A Reason to Kill (8 page)

George closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. There was no denying their own guilt and, to be truthful, he could no longer be certain why the hell they had done what they had that night. ‘We were pissed,' he said.

‘That make it better?'

‘No. Course it doesn't, but that's why we done it. Shaz Bates's cider.' Actually, George wasn't too sure it had been just cider. It had had a kick to it that cider didn't usually have – at least from his limited knowledge of it – and Shaz Bates's dad was known to have a well-stocked bar. It wouldn't be the first time she had mixed it. And that brought another bit of the puzzle into focus for George. Who might have seen them? Shaz was one of Mark Dowling's little gang, or at least she was on the fringes of it, her older brother being one of Dowling's friends.

‘She must have been the one what seen us,' he said. ‘When we left everyone at the tin huts, she said she'd have to get off home. She must have seen.'

Miserably, Paul nodded. Had they been sober, George figured, they might have thought it was odd that Shaz was leaving what was really her party so early. The Bates family had never been one to chase up the whereabouts of their numerous kids or to insist on early bed on school nights. And she'd been the one who'd said …

‘She said I didn't have the nerve,' Paul said and George realized that this was the first time it had all made sense to him. What Shaz had
actually
said, George recalled, was that she reckoned Paul would piss himself, that he was a mammy's boy, that he didn't have what it took. George had asked what did that prove anyway; it just showed that Paul was a nice person, and everyone had jeered at that, laughed until Paul had been red in the face with shame.

George recalled the brief argument they had after leaving the sheds, Paul walking with exaggerated care across the rough ground and announcing loudly to the world that he was capable of anything.

‘She keeps cash in her kitchen drawer, everyone knows that, just like me nan does, and all we have to do is get in there and—'

‘
Steal
it.' George had reminded him. ‘It's thieving, Paul, and she's an old woman. You don't steal from an old woman. She might
be
your nan.'

‘She ain't my nan. I don't even know her.' Paul fell over, lay on his back staring up at the night sky until George hauled him back on to his feet.

‘OK, then, ok. I won't take nothing. No money or nothing, just a little something or other to prove we done it.'

‘We?'

‘You coming with me?'

‘Paul, I don't want to. It's stupid.' George had only had a swig or two of the cider cocktail. Enough to get light headed and to seem to be fitting in, but he'd lost track of how much Paul had drunk. ‘It's late,' he said. ‘We should be getting home.'

‘I'm not a kid,' Paul had muttered angrily. ‘Not a bloody kid.'

Now, sat together on Paul's bed, the memory of that fateful night became all too clear. ‘It weren't your fault,' Paul said, his voice harsh with unshed tears. ‘You just went with me. I'd have gone anyway.'

‘No. No you wouldn't. You'd have fallen over in another ditch or forgot where you were going or summat. You wouldn't have done it on your own. I wouldn't have done it on my own neither.'

The silence thumped down between them once again and George stared at the paused screen, a small part of him wanting to pick up the controllers and beat seven shades out of the monsters, as if there was nothing wrong.

‘We could talk to Karen,' he said finally. ‘She'd know what to do.'

Paul shrugged and then winced. ‘Maybe.' He bit his lip. ‘Mam wanted to call the police. She said she thought I'd been in a fight or something. Wanted to know if I was being bullied.' He laughed harshly.

‘I guess Mark Dowling would count as a bully,' George said, and for a moment they both laughed.

Paul wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I don't know what to do,' he confessed.

‘We talk to Karen,' George reaffirmed. ‘I dunno if she'll be back tonight, but she's promised to be home tomorrow after work. We gotta talk to someone; Karen will know what to do.'

Paul nodded reluctantly but George could see the relief already dawning in his eyes. George had told Paul how it was Karen who had got them away from his dad, Karen who'd taken over when their mum had been put in hospital that last time. Karen who'd taken George and camped out in the front office of the local police station, refusing to move until they got the help they needed and then Karen who'd made sure they kept moving on and moving on until they were so far from their start point and from their dad that she felt safe enough to settle down.

George gnawed on his lower lip and glanced once more at the game screen, wishing again that it was possible to put life on pause. He had something else on his mind, something that under other circumstances he'd have wanted so much to share with Paul.

Yesterday, and then again today, he had glimpsed someone standing on the street as the bus had pulled away from school. The man had been bundled up against the rain and cold, but George was certain now that it had been his dad.

F
riday night, and another lonely one for Mac. He had channel-surfed for a while, flicking between gardening programmes and quiz shows and a hospital drama that held his attention for ten minutes or so before the sight of so much fake blood reminded him of Mrs Freer and he abandoned it. Finally he switched off the set and wandered restlessly over to the window, twitched the curtain aside and peered out into the night.

Outside the evening breeze had stiffened, beating the high tide into a frenzy and crashing waves against the sea wall. Mac watched the spray soaking the promenade and the little clouds scudding fast across a starry sky. The forecast for tomorrow had looked good but he guessed a turn in the weather was on its way.

Irritably, he let the curtain fall. He seemed to have become obsessed with weather watching since moving here. Stupid really; he'd spent almost all of his adult life living close to the sea and it had never occurred to him until now that he might have a predilection for forecasting. Perhaps it was that this southern coast seemed so much more exposed, which in itself was a foolish thought. The east coast with which he was so familiar was every bit as weather-ridden and far more prone to storms.

Knowing he'd be unable to settle, Mac wrapped himself against the cold and went out into the night. The strengthening wind battered him the moment he opened the door, grabbing at his coat and tugging at his well wound scarf. Mac wished he'd thought to get himself a hat. He'd resisted because, no matter what style he chose, he still managed to look as though he'd borrowed it as a joke. His hair fought hats, pushing them off, and his face, rather long and too heavy about the jaw, just looked even more unbalanced with something stuck to the top of his head. In his youth, people had described him as square jawed and the kindest had told him he had ‘strong features'. Mac knew what that meant: you can't be handsome so settle for interesting. He lifted his gloved hand and examined his jaw line, worrying that ‘square' would, when he got to Eden's age, translate into jowls.

Cold sea spray hitting him full force in the eyes encouraged him to turn off the promenade and he turned inland, unconsciously tracking back towards Newell Street and Peverill Lodge. He caught himself pausing outside Rina's imposing house, noting that a light was on in Rina's private sanctuary.

For the briefest of moments he toyed with the idea of knocking on her door, but what should he say when she answered? What excuse could he give? It had been a long time, Mac reflected painfully, since he had simply and spontaneously called to see someone just because he wanted to. A terrifyingly long time since he'd just been to see a friend.

Angry now that he was so morose; morose because he was angry and to no purpose, Mac walked swiftly on, turning left at the crossroads before he reached the lower end of Newell Street and was walking a parallel course to the promenade. Here between the houses it was sheltered and not so bitingly cold.

‘Your own fault,' Mac muttered to himself. ‘You've not exactly tried, have you?'

Self-consciously, he glanced around, glad that the cold had kept even the hardiest of souls inside and there was no one to hear. Up ahead of him the lights of the Railway pub twinkled enticingly. Mac drew level with it on the opposite side of the road, stared through the half opened curtains at the Friday-night crowd, recalling that the victims of two of the burglaries were regulars there.

Should he go inside? He'd been meaning to anyway, get the lie of the land, ask a few meaningful questions. Irresolute, he crossed the road and loitered on the pavement. An A-frame sign toppled over by the wind advertised a quiz night every Thursday at seven. Mac righted it, noting the smaller notice tacked alongside that appealed for new competitors.

Mac thought about it. Maybe he should go in and ask. Maybe that would be the perfect way to get involved with the local community. Maybe even a way to … Mac balked at the phrase ‘make friends'.

A quiz team? Mac turned away. What the hell did he know about quiz teams? Irrationally irritated, he walked back the way he'd come. He was cold now, despite the coat and gloves and tightly wound scarf. His ears were stinging and his eyes running as he strode towards Newell Street. The wind had changed direction, veering so that it was directly in his face as he headed home. Mac lowered his head, blinking wind and dust and cold sea spray from his eyes.

Once inside, he closed the door against the world and hung his damp coat on the back of a chair to dry. Then, standing at the centre of his barren living room, Mac made himself a promise. Things would change, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd go along, sign up for the Thursday night battle in the Railway, make the effort, but his heart sank at the thought of it and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of so small but heavy a decision. Sighing, Mac switched the television on and settled on the lumpy sofa, marking time until it was late enough to sleep, unreasonably eager for the working day to begin again.

George Parker was alone in his room. Karen had phoned to say she wouldn't be back that night but she'd promised to be home after work on Saturday and that she'd stay to cook Sunday lunch.

‘I need to talk to you,' George told her.

‘What's wrong? Is Mum OK?'

‘Yeah, she's fine. It's … something else, but it's important, Kaz.'

He heard her stifle a small sigh. ‘OK, little brother, I'll sort you out tomorrow. Promise ya.'

George stared at the portable TV he had set up on the flat-pack desk in the corner of his room. He'd done his homework, early for once. Anything to take his mind off all the other stuff. From downstairs he could hear his mother watching some late-night chat thing in the living room. She'd sit there until she was finally exhausted enough to drop off and quite often George would find her still there in the morning, the TV talking to itself, his mother oblivious on the couch. He'd taken to wandering down about midnight, covering her with a blanket so she didn't wake up cold. He never disturbed her, never. Not even to suggest she'd be more comfortable in bed. She found it so hard to sleep anyway, especially now the doctor had told her he wouldn't give her any more pills, and George would never dream of disturbing what little rest she managed to get.

He'd found an action film to watch – all loud explosions and no plot – but he was finding it hard to follow even what little story there was.

He and Paul were in deep shit this time, he thought. Worse even than when he'd had to deal with his dad. George had never thought anything could be worse than that, but now it looked like he might be back too.

Mark Dowling was alone too that night, and that in itself was unusual. Mark was not someone given to solitude; his persona depended far too heavily on the identification made by others. Alone, Mark was somewhat less than whole.

Lying on his back in the middle of a messy bed, surrounded by the remnants of a six pack he'd taken from the fridge just over an hour before, Mark Dowling was feeling remarkably pleased with himself.

S
aturday morning saw Mac back at the murder scene, preliminary reports in hand.

He stood in the silence of Mrs Freer's hall and remembered his first visit and the difficulty the old lady had just manoeuvring her walking frame back into the kitchen. It seemed almost doubly obscene – and murder, in Mac's view, was the ultimate in obscenity – that the dead woman should have been so unable to defend herself. Would it have been better if she'd had the gun? Not that he could have just turned a blind eye, but …
No
, Mac thought, recalling the damage done to Mrs Freer's face and frail body. No, whoever had broken in that second time had no intention of leaving her alive or of being frightened off. Mac had no doubt that the frustration at finding the weapon gone had added to the frenzy of the attack, but it would have taken place and with the same outcome whatever.

Mac had to hope that the woman had lost consciousness after that first blow to the face and that she had known nothing more.

Report in hand, he went through to the kitchen and examined the back door. Steel screens kept out the weather and secured the entrance but the back door itself had been left open and in place. The original lock was weak and almost worthless and whoever had broken in that first time had gained entry simply by prizing open the door. A stout screwdriver could have done it, Mac thought and, looking closely at the tool marks, he guessed that was what it might turn out to be. Whoever had repaired the door had strengthened the frame and replaced the old lock with another basic one, the sort you could buy at any hardware store.

The murderer had taken a direct approach and had simply kicked in the lower panel, reached through and turned the key.