Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (32 page)

I never thought
our first date would be attending a funeral. Candy arrives early to help make
tea for the dozen or so prozzies that have descended on our home to pay their
respects. The funeral cortege is leaving from our house as Mum was insistent on
doing the right thing by Jude and the twins. It isn’t going to be a religious
ceremony, God wasn’t there when they were taken, it’s a bit late to get in on
the act now. Instead there’ll be readings by close friends and family at the
crematorium chapel, followed by an all-nighter back here for those with a
stomach lining for it.

It’s
not unusual for the police to attend the funerals of murder victims. However,
given the circumstances surrounding these killings it was agreed their presence
would not be required. Devlin stands guard on the front door making sure it
stays that way. He’s on loan from Marcus who has taken an extended holiday to the
Caribbean with his family, though not before wiping out my debt with Mickey
Plastic as a reward for dealing with MacIntyre.

Mum’s
going about the room topping up everyone’s cups from a crate of Macallan that
Gus sent over this morning. He’s paying for the funeral too. I guess over the
years he’s put a lot of business the local funeral director’s way but it’s the
thought that counts. Mum catches my eye, waving the bottle in my direction.

‘Go
on then,’ I smile, holding my mug out to her.

I’m already steaming.

Mum’s
wearing her good coat, her head and shoulders draped in a lace mantilla. I’m
wearing the suit Marcus bought for me; Candy nods her approval, whispering she
thinks I look hot.

‘Like
a professional footballer.’ She grins. I think she’s being kind; with my
misshapen nose and broken teeth I resemble a boxer after an ill-advised
come-back fight. Candy’s been the only person I’ve spoken to over the last
couple of days. I’ve been in shock over Brad, couldn’t bring myself to talk
about it with anyone that wasn’t there. She’s been great.

I
move into the kitchen. Tam is making up sandwiches and arranging them on large
plates before covering them in cling film. He looks up at me and winks. ‘Ye’ve
done well fae yersel’ there.’ He grins, nodding in Candy’s direction. I move
over to where she’s standing by the kettle and nudge her playfully. ‘Did ye no’
hear what he just said tae ye? I’m quite a catch by all accounts.’

‘Right
enough, Davy,’ she jokes, handing me a tray with several mugs on it to hand to
those just arriving.

I
look at my watch. ‘Ye seen Ken?’ I ask her.

‘Aye,
he’s out the back,’ she nods, pointing in the direction of our postage stamp
garden, ‘A wreath came from someone high up on the Police at Fettes, he’s
chuckin’ it in the bin.’

We
nod in agreement, smiling at each other shyly. ‘Better hand these out then get
going,’ I say, carrying the tray out into the hall, ‘Mum’s so heavy handed
folk’ll be pished by the time they leave in the cars.’

Candy
catches my eye. ‘Like it matters, though, eh?’

More
prozzies turn up, straight from shift by the look of it: they huddle in groups
sipping Macallan coffees gratefully. Paul’s the last to arrive.

‘You’re
cutting it fine.’ I say good-naturedly.

‘They’d
want me in uniform if they knew I was coming,’ he explains, pointing to the
civilian suit he’s wearing, ‘I’ve taken today as annual leave.’

‘Nice
one.’ I hand him a coffee mug; Mum is already beating a path towards him.

Paul
smiles but it resembles a grimace.

‘What
is it?’

‘I’m
moving on.’ He says bluntly. He registers my disappointment then tries to
soften his words. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’ he adds, ‘I’ve been dreading telling ye,
but I can’t stay here.’

‘But
MacIntyre’s dead.’

‘Aye,
but I ratted him out.’

‘Ye
saved lives that day.’ I remind him. Impatient with red tape Paul had broken in
to MacIntyre’s locker. Inside he found an empty evidence bag that had once
contained the gun MacIntyre claimed he’d lifted from our home. With the bent
cop and the gun both missing the superintendent heading the investigation
mobilised two armed police units, sending them to Candy’s place once the call
came in from Ken.

‘I
got backs up.’ Paul says honestly. ‘Someone’ll want to put that right, send me
out on a shout that’s dodgy, turn a blind eye if I’m outnumbered.’

‘So
where are ye going, then?’

‘Better
ye don’t know,’ is all he’ll say.

We step into the
yard for privacy.

‘My
lawyer rang,’ I tell him, ‘confirms the search of MacIntyre’s digs turned up
items belonging to Jude that he’d taken after the murders.’

Paul
nods. ‘They found the missing CCTV tapes from Malkie’s hostel at his place,
too.’

I
shove my hands deep into my pockets and kick at the gravel beneath my feet. ‘He
robbed my dad of everything.’ I murmur, trying to block out those lost years
where I thought my old man was dead or wished him so. Would my life have been
different with him in it?

He
was leaving us anyway, I remind myself.

‘He
traded his freedom for my safety,’ I say to Paul, ‘I guess that means he
thought I was a good enough son after all.’

‘At
least you’ll get to find that out,’ Paul reasons, ‘when’s he coming home?’

I
shake my head. ‘His doc wants him to have a phased release, a couple of days at
a time, see how he copes. Reckons she had no say over how I came back into his life,
so she’s digging her heels in over this.’

‘She’s
mebbe right.’

‘Mebbe.’

My
lawyer emailed over a copy of the statement he’ll be making later today. I’ve
been advised to keep quiet for now, save it all for the civil action against
the police, though I can assure you there’ll be nothing civil about it.

Paul
clears his throat. I step away from him, moving further down the yard to where
the paving stones are uneven, weeds pushing through the cracks like they’ll be
rewarded for the effort. I stare at a Dandelion head like it’s a precious work
of art. The question is coming, I can feel it, but I will not make it easy for
him.

‘When
did you last see Brad?’

‘This
morning,’ I say gruffly. ‘They’re moving him to the specialist unit today,’ I
add, ‘Ken’s driving me down tomorrow.’

‘How’s
he doing?’

And there it is.
What’s the prognosis for someone with a bullet in his spine? I know the
consultant’s glib phrases off by heart:

His injuries
are significant but its early days…

The bullet position
is precarious but at least it’s not moving …

Your friend’s
been very lucky, could have been a whole lot worse…

Yeah,
right
.

‘Same.’
Is all I can manage.

Candy
steps out into the yard and moves to my side. ‘Cars are here,’ she says gently,
slipping her hand through mine. ‘Are you ready?’

I
squeeze her hand as I smile back at her.

‘Bring
it on.’ I say.

Can a story exist without someone to read it?

I hope you enjoyed this book, I hope more than anything it challenged
your perceptions. You’ve been kind enough to purchase it, can you do me one
last favour? I would greatly appreciate it if you could post an honest review
of it on Amazon.

With my sincerest thanks

Emma

Prologue

Tracey Kavanagh
stroked her swollen belly absentmindedly as she reached for the drawing Kyle
proudly held up for her inspection. It was three thirty on an uncomfortably hot
day and the infant inside her shifted lethargically; the playground was full of
red-faced mothers with excitable offspring and the sound of happy chatter
reverberated around the red brick walls.

She
swallowed hard as she studied Kyle’s picture, her hands began to shake
uncontrollably as an uneasy, anxious feeling worked its way through her chest.
She could hear her heart pounding, the
thump, thump thump
increasing its
crescendo until it drowned out the babble from the children around her and
startled her unborn child.

Her troubled gaze
slid to the beaming face of her ruddy-cheeked son and in that moment she knew
she must kill him.

Born in Salford
Emma moved to the Peak District as a child, commuting into Manchester’s
financial district as a consultant for HSBC. Spells in Brummie beckoned (Selly
Oak then Solihull) after winning a bank scholarship to Birmingham University
before working out of bank branches in Castle Bromwich, Coleshill and Shirley.

Emma loved English
Literature at school but studied Business and Finance in order to secure a
‘proper’ job. Other jobs have included selling ladies knickers at Grey Mare
Lane Market and packing boiler suits in a clothing factory. “I did try for
waitressing work at one point,” Emma says, “but restaurants seemed to think I
wasn’t capable of carrying plates from one room to another.”

After moving to
Scotland Emma worked in the public sector supporting socially excluded young
men into employment before setting up her own training company.

Married with two
sons Emma writes from her home in East Lothian, which they share with their
rescue dog, Star.

Find out more
about the author and her other books at:
https://www.emmasalisbury.com