by Paula Daly
‘Looks like a fairly nasty knife wound.’
‘If you say so.’
‘See, when a person gets stabbed, as was the case with Mrs Bloom, sometimes the person doing the stabbing gets injured, too.’
Joanne acted out a stabbing motion.
O’Riordan’s face was impassive. Bored, even.
‘After the first cut to the victim,’ she explained, ‘when the knife is covered in blood, the attacker’s hand can slip down on to the blade.’ Joanne winced as the imaginary knife she was holding cut into her flesh. ‘They can sustain a nasty cut to the palm, Mr O’Riordan. Which in turn would give rise to a scar. A scar quite similar in fact to the one on your hand right now.’
‘Really,’ he said.
‘Yes. Really…Add to that the presence of your blood at the crime scene—’
‘My blood?’ he said.
‘Your blood,’ she said. ‘Put those two things together, and I’d say you find yourself in a bit of a pickle, Mr O’Riordan.’
He requested a lawyer. They always did nowadays.
Joanne had been hoping to avoid it. Hoping she could spook him with the forensics, spook him into blabbing out a confession. No deal. And she didn’t have enough to charge him: no weapon, no motive, and the small amount of physical evidence she did have would be viewed as circumstantial. But she knew he’d done it. She could smell it on him. For all his swagger, his conceit, his sweat still stank of fear.
The thing that she didn’t know yet was: why?
—
In the presence of his lawyer, Sonny O’Riordan was interviewed again under caution.
Katie Fellows, a young, drippy solicitor from Ulverston, blanched visibly on seeing Joanne’s battered face.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Joanne said vaguely, and Katie eyed her as if she weren’t sure whether it was Joanne beneath those black eyes or an imposter.
‘I thought she was a burglar,’ O’Riordan explained, his tone both joking and cajoling, but Katie showed no response. A moment later, she whispered to her client, and from then on Joanne was met by a succession of ‘No comment’s every time she posed a question.
‘Where were you on the afternoon of 20 October?’
‘No comment.’
‘How did you get that scar on your hand?’
‘No comment.’
‘Can you explain how your blood was found at the murder scene?’
‘No comment.’
Oddly, O’Riordan never asked how they knew it was his blood they found there. Perhaps he assumed, wrongly, that the police held a DNA profile of every single person ever arrested in the UK. Instead of only the ones who had actually been convicted of a crime.
‘Why did you target Karen Bloom?’
‘No comment.’
‘What had she done to you?’
‘No comment.’
‘What did you do with your bloodied clothing once you’d disposed of her body?’
A hesitation.
Joanne met Sonny O’Riordan’s eyes. A flicker of panic.
‘The clothes, Mr O’Riordan?’ she repeated. ‘What did you do with them?’
Another hesitation.
Finally: ‘No comment.’
They broke for coffee. Not that Joanne wanted one – she hated to halt questioning a suspect mid-session – but she needed to regroup. She was running out of ideas. She had nothing to hold him on and if she didn’t do something soon, Katie Fellows would be pushing for a release.
‘So he’s hidden the clothes, then,’ Oliver stated.
‘You saw that, too?’
‘His face said everything,’ Oliver said. ‘So, where would you put the clothes if you were of less than average intelligence?’
‘Somewhere they could be found easily,’ she replied dryly. ‘Somewhere close to home, where I didn’t think anyone would look.’
‘If we find them…and they do have Karen Bloom’s blood on them, along with O’Riordan’s DNA, we have enough to charge him, don’t we?’
Joanne nodded. ‘We do.’ Then she sipped her coffee in silence.
Oliver got himself another drink. Sugar had been spilled next to the kettle, and no one had bothered to clean it up. Joanne thought about getting a cloth but something stopped her. A lone bluebottle was moving among the grains.
Joanne stared at the fly.
‘Oliver,’ she said, ‘I need you to go and check out a garage for me.’
The fly rubbed its front legs together.
51
Tuesday, 3 November
Noel searched Ewan’s flat.
It took him an unconscionably long time to find what he was looking for. Far longer than he’d anticipated. It turned out Ewan was more adept at subterfuge than he’d given him credit for. Although, when he did finally find it, Noel had to admit that it was so gloriously simple he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t looked there in the first place.
Armed, he made his way down the hill. He chose to walk. It was a dry day. One of those strange November days when the sky could be almost black, the clouds hanging on to their rain until it was past funny, when you’d expect a raw edge to the air. But striding along, a definite spring in his step, Noel decided it was positively balmy. Actually, he could have done without his coat. Which was just as well really, with what he had in mind.
He pressed the doorbell twice. Sometimes, they were busy and didn’t hear. Sometimes, he could be left standing outside for an age and he would have to try to mask his irritation; he was a busy man, after all. Today was different, though. Today was a social call. He was without his tie, his scripts, without his bearing of eager to get on.
The door opened. ‘Hello, Dr Bloom,’ the care assistant said.
‘Afternoon.’
‘You’re here to see—?’
‘Jennifer,’ he replied, and he was asked to sign in. ‘I wonder if I might take her to the garden?’ he said. ‘It’s very mild out, and you know how she likes to be outdoors.’
The care assistant agreed that yes, Jennifer always benefited from some air, and went to find a blanket. ‘Save trying to get a coat on to her,’ she explained.
Jennifer weighed less than seven stone now, but attempting to manoeuvre her could require brute strength. Noel could still lift her well enough. That wasn’t a problem. But he’d given up trying to guide her spastic limbs into the arms and legs of clothing. It made him feel pathetically incompetent and he hated to imagine the effect that all that public pulling and manipulating had on his ex-wife.
The care assistant wheeled her outside. She’d placed a multicoloured beanie on Jennifer’s head but had pulled it a little low. The wool rested on Jennifer’s eyelashes. When they were alone, Noel adjusted the hat. He lifted it slightly but in doing so he set off a succession of quaking spasms that rocked Jennifer’s small frame.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, annoyed with himself. ‘Sorry.’
Jennifer didn’t reply. If he were someone else, she would try to speak. Try to convey with a look that it was okay, that this is what happens with MS. But they both waited it out, unspeaking, Noel wanting to reach out and steady her but knowing, if he did so, that he risked setting her off again.
Noel wheeled Jennifer to the end of the garden. It still destroyed him how helpless she was. If she didn’t want to go outside or to the end of the garden, or anywhere else for that matter, she couldn’t resist. She went where she was taken.
Once there, he parked the chair before asking if she was warm enough. Silly, really, because she couldn’t speak today. And he knew she couldn’t speak because, if she could, she would’ve already said something. He did this more than he meant to, asked her questions she had no hope of answering.
He touched her face. Then he sat down. They were facing one another.
He took out the joint. He’d not smoked weed in – goodness, how long was it? He couldn’t remember.
He inhaled long and hard, waited to feel the familiar warmth move through his chest, spread up th
e back of his neck, and then he put the joint to Jennifer’s lips.
Four drags, and she was back.
‘You have something to say,’ she said. A statement. Her mouth was a little droopy but her words were clear enough.
‘They’ve arrested Sonny,’ he said. ‘And your brother Dominic. They’ve arrested Dominic as an accomplice, I think.’
She closed her eyes briefly. Yeah, I heard.
Noel took another drag. ‘They also found clothes in Dominic’s garage – a T-shirt, apparently, with Sonny’s blood on it. Karen’s blood is on it, too.’
‘Stupid,’ she said quietly.
‘It doesn’t look good, Jen.’
‘Give me some more of that.’
Noel held the joint to her lips. Then he touched her hand. He was able to handle her now without having her dissolve into spasms, and so he wrapped his fingers around hers.
She motioned to the polo shirt he was wearing. It was a striped, unbranded thing that Karen had bought and he wore it now with the top button fastened, just as he’d seen young men on TV do. Noel assumed it was fashionable.
‘You look like you’re on the autistic spectrum,’ Jennifer said, attempting a smile.
Noel undid the top button.
‘Can they charge them?’ she asked.
‘I think so.’ He sighed. ‘They took Yvonne’s phone and analysed it. They found she’d been googling things like “stabbing” and “Windermere”, together with “body” and “lake”. This was on the day that Karen disappeared. I don’t see how they can get themselves out of it, to be honest.’
Jennifer frowned at their ineptitude. ‘Yvonne,’ she said, ‘she was never the brightest.’
Noel gave her hand a squeeze.
‘Why’d you get them to do it, Jen?’ he asked after a moment.
And she held his gaze.
‘I had to,’ she said.
‘Did you? Your nephew’s going to do twenty years for this, at least.’
‘I don’t feel bad about Sonny,’ she said. ‘He’s been ruining lives for long enough with what he’s been supplying. Dom’s another story. He wasn’t supposed to get caught. He wasn’t supposed to be involved in getting rid of Karen.’
‘But, Jen,’ said Noel, leaning towards her, ‘we were doing okay. Me and the kids, we were doing well. We were doing the best we could. You didn’t need to—’
‘No, you weren’t. You weren’t living, Noel. I did you a favour.’
Her words were starting to slur a little, and she had to concentrate hard to get them out.
‘But—’
‘Now you can salvage what’s left of your life,’ she said. ‘Try to find some happiness.’
Noel hung his head.
‘Look, Noel,’ she said, ‘my life’s over. I’m dying. And I actually don’t mind. I’m kind of done here. But Verity? I couldn’t sit in this chair, doing nothing, while that bitch was under the same roof as my daughter, screwing up her lovely mind. And she wanted to send her away to school in Inverness. I did what I had to do, Noel. I did it for her. For Verity.’
Noel nodded.
‘When did you realize it was me?’ Jennifer asked after a moment.
‘Brontë wouldn’t tell anyone where she’d been when she went missing. She said she’d been in her friend’s shed. I didn’t believe her and when I pushed her for answers a few weeks later she admitted she’d been with Madeleine Kramer. You two have been very close over the years and it got me thinking that you might have had something to do with Karen’s disappearance as well. It was a hunch. I couldn’t know for sure, but I couldn’t see who else it could be.’
‘We really thought she’d stop, you know? We thought, if we gave her a scare, she’d realize how much she loved her child. We thought she’d lay off you all and let you be…She didn’t.’
‘No,’ agreed Noel. ‘She didn’t.’
‘Sorry it came to this,’ she said.
Noel shrugged.
‘What if they realize you’re involved, too?’ he asked, and Jennifer laughed.
‘What are they going to do? Put me in an institution? Oh, wait, I’m already in one. Noel, go and be a family. That’s what I want. Be happy. See if you can make a go of this. I’ve given you another chance.’
Noel smiled ruefully at his ex-wife. ‘I’m not sure I really deserve another chance at happiness.’
And she said, ‘No. You probably don’t. But the kids do, so take it. Go and make yourself a life, Noel.’
Epilogue
SUFFICE TO SAY, the day they said their final goodbyes to Karen was one of mixed emotions.
They’d already had the funeral. And though Verity had nothing to compare it to, it being her first, she understood that it had gone smoothly, under the circumstances.
At the church, Verity had been placed in charge of Brontë – double-checking she had everything she needed, making sure she felt secure under the heavy gaze of the local community – and Verity was glad of it. She felt better knowing she had a responsibility, something to do.
So that just left the matter of Karen’s ashes.
What to do with them?
Bruce and Mary had already taken a portion of Karen back to Macclesfield.
‘Which portion?’ Brontë had asked, brow furrowed, when she overheard them discussing it, as though they’d made off with Karen’s right leg or something.
Bruce and Mary thought the remainder of Karen should be scattered in the garden. Among the azaleas, to the right of the patio, as this was where Mary and Karen shared mother-and-daughter time when the sun was out, and where Bruce remembered his daughter being at her happiest.
But Noel didn’t like the idea. He didn’t come right out and say he didn’t like the idea, but Verity could see by the look of aversion on his face that he didn’t want Karen in the azaleas. Or anywhere else in the garden for that matter.
‘We’ll have a ceremony of our own,’ he had announced.
‘Where?’ asked Bruce.
But her father didn’t have an answer.
Brontë was all for hiring a boat, rowing out into the centre of the lake and releasing Karen to the wind. But Verity had to explain, very gently, that though this was a lovely, thoughtful idea, it might not be the best resting place for Karen. She neglected to say this was because Brontë’s mother’s dead body had been found in the lake. Instead she had concocted a story about the place needing to hold special relevance for Karen.
The problem was they couldn’t think of anywhere that did hold special relevance for Karen. She didn’t like the fells, so that was out. And, apparently, you now had to get a special permit, as there’d been a spate of people leaving their urns behind. Karen didn’t do water. Nor did she like to garden, walk or cycle.
In the end, Verity’s dad had decided they would walk to the top of Orrest Head and they would let her go there. The spot didn’t hold any particular significance for Karen, but the rest of them had been up there often enough as a family, so it would have to do. And the wind would blow Karen’s ashes over Windermere, her home, the village she loved. Verity knew this wasn’t strictly true, as the prevailing winds tended to be of a south-westerly persuasion and would carry Karen’s ashes away from Windermere, more in the direction of Kentmere. But she desisted from airing this, as she had a feeling her dad had invented this bit of romance merely for Brontë’s benefit.
So, on the next clear day, they went. And it was okay. Brontë had a little cry when Ewan spoke to Karen directly. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry you’re not with us. It’s nice up here, I think you’d like it. You can see the mountains and the lake and the sky…it’s actually pretty cool. Brontë’s here, too. She misses you. We all do. We all hope you’re not alone wherever you are, and maybe, maybe you can check in with us from time to time? Make sure we’re all doing okay? That’d be good…oh yeah,’ he said, ‘I forgot to tell you, I have a job. It’s good. I like my boss…I love you, Mum. Goodbye.’
Verity found she was unexpectedly moved b
y his efforts.
Her dad also went on to do a good, solid job of making Karen appear loved and grieved for (although he did speak to the mountains opposite rather than address Karen straight, as Ewan had).
‘Eulogies are so hard to give,’ he began. ‘Forgive me as I stumble through this as I’m unable to sum up all that was Karen, Karen, my wife, in just a few short lines. How can I express the kind of woman she was, what she did for us every day, her mighty presence? I simply can’t. All I can say is that she’s left a huge hole. I will miss her terribly. This family will never be the same, but we must stick together. And we must honour Karen’s memory by being kind to one another. I think – no, I’m certain – I’m certain that we can do that.’
He said, ‘Amen’, quietly, as though he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate or not. And the whole thing took less than an hour (including ascent and descent).
After their makeshift ceremony, the sombreness of the preceding days seemed to lift somewhat, and Verity could feel a kind of normality begin to return to the house. Karen’s murder was rarely talked about. And never in front of Brontë. Her mother had been killed, but she didn’t know how, or by whom. Sonny was pleading not guilty to the crime, which Verity’s father said was ‘utterly ridiculous: anyone with half a brain can see he’s guilty. And now, because of his lack of consideration we have to endure weeks of a bloody trial.’ But though Sonny’s plea was ridiculous, it was not totally unexpected.
Her dad said Jennifer’s nephew had made a career out of making life as difficult as possible for all concerned and why should this be any different?
It was the one and only time Ewan came right out and asked why he thought Sonny had murdered his mother. And Noel replied, ‘I’m not sure we’ll ever really know what happened on that day, son,’ after which he cast Verity a shifty, sidelong glance which convinced her that he did have a fair inkling of what had happened on that day.
She had a fair inkling of her own. But she never raised the subject with her mother, firstly, for fear of being overheard, and secondly, for fear of it being true.
That was four months ago now. Sonny O’Riordan was on remand and, as yet, a date for the trial had not been set. Brontë was doing well – her hand had recovered fully – though she’d not returned to the piano or the harp, as, with their dad working evenings at the surgery, there was no one to take her to her music lessons. Ewan was learning to drive and had promised to run Brontë around as soon as he passed his test (though, so far, he’d failed his theory three times). But Brontë didn’t seem to mind. The novelty of coming home from school, lying on the sofa, watching TV for two hours, with absolutely nothing to do, had not yet worn off.
