But I’d done the best I could, and sat back, taking a grim satisfaction as the headlines played out. The front page of the paper, there in black and white, with Tish’s name on the byline. ‘Deerborne heir in child labour probe’. And the rest – the follow-ups, the denials, the mounting evidence, the calls for his resignation. Will, snapped by paparazzi and TV cameras as he came in and out of his offices, flanked by bodyguards and the ever-present Francesca, looking less and less groomed with each passing news bulletin.
As for me, I’d been running. A lot. It helped – if nothing else, it took some of the pain away, shut it away in a small box in my brain while my body focused instead on my aching lungs and screaming calves.
I pocketed a couple of poo bags, and headed out, Mr Bean dancing around my heels. His legs might be tiny, but he needed a ridiculous amount of exercise.
The river was flat and glassy, a dirty grey flecked with white as the breeze further out stirred it into life. I jogged slowly along the Prom, the dog pausing to sniff at the remnants of fast-food wrappers before he trotted to catch me up. The pace was a gentle stretch for me but full pelt for him, until we stopped to admire the view in the same place I’d been grabbed by Wigwam’s zombies a few days and a lifetime ago. Not that there was much of a view. The drizzle was falling in a relentless mist, a hazy curtain drawn across the landscape. Mr Bean squatted down to take an enormous crap and I laughed. How could that much shit fit inside one chihuahua?
I scooped it up and tied the top of the bag. Responsible dog owner in action. I heard footsteps approaching, glanced nervously up. Whoever it was wore a grey hood pulled close around their face, and trainers that looked fresh from the box. I tensed, prepared to fight. I always was, these days.
He drew nearer, pulling the hood down. It was only when he was a foot away I realised it was him. Will. Minus his usual genial nice guy expression. Mr Bean growled and yapped, hopping up my leg looking for reassurance.
‘It was you, wasn’t it? She sent it all to you somehow?’ he said, now so close I could see the dark circles beneath his eyes, the fatigue pulling his skin close to those fine cheekbones of his. He looked terrible. I was glad.
‘Yes. It was me. You killed her, Will. You pretended to be our friend. And you had to pay.’
‘She got too close,’ he said, breath rank. Mr Deerborne was so stressed he’d clearly been skipping on personal hygiene. ‘So I had to kill her. She wouldn’t give up. She left me no choice – it was her own fault! Tish…wouldn’t stop digging. I didn’t want to do it. I…I really liked her.’
I stared at him, listening to the self-justifying garbage he was spewing, My mind played back all the faces of Will Deerborne I’d seen: the concerned citizen. The welcoming host. The baker of cookies. The twisted, snarling features of a murderous demon.
But this? This was worse. This was the real him – cold and empty and deluded about everything other than his own motives.
‘You liked her? So much you had her throat slashed? You hypocritical fuck! And what about everything else? Your bleeding heart philanthropy? It was all a sham – your great-grandfather might have been a dab hand at sacrificing kids to Satan, Will, but you’re just as bad – there are children on the other side of the world dying because of you and your greed!’
I was angry. Furious. Boiling with rage. And it was clearly catching. Will glared at me with dead eyes; the uniform of his hoodie making him look like the thug he was, beneath the sharp suits and veneer of charm.
He lunged forward, grabbed my arms, shoved me backwards. My legs hit the wrought iron of the railings, and I felt my body sway over slightly. The tide was in and murky grey water was roiling around beneath me. Mr Bean was yapping away, snapping at Will’s heels.
It distracted him enough for me to regain my balance, and I straightened up, screaming obscenities at him. Loud and foul and full of the acid that had been eating away at me since Tish died.
I used the only weapon I had. A small plastic bag full of Mr Bean’s waste products. I slammed it into his face so hard the seams split, a metric ton of steaming dog poo smearing his features.
He yelped and I shoved him away from me. He staggered a few steps backward, then fell onto his bottom, rolling onto his side in a foetal position.
‘Tell the police everything,’ I said. ‘Confess. It’s good for the soul. The things we’ve seen, Will? After all we’ve been through together? I’d hope you realise that even you have one.’
I turned and ran before I did something we’d both regret.
Chapter 47
The funeral was held at Tish’s parish church. The priest, who looked about ninety and as if he’d been marinated in the communion wine, twittered on about her life and work and achievements. About her love for her family, her schooldays. It made her sound like a saint, which anybody who’d known her realised wasn’t true. Over to my left I could see Sister Margaret Mary, ramrod straight, lips twitching. She of all people knew Tish wasn’t a saint, and we shared a small smile. The sinners are always the most fun. Just ask Jesus – he loved them.
Rose and Roger Middlemas had come. I suppose I should have expected nothing less.
‘Thank you,’ she said, cornering me afterwards as I pretended interest in a plate of vol-au-vents. ‘For everything you’ve done. It hasn’t brought Joy back, but at least we know we did what we could for her, and that nobody else will meet the same fate. We wish we could thank Tish as well. She sounded like a wonderful person, and our only regret is that she became involved in this because of us.’
No. Not because of you, Rose, I thought. Because of me. I shook away the guilt. If I let it take hold, it would wash me away like a tsunami, and I’d fall to the floor there and then, on the shagpile carpet in Mr and Mrs Landry’s front room. I was holding a glass of red wine, and it’d leave a terrible stain.
More unexpected had been the presence of Wigwam, with Lorraine Connelly on his arm. They’d been to the service at the church, and to the graveside, but wisely opted out of the reception at home. They wouldn’t exactly fit in. Wigwam had nodded once to me as he left, brown eyes unreadable. Gangster boy in a suit, glamorous blonde for eye candy. On the surface at least.
Betty was there, with Justin and Adam. Alec made an appearance. Tish’s friends, from school, from the newspaper. From her bloody hairdressers. They’d probably experienced a sharp fall in profits. My mum and dad and the rest of my family, grieving themselves but keeping a careful eye on me as well. And Dan was there, too.
He approached, tall and lean in black, chatted to Mr and Mrs Middlemas until we’d all run out of small talk. There’s only so much polite conversation that can be had at the funeral of a thirty-four-year-old woman who died to expose a corrupt multi-millionaire business tycoon. Without slipping into the territory of ghosts and ghouls and pacts with Satan of course, which really wasn’t appropriate. Not with a drunk geriatric priest on the premises.
Dan took my arm, steered me outside to the front garden. It was raining. Again. We sheltered in the porch, and I drained the remainder of my wine.
‘So,’ he said, still holding on to my hand. ‘How are you doing?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ I replied. ‘How was it this morning?’
He’d been round all the Deerborne buildings, including Hart House, with Father Kerrigan. Held a small service for the children who’d died all that time ago. We were still debating whether we should try and track down any of their descendants – I said no, he said maybe. Seemed like yet another of those things we’d have to agree to disagree on.
The BMW and its cash-rich contents had been dispatched to Father K, via Dan. I did wonder whether he’d refuse it. Even though Dan gave him a let-out clause, by not telling him its history, Duane was presumably not a stupid man and could figure out it came from a less-than Christian source. But the clergy are nothing if not pragmatic – and a lot of good could be done with the proceeds of a little bad.
Both Doe Hall and the Stag Building were now up fo
r sale, due to Will Deerborne’s sudden reversal in fortunes. Following his confession to the police two days earlier, he was going to be needing all his spare cash to keep him in ciggies and phone cards.
I never thought for a minute that he’d do it, but I suppose there’d been enough humanity there for my impassioned speech, or possibly the lurking threat of more close encounters with canine faeces, to push him over the edge and into the waiting arms of Alec Jones. The collar of the century for the lovely D.I.
I’d also found out, though he wouldn’t tell me exactly what he’d said, that Dan had visited him for a heart-to-heart. Not quite a confessional, but he was playing by the same rules and staying silent. It had been the very next day that Alec had called to let me know about Will’s decision to tell all. I had the sneaking suspicion that Dan had, quite literally, put the fear of God into Will Deerborne – and I could think of no one better suited to receive it. Bullying in the name of the Lord was just fine by me.
It had been all over the telly, the radio, the papers. Will Deerborne’s life, as he knew it, was over. It didn’t bring Tish back – but it took away some of the acid gnawing at my stomach. He was locked up, and that made me feel better.
‘It was good,’ Dan replied, his eyes searching mine. ‘I felt nothing there any more. I believe they’re gone, that they’re in…’
‘A better place? I’m glad about that. It couldn’t get much worse for them, could it? And I’m glad about Will. I’m just struggling with the whole… forgiveness thing, I suppose. Does it ever come easy?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘If it was easy, everybody would be doing it, not just us superhero types. And forgiving yourself is the hardest thing of all.’
Emily again, always there, like an open wound.
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Dan?’ I asked.
‘Am I really the right person to answer that question?’ he said, smiling.
‘Probably not. You believe in bloody anything. But… I think Tish is still around somewhere. And I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help hoping she is. That I’ll see her again some day.’
He nodded, took my glass away and placed it on the step.
‘Come on,’ he said, pulling me away down the driveway. ‘We need to talk. About our new enterprise.’
‘What new enterprise?’ I asked, glancing back over my shoulder. I really shouldn’t be walking out on Tish’s funeral like this, but I was choking in there and he knew it.
‘The new enterprise we’re about to plan. You know? The one where you use your super-sleuth detective skills, and I use my unrivalled knowledge of things that go bump in the night? Protecting the unprotected and battling evil through the power of prayer and picking locks?’
‘Oh,’ I replied, climbing into the passenger seat of his van. ‘That new enterprise. And where exactly are we going to have this conversation?’
‘Well, in the pub. Obviously,’ he said, giving me a grin that could melt Antarctica as he started up the engine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debbie Johnson is a former journalist who lives and works in Merseyside. After a lifetime of reading crime, romance and fantasy, she now writes all three. Fear No Evil is Debbie’s first novel featuring private detective Jayne McCartney, drawing inspiration from both the city of Liverpool and her own time working in the local media. Although Debbie has never been a private eye herself, she is extremely nosy, and likes to piece together her own versions of reality by eavesdropping on conversations, watching people at the bus stop across the road, and imagining crime scenes as she walks her dog. Because it’s always the people who walk the dogs who find the bodies. Find out more at www.debbiejohnsonauthor.com
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