The Sister(99)

Terri frowned. She knew her mum hadn’t been like that since dad died. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Okay, if you say so, Mum.’

Two shots of brandy later and she was ready to sleep.





Theresa’s eyes snapped open. She lay with her head on the pillow confused for a moment. Unable to remember getting herself to bed, she glanced at the display on the illuminated clock: 3:01 a.m.

Recalling something from when she was sleeping, she realised the caller had invaded her thoughts. For an instant, she thought she knew what he was up to; it was in her dream. The harder she tried to focus on exactly what it was, the further away it went, she simply could not remember.

She stayed awake for a long time, trying to fathom what the caller was really up to.





Chapter 81



Thursday, 15 March





It was Thursday already; the deadline for obtaining the file was looming. Theresa was finding the task harder to fulfil than she’d imagined and for the first time she was worried about what might happen if she didn’t deliver. The file wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Later in the morning, when she took in Kennedy’s coffee, she noticed he had the file she wanted on his desk. Kennedy followed her gaze to the file and slid it into his top drawer without taking his eyes from her.

She smiled awkwardly, and he smiled back.

Later in the afternoon, when Kennedy was out, she opened the drawer; all she needed was a copy for Christ’s sake.

The file had gone.





Chapter 82



Almost a week had passed without incident, and DCI Kennedy felt it was safe to return to his own home. John senior began to believe they had just been the victims of some sort of prank, or it could even be a case of mistaken identity. That happened sometimes. In his later years on the force, a killer murdered an innocent man in a revenge attack, simply because he called at the wrong address.

Age had taken its toll on him. If he were honest, the drinking had too; he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be. Something was nagging at him, something not quite right about it. Finding a pen and pad, he wrote. Suspect comes in through roof, goes out window. I find window open. I close it. He comes back in through loft, goes back out window. Both times, he conceals the entry point. Why come back twice? Did he come back more than twice? Was he looking for something he didn’t find the first time?

After concentrating for a few minutes, he gave up, no longer having the wherewithal to figure it out, he thought about Johnny. As so often happens when you think about someone, the telephone rang. If I had a pound for every time that happened. That’ll be Johnny now.

Half-lifting and part bending down to the receiver; he aligned it with his ear, the arthritis in his arms and shoulders severely limiting his range of movement

‘John?’ His son’s voice took him aback; he’d never addressed him by his Christian name before.

‘Johnny?’

‘John Kennedy?’

The old man’s face creased with consternation. ‘This isn’t you, Johnny. Is it?’

The caller ignored him, questioning him further. ‘John F. Kennedy?’

‘No, that’s my son. Now, who is this?’

‘Don’t worry, John. The name is Harvey.’

He considered the chances of someone sounding just like his son making a call of this nature. ‘What kind of a game are you playing, Harvey?’

‘No game, John, it’s Lee Harvey.’

The heat of anger flushed his cheeks, now he was older, it took a lot, but once it was there – he began cranking himself up. Oswald. Is the caller going to say Oswald? ‘Listen, you’ve picked the wrong person to play games with. I’m a former chief of police and my son is a DCI and you are calling an ex-directory number, how did you get it?’

It always made him laugh, these people with ex-directory numbers, who left them stuck on the front of their telephones for all to see. Out there on view, for deliverymen, dinner guests, anyone really. Someone, who maybe shouldn’t see it. Okay, fair play this one hadn’t left the phone on display, but it was still on the front of the old phone they'd discarded in the cupboard.

A full ten seconds passed; he made out the sound of the caller inhaling deeply. Whoever this is, is smoking a cigarette. He’s actually enjoying this.

‘Well, are you going to answer me or not? How did you get my private number?’

The caller exhaled evenly, blowing smoke into the receiver. ‘Don’t worry, John. It’s not you, I want. It’s your son, Jack.’

The phone clicked down.

‘Who was that, John?’ Rose’s voice startled him; he was relieved she hadn’t been awake at the beginning of the call. If she had been, she’d have listened in; then there would be a lot of explaining to do.

‘Just a wrong number, don’t worry. I put him right.’

When she fell asleep again, he quietly returned to the hall. He dialled the number slowly, to keep the noise down. The dial whirred softly each time he released it. It wasn’t really an old black Bakelite phone; it was a modern reproduction, a present from Johnny to replace the old one, whose innards were so badly worn it just kept misdialling.

The purr-purr of the dial tone was so loud in the earpiece; he was sure it would wake her at any moment. He tried to muffle the sound by cupping his hand round, holding it tight against his ear.