.