The Sister(97)

She called out to him. ‘John, I heard something in the loft!’

He was still gathering his thoughts, not quite knowing where he was or had been. He’d recognised that car in the lane.

‘John, are you still awake?’ The little bell rang again.

‘Yes,’ he said groggily. He sighed deeply and heaved himself off the bed.

‘What is it, love?’ he said from the doorway.

‘I just heard something.’

Although he’d been drifting off, he felt sure if there had been a noise, he would have heard it.

‘Look, love, I know you’re scared of one thing and another, but you’ve got to stop this.’

She looked at him sharply. ‘You don’t believe me?’ She shook her head in disbelief.

‘It’s not that. It’s just, I don’t know; there’s always ... something,’ he said, unable to bring himself to spell it out directly. He didn’t want to hurt her.

‘John, I’m telling you I heard something, didn’t you hear it – you were awake, weren’t you?’

He stayed in the doorway; he didn’t want her to smell the whiskey on his breath. Now come on, John, you'd have heard it – wouldn’t you? Humouring her, he said, ‘I didn’t hear a thing, but don’t worry, I’ll check it out right now!’

He snatched the walking stick from its place on the coat stand. This is becoming a habit!

Out in the hall, down by Johnny’s room, where the passageway opened up into a circulation area, outside the bathroom and toilet, a sheet of paper with a faint boot print, lay on top of the cloth covering the table, below the access hatch. He hadn’t noticed it before; he didn’t seem to be noticing much lately.





The week before, she was asking after something he’d put away up there in the loft, he tried first to get up there from the table. He’d moved the cloth. That was one thing he actually could remember, and he’d put it to one side. He didn’t want to risk slipping on it, because he worried if he fell... Well, who would look after her? He always used to be able to get up from there, but now that falling was on his mind, he fetched the stepladders.

For a long while, he just stood under the hatch looking at it, his head cocked slightly to one side, listening with his best ear.

She leaned out over the bed and opened the door with the crook of her stick so she could see him.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m just listening.’

‘Can you hear anything?’

‘ Shush!’ he hissed at her.

‘What is it John?’ she asked, complaining. ‘Nobody talks to me anymore.’

Suddenly, from above there came a sharp scraping noise.

‘Call the police!’ he shouted.

She fumbled at the phone with thin fingers that shook so badly, they refused to function.

‘I can’t do it, John!’

He rushed to grab it off her, shouting a warning up at the hatch. ‘Don’t even think of coming down here, I’m armed!’





From his vantage point across the street, the intruder watched DCI Kennedy arrive, closely followed by the police.

Old man, I’m going to put the bite on your boy so hard. By the time I finish with him, he’ll do whatever I tell him.

He slipped away, unnoticed.





Chapter 79



DCI Kennedy stayed the rest of the night with his parents. Reassured by his presence, his father had a few nips of whiskey before bed. When his mother called out several times before she finally drifted off, it was not to his father, but to him. She just wanted to know he was alert and still there.

Finally, he clambered into bed, turning the light out around three o’clock. He’d already checked it earlier, but he double-checked the window lock again, before adjusting the gap in the curtains with a quick tug to close them. In the lamplight across the street, he thought he saw the figure of a man standing there, legs apart, facing in his direction. Tiredness caused it to register only after he drew the curtains. When he whipped them apart again, no one was there.

‘You’re tired, Kennedy,’ he told himself. ‘Bone tired.’

His old bedroom didn’t feel the same, it did not feel safe and he didn’t sleep well. He slipped into a strange level of consciousness and stayed there, not actually sleeping, closer to wakefulness; his eyes flew open at every slight sound.





In the morning, he arranged for scenes of crime officers to conduct a fingertip search from the loft all the way through the bungalow, inside and out. They dusted for prints, took photographs, and checked anything that looked out of place, or unusual.

‘Look at this, sir.’ One of them called him up into the roof space. He climbed the ladder carefully; lack of sleep had left him feeling edgy, shaky and hung-over. At the top, he stepped onto the floorboards and looked along the dusty racks of shelves; he smiled at his dad’s orderliness. In the beam of light against the inside of the roof, the method of entry was clearly visible; the battens were out of line, replaced with metal straps, the felt lining cut through in a rough square.

‘So that’s how they got in. Not through the unsecured window downstairs, as we thought.’