Cold Shoulder (21 page)

‘This smells so good. We having a party?’

Rooney looked round the tastefully furnished room, and at the pictures arrayed on a bookcase. Norman Hastings with his wife, Norman Hastings with his daughters, his dog, his car, Norman Hastings smiling. Norman Hastings the nice, ordinary husband and father. Rooney could smell baking, mixed with polish, or some kind of lavender room spray. He could hear Hastings’s dog out in the back yard with the kids, barking as the creaking swing swung backwards and forwards. The little girls were calling to the dog, to each other, and the sound of their voices added to the air of normality. The only thing missing was their father.

Mrs Hastings came in with home-made cookies and a pot of coffee. She was a pretty woman, nice-coloured hair with a sweet-faced smile. She perched rather than sat on the chair opposite Rooney. She had good hands, square-cut nails without any varnish.

‘I’m sorry not to have any news,’ Rooney said. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. Rooney hated having to do it, but he couldn’t put off what he was there for, and she seemed to sense he wanted something.

‘Mrs Hastings, I’m sorry if this seems like going over old ground, but I just want to ask a few more questions.’

She began to nibble a cookie.

‘Tell me about a normal, everyday week — where your husband went, who he saw, that kind of thing.’

The familiar story unfolded. Norman Hastings got up at the same time every day, even at weekends. He took his kids to school, he went to work, he came home, he had supper with his family. Two nights a week he went bowling or played poker with his friends. Weekends were kept for the family.

‘Did he have any other hobbies?’

‘Just taking care of the garden, that kind of thing. He did all the decorating and he built the kitchen and the girls’ wardrobes.’

‘Nothing else?’

She shook her head, then hesitated. ‘We did join a country and western club two or three years ago. We went to four or five nights, but he didn’t really enjoy it. I did, but he said they weren’t his type.’

‘Did you continue going?’

‘No. You need a partner, you see, for the square dances… I’m not being much help, am I?’ she asked.

‘Was there anyone you didn’t like among his friends?’

She shook her head.

‘Would you show me over the house?’

She seemed surprised, but stood up, and walked to the door. Rooney trailed after her. She was like a tour guide, pointing out what Norman had done — the extensions, the custom-built closets. She was boring him and he began to feel faintly irritated. The last room they went into was Hastings’s den. Its walls were painted the identical colour to three other rooms, the pictures indistinguishable from those in the living room. Norman with his wife, his kids, his bowls-playing pals, his poker pals. Four men standing, hands in their pockets, staring at the camera. Rooney moved closer, peering at the photographs, half hoping he would see a man with wide lips, glasses and a bite out of his neck, but they were all pot-bellied, jovial types with just a faint glimmer of enjoyment on their faces. Rooney sighed and turned away, but as he did he noticed a faint mark on the wall where another picture had hung. ‘What was there?’

Mrs Hastings blinked. ‘I can’t remember.’

He knew she was lying, the house was too orderly for her not to know every inch. ‘Was it a photograph?’ Rooney asked, relaxed and casual.

‘I can’t remember. Norman must have taken it down.’

‘Do you mind looking for it?’

She hesitated, then crossed to the desk. As she opened a drawer, they heard a crash outside, and one of her daughters started to cry loudly. ‘I won’t be a minute — I think she’s fallen off the swing.’

‘Can I look through the desk?’

She paused in the doorway. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’

He lifted his hands in apology. Stepping back from the desk he sat down in Hastings’s chair. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

As soon as she was out of the room Rooney looked over the contents of the drawers. Tax forms, house insurance, life insurance, dental and medical checks, they were like the rest of the house, orderly. He drummed the desk top with his fingers. There was yet another photograph of Mrs Hastings, a daughter on either side. Rooney picked it up and stared at it, then he turned it over. There was a hook, and a stand. He looked to the space on the wall, then back to the photograph. When he placed it against the faint dust outline, it matched.

He crossed to the window. Mrs Hastings was examining her daughter’s leg, so he returned to the desk and picked up the photograph again. He pushed open the small clips at each side, and opened the frame. There was nothing beneath. He swore, replaced the clips, and was about to stand it upright on the desk when she walked back in.

‘She’s all right, just a grazed knee.’ She stared at Rooney, then at the photograph.

‘Pretty photograph — in fact they’re all very nice.’

She prodded the frame into exactly the same position as before. ‘Yes. He’s a professional photographer.’

‘Ah, just goes to show — you can always tell!’ Rooney paused. ‘Mrs Hastings, that photograph was the one off the wall, wasn’t it? Was someone else’s photograph in it? Is that why you took it down?’

She pursed her lips: she didn’t seem quite so pretty now — there was a steely quality to her. ‘Yes, it was, now I come to think about it.’ She folded her arms. ‘I’d like you to go, please.’

Rooney remained where he was. ‘Mrs Hastings, your husband was found brutally murdered. Now, I have no motive, no reason why anybody should have done that.’

‘Robbery. You never found his wallet. It was robbery. That’s what the papers have said and the television news.’

‘And you can think of no other motive?’

‘No. He’s buried now anyway. It’s all over. I’d like you to leave.’ She pointedly held the door open and Rooney walked past her.

He stopped as they reached the front door. ‘The photographer. Do you have his name and address?’

‘No, I’m sorry I don’t. Norman always arranged the sittings.’

Rooney scratched his head. ‘Was he local?’

She coloured. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘But you had them taken every few years, you told me so yourself. Surely you must remember?’

‘I don’t.’

She had the front door open when he leaned close. ‘Why are you lying?’

‘Please leave me alone.’

Rooney shut the door with the flat of his hand. She pushed against him, and then backed down the hallway. ‘I
don’t want to talk about it.’

Rooney followed her. ‘What don’t you want to talk about, Mrs Hastings?’

Her hands were flailing, her face bright pink.

‘Why don’t we go and sit down?’

‘No.’

Rooney gazed at the freshly painted ceiling. ‘Don’t make me get a whole bunch of officers checking out every photographer, Mrs Hastings, don’t waste my time…’ His voice was low, flat and expressionless. ‘Seven women have been killed in the same manner as your husband — a blow to the back of the head with a hammer, and their faces battered beyond recognition. If you have anything —
anything —
that will help me find the killer, you had better tell me!’

She stood with her arms wrapped round herself, her whole body shaking. ‘I said if I ever caught him doing it again, I would divorce him — I’d tell his parents, his boss, his friends—’

‘Doing what, Mrs Hastings?’

She turned round and her face was ashen. ‘He was dressed in women’s clothes.’

Rooney didn’t show a flicker of distaste or surprise.

She had come home from one of the country and western nights — when Norman had said he didn’t like it, she went alone. She started to cry. ‘I was only there a few minutes and I felt stupid all dressed up in cowboy boots, and I just thought he was right, it
was
stupid, so I came home. But he didn’t hear me coming in. I knew he was in the bedroom because I saw the light on, and I thought I’d surprise him.’ She gave a strange, bitter, high-pitched laugh. ‘I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me. He was all made-up, with a blonde wig, a cheap awful frilled dress, high heels… I — I just couldn’t believe my eyes.’

She broke down and sobbed, and Rooney remained silent, waiting. ‘Anyway… a long time after, because I ran into the bathroom and wouldn’t come out, he was on his knees outside the bathroom sobbing, and I was scared he’d wake the girls, so I came out. He’d taken everything off, but he still had traces — his face…’

Norman Hastings, on his knees before his wife, had sworn on the Bible that no one else knew, that he had never done it before. But she knew he had, because of all the clothes. She found more in the garage, more wigs and shoes. She had burnt everything.

Rooney asked, ‘This photographer… do you think he might have had the same inclinations?’

‘He was homosexual, but after I found Norman, I refused ever to go to him again.’

Rooney took out his notebook. ‘What’s his name?’

She wrung her hands. ‘Dear God, this won’t come out, will it? His parents are elderly — all his friends, his daughters — please tell me this will never come out?’

Rooney promised he would do his best to keep it from being disclosed to the press. He was lying. The photographer’s name was Craig Lyall; she even supplied his studio and home address.

Rooney walked down the immaculate path from the tidy little house, and crossed to his car. The big-eared wonder had been right — now he had a lot more to go on. He suddenly remembered Lorraine Page again, and the Laura Bradley case. He recalled how shocked she had been at the normality of the house and family of the brutalized, abused child. He looked back at the Hastings house, and suddenly it wasn’t so neat or tidy and homely. He felt deeply sorry for the man, trapped in that perfect little prison. For the first time he also felt an odd compassion for Lorraine Page; she had been a crack officer all those years ago. What a terrible waste.

‘Lorraine!
Lorraine!
We’re leaving, did you hear?
Lorraine?
Rosie bellowed.

‘Okay, I’ll see you later.’ She was desperate for them both to go, wanting to take her savings and get the hell out. She was so impatient that as soon as the screen door closed she ran to her closet, and wrenched it open, falling to her knees to search for the money. She found the shoes, and then stared in disbelief at the pitiful remains of her hoard. She began hurling things out of the closet, convinced there must be some mistake. Then she sat back on her heels and punched at the door.

‘Rosie!’ she snarled.

Rosie and Jake were at the bottom of the steps when the screen door flew open. Lorraine hurled herself down the stairs, her hands splayed like claws. She grabbed Rosie by the throat. ‘
Where is it?’

Jake tried to haul her off, but she thrust him back so hard that he crashed into the garbage cans. She dived at Rosie again, who was screeching at the top of her voice.

‘My money!
You stole my money, you fucking bitch?

Rosie reeled back as Lorraine punched her in the face, tripped over a paving stone and fell. Lorraine sprang at her, pulling at her hair. ‘You fucking bitch! That was
my money, my money
— you two-faced cunt, you piece of shit…
you
fucker!’

People were coming out of the grocery store to watch. Lorraine was on top of Rosie now, hitting her. Jake was trying to drag her off, but nothing he did could stop Lorraine. She swiped and spat like a wild cat, and then she collapsed, kicking and pounding the road with her fists.

Rosie’s nose was bleeding, her face was scratched, her dress ripped and she was shaking with terror. She had never seen anyone so crazy, well, not when they were sober.

Jake had handled crazies and drunks, but Lorraine’s immense strength surprised him — she’d almost broken his jaw. He now hauled her to her feet and dragged her over to the steps. He turned on two gawping onlookers: ‘Show’s over, okay?’

Lorraine didn’t resist. She let Jake propel her up the stairs, and a trembling Rosie followed slowly, keeping a good distance.

Jake sat Lorraine on the sofa, then squatted back on his heels in front of her. ‘What the hell was that all about?’

Lorraine glared at Rosie. ‘Tell him!’ she shrieked.

Rosie started to cry, dabbing at her face, and Lorraine swung back her fist and caught Rosie another blow, which started her screaming. Jake prised them apart, pushing Lorraine away. Abruptly she raised her hands. ‘Okay, okay… but if she won’t tell you then I will. Every cent I’ve saved and
fuckin’ worked my ass off for — she has stolen. I’ve got no more than twenty, thirty bucks left from over a thousand.’

Jake frowned. ‘Where did you get a grand from? Rob a bank, for chrissakes?’

‘What is this? An inquisition? It was my dough.
She’s
the one who stole it. Why not interrogate her?’

Jake stood up, ran his hand over his thinning head. ‘How much is left?’

Lorraine closed her eyes. ‘Not enough to drink myself to death, which is what I intended doing.’

‘So, you want to die. Fuck you — and your attitude. Anyone that can make a thousand bucks in less than a week gotta have somethin’ goin’ for them — unless you did pull a heist, but somehow I doubt it…’

Lorraine gave her odd squint-eyed look to Jake. ‘Okay. You want to know how I made it? Blackmail, I blackmailed a little queer bastard…’

Jake grinned. ‘Can we all have a go at him — or is it just you that’s got the information on him?’

‘It was Art, at the gallery, he’s into porno — no paintings — porno, with kids.’

Rooney walked into his office and beamed at Bean. ‘Guess what? Norman Hastings was a cross-dresser!’

Bean gaped as Rooney displayed the photographs from Craig Lyall’s studio. Norman Hastings in a blonde wig, dressed up and in full make-up, smiled with thick, glossy red lips into the camera lens. ‘Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it!’

Rooney was pleased with his efforts. He told Bean to bring in the pictures of the dead women, and Rooney held up Hastings’s photograph.

‘What if Teacher picked up Hastings? Maybe thought he was a hooker?’