Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  ‘Forecast reckoned it might snow.’ George lit his own cigarette and inhaled with a look of deep satisfaction. He glanced at the wolf and then at the clouds. The wolf followed his gaze. The clouds were pewter grey, low, heavy. Yes, it was possible that it might snow. How profound of you, George. I’d like very much to push you over this railing and watch your back snap.

  George turned, leaned his forearms on the railing and looked down. He watched Estelle and the man for a few minutes; smoke curled up along his arms.

  ‘Bet she’s a real little goer in the sack, that one,’ he said. ‘Them quiet ones are fucking wild when you get them revved up.’

  The wolf felt heat rise to his cheeks.

  So here it was. Everyone could see it. Estelle Roberts would give her body to Hugh Bannon. She would offer her sex willingly. The wolf imagined her astride him, naked, panting, her pale skin flushed, her soft breasts cupped in Hugh’s hands. He imagined standing over them, watching, hearing the grunts, the moans, the slap of flesh against flesh.

  He began to tremble.

  Time to go.

  ‘Right,’ he said, because that was how men spoke. ‘I’d better get back to it.’

  ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ George said, still watching Estelle.

  ‘No,’ the wolf agreed. ‘None at all.’

  That night he added Estelle Roberts’ name to his manifesto. He wrote until his eyes burned and his fingers ached. He laid out in clear and certain terms what had led him to this decision.

  Estelle Roberts, he decided, had it coming.

  Chapter Seven

  Roxy left Cora working the crime scene and went down a flight of stairs to the next floor to speak to the witness.

  Sergeant Cosgrove was standing outside the door of 8A with one hand in his pocket, one foot on the wall behind him, reading something on his phone. When he heard her approach, he turned a square, humourless face in her direction, wearing an expression that managed to be both indolent and obnoxious in equal measure.

  ‘’Bout bloody time,’ he muttered before Roxy had a chance to open her mouth. He slipped the phone into the pocket of his trousers and pushed off the wall.

  ‘Officer Foyle said there was a witness.’

  He jerked his head towards the apartment. ‘In there, but word to the wise, I don’t think this guy is playing with a full deck.’

  Roxy heard locks rattle. The door swung wide open and a wild-eyed man clutching a small, scruffy-looking white dog to his chest peered out. He wore a yellow shirt patterned with red lobsters, red gym shorts, and a pair of tattered moccasins. The shirt was open to his navel.

  ‘There you are! We thought you were coming back.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Cosgrove said. ‘I was waiting for—’

  ‘Sergeant Malloy,’ Roxy said.

  ‘This,’ Cosgrove said, managing to sound like he was smirking, even though he was not, ‘is Mr Jerome Falstaff.’

  Straight away Roxy could see what Cosgrove meant. There was definitely something off about Falstaff. Despite the chill in the hallway he was sweating heavily. Both his pupils were fully dilated, and he was practically fizzing with energy. She guessed him to be somewhere in his mid to late fifties. He was short and wiry, with a goatee that looked like he’d drawn it on for the occasion, and his skull was oddly shaped: narrow at the bottom and large and round at the top, a bit like an old-fashioned light bulb. What little hair he had was dyed russet orange and jutted from his head in every direction. His lips were shiny and almost indecently plump.

  Reluctantly she offered her hand and tensed when he took it in his and pumped it up and down with frenetic movements. When she got it back, it felt sticky, and it took considerable effort not to wipe it against the leg of her trousers.

  ‘Mr Falstaff, I believe you are a witness to what happened this morning,’ she said, showing him her identification even though he hadn’t asked to see it.

  ‘Oh I am, I most certainly am.’

  Without warning, he snatched her forearm and yanked her closer.

  ‘I knew it would come to this, you know. I tried to warn Andrea about him.’

  ‘About who?’ Roxy carefully extracted her arm.

  ‘Who do you think? That bloody boyfriend of hers. Oh, he had a dark aura, let me tell you. I could always sense it.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ Roxy said. ‘Could we step inside your apartment and talk?’

  ‘I’ll go and—’ Cosgrove began.

  ‘No. You won’t,’ Roxy said firmly, unwilling to be alone with Falstaff. ‘Come with me, please.’

  Though the floor plan was identical to the apartment upstairs, the two could not have been more different. Where Andrea’s home was bright, chic and comfortable, the kind of apartment a person would happily kick back and unwind in, Falstaff’s was dingy, old-fashioned and cluttered with boxes and stacks of … stuff. The air reeked of dog, stale cigarette smoke and something else, something like … ammonia maybe. Standing in the middle of the living room, looking around at the mess, Roxy managed not to make her distaste obvious until she saw a huge, furry orange-eyed cat sitting on a countertop next to an open pizza box. It growled at her and swished its tail threateningly.

  ‘Er, is that cat … is it okay?’

  ‘Hah! As long as you don’t make any sudden moves she is.’ Falstaff waved a hand towards the outraged animal. ‘That’s Cucumber. Now, Cucumber, be nice.’

  ‘Cucumber?’

  ‘She’s a bit of an acquired taste, see.’

  He tittered at his own joke and dropped the dog onto the floor. Immediately it circled around behind Roxy, sniffed at her ankles a few times and began to bark. Cosgrove took refuge on a spindly-legged stool near the cat and folded his arms, wearing a really annoying ‘I told you so’ smirk she didn’t appreciate.

  ‘Sir, before we begin, would you mind …?’ She gestured to the dog.

  Falstaff grabbed for it, but it skittered out of range and the barking increased in volume.

  ‘Perhaps you could put it in another room.’

  ‘Oh I really couldn’t. He has terrible separation anxiety. I couldn’t do that to him.’

  Falstaff plopped down onto an ancient velvet sofa leaking stuffing and clucked his tongue. To Roxy’s relief, the dog scrambled up into his lap, and though it continued to regard her with canine mistrust, at least it was quiet.

  She looked about for somewhere to sit, decided it was safer to stand and opened her EN.

  ‘Is it true then, about Andrea? Such a travesty,’ Falstaff said. ‘I’m devastated.’

  Roxy glanced at him; he didn’t sound remotely upset, let alone devastated, but then, she reminded herself, people grieved in different ways.

  ‘How long have you lived here, Mr Falstaff?’

  ‘Oh now, a long time, fifteen years at least. This place used to belong to Mother, but she’s passed now, God rest her eternal soul.’

  ‘My condolences,’ Roxy said. ‘Did you know Andrea well?’

  ‘Well enough. She was polite, you know. Not stuck-up like some of them around here.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. She was young, beautiful, always well turned out. Great dresser, not like the young ones you see hanging around these days. I’ll say this for the girl, she knew what worked for her.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know where she worked, do you?’

  ‘Albas Entertainment,’ he said instantly. Roxy typed that in, a little surprised at how much information he had on the tip of his tongue. She herself didn’t know the first thing about any of her neighbours, not even their names.

  ‘Sir, can you tell me exactly what happened this morning?’

  ‘Well now.’ Falstaff leaned back and swung one bony leg over the other. ‘Let me think. I was working, see—’

  ‘Sorry, what is it that you do?’

  He gave her a petulant look, almost as though she had disappointed him.

  ‘Mr Falstaff is an actor,�
�� Cosgrove said.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Roxy typed that in. ‘Apologies, Mr Falstaff. I don’t watch a lot of television … or films.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. To tell the truth, I don’t do as much screen work these days as I used to.’ He clutched the dog a little tighter. ‘Times have changed, Sergeant. People don’t respect the craft any more. Real acting is dying. Nobody has any attention span, see? So you have complete nobodies with millions of followers hanging on their …’ He stopped talking suddenly and licked his lips. ‘What was the question again?’

  ‘You said you were working this morning.’

  ‘That’s right, I was working. I was reading a script for a voice-over.’

  ‘Do you normally start work so early?’

  ‘Oh no, dear.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m more owl than lark.’

  ‘So why were you up today?’

  ‘It was all Edgar’s fault really.’

  ‘Edgar?’

  Falstaff lifted one of the dog’s front paws and waggled it.

  ‘Ah. Right.’ She motioned to him to go on.

  ‘He kept on at me to get up; right little fusspot he can be.’ He kissed the dog on the back of the head. ‘I thought he needed to do a widdle, see, so I threw on a shirt and took him downstairs. Next thing you know, I’m stood by the patch of grass outside and Edgar’s sniffing around, taking his time, when Noel comes bursting through the front door, makes this awful sound and pukes—’

  ‘Noel?’

  ‘Noel Furlong.’ He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘That creature Andrea was seeing: the boyfriend, or rather the ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘Is this the man you’re referring to?’ Roxy showed him the photo she had taken from the fridge. Falstaff peered at it for a moment, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘Oh that’s him all right.’

  ‘You say ex-boyfriend …’

  ‘Right, they were broken up.’

  ‘Do you know when they broke up exactly?’

  ‘About six weeks ago, I’d say. Andrea finally saw the light. Don’t know what she ever saw in him in the first place; he was a dreadful person. Edgar never liked him, and he’s a very good judge of character.’ He looked at her knowingly.

  ‘Why didn’t you like him, Mr Falstaff?’

  ‘I know a fraud when I see one, Sergeant, believe me.’

  ‘What makes you think he’s a fraud?’

  ‘You know the type: gets a dribble of fame, next thing he thinks he’s bleeding Michelangelo.’

  Roxy was horribly confused.

  ‘Is Noel Furlong famous?’

  ‘Hah, he wishes,’ Falstaff sniffed. ‘Noel Furlong thinks he’s some kind of enfant terrible, see, but if you ask me, Edgar could paint better than he does.’

  ‘Oh, he’s an artist,’ Roxy said.

  ‘Huh, I’d hardly call those great ugly splattered things art.’ Falstaff pulled a sour face. ‘He calls them “abstract angst”. You were upstairs; that’s his crap on the walls.’

  ‘I see.’ Roxy typed furiously. ‘You’ve been inside Andrea’s apartment, then?’

  ‘In the past, yes.’ He looked suddenly a little wary. ‘But not today.’

  Roxy thought she detected the tiniest whiff of a lie, but she let it go, for now.

  ‘When you saw Noel Furlong, did you talk to him, did he talk to you?’

  ‘No, he was sick, then he ran across the street and jumped into a van, so I grabbed Edgar and went back inside.’

  ‘A van.’ Roxy typed that in. ‘Can you tell me anything about it, the make, or the model?’

  ‘No idea. I don’t drive, see, never have.’

  ‘Did you notice the registration number?’

  Falstaff shook his head.

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Dark blue.’ He pursed his lips, thinking. ‘I don’t think it had any side windows.’

  ‘Great.’ Roxy sent the description directly to traffic control, along with a request for localised CCTV footage. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘Well, I was on my way back up in the lift when I got a premonition.’ He pointed to Cosgrove using the dog. ‘I mentioned that to you, didn’t I, Paul?’

  Roxy glanced at Cosgrove, who nodded, then back to Falstaff.

  ‘My grandmother was psychic, see.’ Falstaff tugged at his ear lobe. ‘She could always sense when someone passed over to the other side.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Now I’m not as powerful as she was, bless her, but there I was in the lift and suddenly all the hairs on my arms and my neck stood straight up.’ His eyes widened. ‘Jerome, I said, something wicked has occurred.’

  ‘So did you act on your … premonition?’

  He nodded gravely.

  ‘You went upstairs to Andrea’s apartment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you enter the apartment?’

  He was shaking his head before she had finished the sentence. ‘No no no no, the door was closed. I knocked and called but there was no answer. That’s when I noticed the blood on the frame and I knew sweet Andrea was now one of the angels.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Well, I was in such a tizzy I could hardly think straight, and my sixth sense was screaming.’

  Behind her, Cosgrove gave a little cough. Roxy ignored him.

  ‘You came back downstairs?’

  ‘I must have done, yes.’

  ‘Is that when you called the Guards?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Roxy looked down for a moment, thinking.

  ‘You didn’t hear anything, notice any sign of a disturbance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had you ever known Noel Furlong to be violent before?’

  He shrugged, stretched his mouth into a huge arc of displeasure. ‘Not as such.’

  Roxy raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  ‘I mean, he was a shouter; I’d hear him shouting from time to time.’

  ‘Even from down here?’

  He shrugged. Roxy had a mental image of him lurking about the stairwell, ears cocked.

  ‘But Andrea never mentioned anything to you about being afraid of him?’

  ‘No, but then women don’t, do they?’

  It was a fair point, Roxy thought. She’d worked on plenty of cases were a woman would swear blind everything was perfect between her and her partner while the bruises were still fresh on her body.

  She thought of the outfit Andrea had been wearing, the bath and the candles. Could it have been a reconciliation gone awry? Jealousy? New lover?

  ‘Was Andrea seeing anyone else, do you know?’

  ‘She had … gentlemen callers.’

  Roxy looked at him.

  ‘Gentlemen callers?’

  Falstaff reached for his cigarettes, lit one and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘She was a young, attractive woman, Sergeant. I’m not judging her.’

  Yeah, right, Roxy thought. The creep was painting a picture using broad strokes, waiting for her to join the dots.

  ‘Can you describe any of these callers?’

  He picked a piece of tobacco from his lower lip. ‘Older … richer, I’d say.’

  ‘Mr Falstaff,’ she said. ‘Are you trying to suggest Andrea Colgan was some kind of prostitute?’

  If there had been an award for best overacting, Falstaff would surely have been the front-runner. He practically squeaked with indignation.

  ‘Oh Sergeant, please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not accusing Andrea of anything other than being beautiful.’ He waved a hand, spilling ash on the sofa. ‘Youth is currency, it’s … power.’

  ‘Power?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Falstaff said, nodding. ‘Believe me, whoever or whatever Andrea Colgan was involved in, I’ll bet she held all the cards.’

  Roxy thought of the bloodstained sheets, the droplets of blood on the honey-coloured wooden floor.

  ‘I don’t believe she did, Mr Falstaff,’ she said quietly. ‘I really don’t believe
she did.’

  Chapter Eight

  Inspector Morrissey arrived as Cora and Roxy were leaving. He climbed out of his car and stood squinting into the sunlight, unshaved and crumpled. His clothes looked like he’d slept in them.

  He eyeballed Roxy with little by way of friendliness.

  ‘You Sergeant Malloy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Roxy drew herself up to her full height. ‘This is Officer Simmons.’

  Up close she noticed there were traces of dried egg on his tie.

  ‘Forensics still here?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Roxy said. ‘We were about to start canvassing the neighbourhood to see if anyone saw or—’

  ‘She can do that.’ He nodded to Cora, who looked slightly taken aback at his tone.

  ‘And what will I do?’ Roxy wanted to know.

  ‘You go see her mother; name’s Lillian Colgan.’ He handed Roxy a slip of paper with a name and address on it. ‘Talk to her, bring her to the morgue and get a formal ID on the body.’

  ‘Sir, if I may, where did you get this information?’

  ‘Johnson sent me the victim ID. I ran her birth cert, something you might have done.’

  ‘I would have done it back at the station, sir.’

  Morrissey’s blocky head moved a fraction of an inch.

  ‘This is homicide, Sergeant; time is of the essence.’

  Roxy flushed. Morrissey ambled past them into the building.

  ‘Hashtag fucker,’ Roxy muttered under her breath, and glanced at Cora to see if she had overheard.

  ‘He’s a bit … old-school, isn’t he?’ Cora said, with far more kindness than Roxy could ever have mustered. ‘Bit of a cheek lecturing you on time when he’s turned up so late.’

  Roxy set her jaw, folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket.

  ‘I’ll see you back at the station, Officer Simmons.’

  ‘Will you be okay?’

  ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Oh, it can be … Breaking that kind of news is …’

  Cora took another look at Roxy’s face and let the matter drop.

  ‘The station, yes, Sergeant.’

  * * *