Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  Roxy didn’t try to deny any of it.

  ‘You’re right.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s been a cock-up of epic proportions and you and your brother have borne the brunt of it. I can’t change any of that. I don’t seem to have the necessary skills to spin you some kind of yarn either. The truth is, I shouldn’t even be here and Quinn would probably have my guts for garters if he knew.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Something about Andrea’s death didn’t sit right with me from the beginning. I’m missing something, something obvious, but I have no idea what it is. I was hoping Noel might be able to fill in some of the blanks.’

  Caroline pulled her cardigan tighter around her body.

  ‘Why should he help you?’

  ‘Because he loved Andrea, at least for a time.’

  Silence descended. Roxy kept her yap firmly shut as she watched Caroline Furlong’s brain go to war with itself. If she said no, that was it, but she really hoped she wouldn’t.

  ‘All right,’ she said, snapping the words out as if they cost her a great deal. ‘But I’ll be with him the whole time. If you try to pin anything on him, I will call my solicitor and bring charges against you for harassment.’

  Roxy followed her down the hall into the pine-nightmare kitchen. As before, the dog was in his basket by the stove, and the teapot was on the table, a cup beside it. When Noel Furlong saw her enter the room behind his sister, he leaped to his feet.

  ‘No, no, get her out of here.’

  ‘Noel, please, she only wants to talk.’

  Roxy gaped at him, and probably quite rudely. It was hard to reconcile the broken, bald creature before her with the handsome rogue she had first seen in the photograph at Andrea’s apartment.

  ‘Mr Furlong, I won’t take up a lot of your time.’

  ‘I told the other cop everything. Please …’ He looked terrified, close to tears. What the hell had happened to this man?

  ‘I’m not here about Andrea – well, I am, but not her specifically. May I sit down?’

  Without waiting to see if he said yes, she pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh.

  Furlong, with an agonised glance towards his sister, sank down too.

  ‘Mr Furlong, I’m sorry about what you’ve been through these last few days.’

  He darted a glance her way and looked back down at his hands. He was trembling, and again Roxy felt a deep sense of unease and guilt.

  ‘I read your statement—’

  ‘I told him everything. I didn’t lie, I told him everything I knew.’

  ‘Yes, it was very … comprehensive.’

  That was something of an understatement. Furlong had admitted to things that had no relevance to the case whatsoever. Had Quinn pushed even slightly, he might have gone all the way back to his childhood and dug up some old crimes from the memory banks to confess to.

  ‘You mentioned a name in your statement; somebody called Delia. I was wondering if you could tell me about her.’

  ‘Delia?’ He looked at her blankly for a moment, then said: ‘Oh, Delia, right, what about her?’

  ‘Who is she, please?’

  He glanced at Caroline again, looking less agitated but more confused by the second.

  ‘She worked with Andrea at Albas; they were friends.’

  ‘I’ve gone back over everything we have, and her name hasn’t come up anywhere except in your statement.’

  Noel shrugged, picked at a piece of loose skin on his ring finger.

  ‘I think maybe they had some kind of falling-out.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, she stopped coming round and Andrea stopped talking about her.’

  ‘When was this?’

  He screwed his face up. ‘I don’t know exactly. A while back; sometime early last year.’

  ‘Do you know what happened between them?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I know Andrea was pretty upset over it, but she didn’t tell me what it was about. Shame really. I liked Delia, she was a funny bird.’

  ‘Do you know her surname?’

  ‘Shawcross.’

  She questioned him a little while longer, but he really didn’t know much more about Delia other than what he’d already told her.

  Back in the car, Roxy ran Delia’s name through the residential property index and came up with two addresses, one in Lucan and another in Clontarf. She drove out to Lucan first as it was closer and found herself looking through the windows of a vacant property. She had a quick chat with the next door neighbour and learned that Delia Shawcross had not been seen at the address for quite some time, over a year at least.

  ‘Don’t blame her, really,’ the neighbour said, leaning on the doorframe.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t like to live in a house where my partner hung himself neither,’ she said with a shudder. ‘Got to be bad luck, that.’

  Yes,’ Roxy said. ‘I imagine it is.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The wolf cracked his knuckles and began to type.

  For much of human history, men have claimed what is rightfully theirs. Now, though, we have allowed ourselves to be deceived by an ideology that has all but destroyed the imperative. We are at war! Society has forced our hand and driven us to this point. For too long rampant feminism has been allowed to poison the well. We are forced to drink from this well, forced to swallow a steady stream of abuse that tells us we are not handsome enough, not wealthy enough, not smart enough; we are told we have nothing to offer, nothing of value to contribute to a society that bends over backwards to accommodate the weaker sex. Today I reclaim my biological right. Today I stamp my will on the world.

  Today I will reclaim the Imperative.

  He finished with a flourish and toasted his brilliance by opening a fresh tub of cookie dough ice cream.

  Two things were bothering Samantha Mullins: she was late and she had had another stupid row with her husband.

  She ran across the road, crossing two lines of traffic and trying to ignore the blaring horns and the unpleasant insults aimed at her. By the time she reached the pavement, there were tears in her eyes and she was breathless.

  Yvonne Hershey glanced up from her phone.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Christ.’ Samantha leaned on the railing beside her friend and rested her hands on her knees with her head down. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Relax, hen, the bell hasn’t even rung yet.’

  Yvonne put her phone away and lit a cigarette with a flamboyant flip of her Zippo lighter, drawing disapproving looks from the other mothers, which she ignored. Samantha watched her for a moment and wished she could be more like her. Yvonne didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought and wasn’t remotely interested in school-gate politics. She turned up wearing her gym gear, Lycra-clad legs, toned, just the right ratio of muscle to fat. Her dark-red hair shone in the winter sunlight, healthy and vibrant, not a single trace of grey anywhere.

  By comparison, Samantha felt downright dowdy, but then again, Yvonne made everyone feel dowdy.

  ‘We’re still on for tonight, right?’

  ‘I guess.’ Samantha pulled her ponytail tighter and readjusted her scarf.

  Yvonne, always hawk keen, caught the undertone immediately.

  ‘What’s wrong, have you changed your mind?’

  ‘No.’ She took a long breath. ‘It’s … I had a row with Michael this morning and … I don’t know, it’s stupid really.’

  ‘Listen to me, hen.’ Yvonne reached out and laid a hand on her arm. ‘You’ve got to stop letting that man waltz in and out of your life when he feels like it, okay?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t let him call the shots. You’re a fucking saint taking him back. If it was me, I’d have told him he made his bed with that tramp and now he can lie in it. You still have time, you know. Tell him you’ve changed your mind about reconciliation. Tell him you’re tired of his saggy old
balls and you have your eye on a younger model.’

  Samantha laughed, feeling a little better.

  ‘It has been nice having the whole bed to myself.’

  ‘God, I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep,’ Yvonne said with a sigh. ‘Colin snores like a chainsaw.’ She glanced at her friend, serious. ‘I mean it, Sam, don’t let him call the shots. He fucked up; never let him forget it.’

  ‘I know, but it’s going to be different this time. The therapist even got him to admit that what he did was an act of self-sabotage.’

  ‘Act of being a middle-aged prick, more like.’

  ‘He’s thirty-five!’

  ‘Exactly, old enough to know better.’ Yvonne pulled a face. ‘If Colin ever steps out on me, he’ll wish he was never born.’

  Samantha rolled her eyes. ‘Colin? Don’t be stupid, that man adores you!’

  ‘It’s hard to tell sometimes. He’s not big on romantic gestures.’

  ‘To be fair, he did buy you a cracking big house.’

  ‘Well there is that,’ Yvonne said sagely. ‘Don’t get me wrong, hen, I love the man, but a little spice now and then adds flavour to the meat and two veg, you know?’ She winked, and Samantha grinned.

  Inside the school, a bell pealed. Yvonne pitched the cigarette butt down and ground it out under her heel.

  ‘Incoming.’

  The children came out as a trickle, then a flood. Loud, happy, catcalling, running with huge brightly coloured bags bouncing on too-small backs (really, why did they need so many books at this age?). Samantha saw Mason first, walking along shoulder to shoulder with his best friend Maki. The boys were deep in conversation, wearing serious faces. She felt her heart swell in her chest at the sight of him, her little miracle baby, born four weeks early, eager to be part of the world.

  Yvonne’s daughter Grace came next. She was a funny auburn-haired child with big brown eyes and the same dimples as her mother. She was five years old and cute as a button. Samantha was her godmother.

  ‘There’s my girl!’ Yvonne said, beaming. ‘Good day?’

  ‘We made posters!’

  ‘You did? That’s great. Hi, Mason, hi, Maki – wow, I love your new haircut.’

  Maki smiled shyly. He was seven, the same age as Mason, but smaller, slighter in build, and obsessed with football.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Samantha leaned down and kissed Mason on the top of his head, catching his scent in her nostrils. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘He got held back.’

  ‘He did?’ Samantha frowned, her hand on Mason’s shoulder, drawing him in closer to her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. Missus Chambers called him in.’

  Samantha tensed. Mrs Chambers was the principal, a kind but firm woman who made Samantha a little nervous, if she was honest.

  ‘Right,’ Yvonne said. ‘We’d better get moving. See you later on.’

  Most of the mothers had dispersed by the time MJ appeared, swinging his school bag from one arm. Samantha raised a hand to him and saw his look of displeasure. His walk was so like his father’s, it sometimes hurt her heart to watch him.

  No, she was not going down that mental road again, not now. None of what had happened had been her fault, and she was tired of shouldering the lion’s share of the blame.

  ‘What did Mrs Chambers want?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice light, non-judgemental, non-accusatory.’

  Immediately he scowled at Mason. ‘Tattle.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Okay.’ Samantha put her hand to her forehead, tried to keep her smile in place. ‘Is everything okay?’

  MJ shrugged one shoulder, another legacy from his father: dismissive, impatient, more than a little defiant. Samantha decided not to press, not now at any rate.

  ‘You remember you’re staying at Granny’s house tonight, right?’

  ‘You’re going out again?’

  She was stung by the accusation. Her son was acting like he was some kind of latch-key kid.

  ‘Granny said she’s going to make your favourite, lasagne.’ Hoping she sounded more positive than she felt, she scanned their faces for even a hint that she was making a mistake; that she was failing.

  ‘Can we have ice cream?’ MJ wanted to know, always so quick to pounce on a bartering position. Definitely his father’s son, she thought before pushing the thought away.

  ‘Sure.’

  Samantha smiled at her boys, grateful that she had managed to navigate another moment in their lives with falling apart at the seams.

  God, she thought, she could really do with a night out.

  When Samantha didn’t show up at the cocktail bar, Yvonne didn’t think too much of it. They’d known each other almost ten years, and in all that time, her friend had never been on time. She was the kind of woman who’d turn up late for her own funeral.

  Even so, when she went outside to grab a cheeky smoke, leaving Colin in the booth, she took the opportunity to call Sam’s mobile. The phone rang out. It was probably in the bottom of her bag or something. She left a message anyway.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. You better be on your way. I’m getting wasted and Colin’s getting fed up talking to me.’

  She hung up, smoked her cigarette and went back inside.

  A little after eight, they went across the road to the restaurant. They each had a glass of Prosecco while they looked over the menu.

  There was still no sign of Samantha.

  ‘Maybe one of the boys is sick,’ Colin said, watching her send another text.

  ‘Unless he has bubonic plague, I’m not interested.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘You know she’s been through the mill lately.’

  ‘So?’ Yvonne said, tilting her head.

  ‘Have you ever ordered the terrine here before?’ Colin said, changing the subject.

  Dinner was nice. They ate, shared a bottle of wine. When Colin went to the bathroom, Yvonne checked her phone.

  After dinner, he helped her into her coat and they went outside. He was yawning as he put his hand out for a taxi.

  ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘You go if you want. I’m going to swing by Samantha’s house.’

  Colin looked at his watch pointedly.

  ‘It’s half ten on a school night.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Her husband looked at her, saw her expression and knew he was never going to win this argument. Besides, Samantha’s house was on the way, in a fashion, a circular, convoluted fashion.

  It wasn’t that she was cross, Yvonne told herself on the way there, though she was actually, and a little hurt. She was also a little worried: it wasn’t like Sam to be a total no-show without at least one text message.

  Outside Samantha’s gate (honestly, it was such an ugly house, she thought, so like Michael, all money and not a screed of taste), she asked Colin to wait, telling him she’d only be a moment.

  She walked up the drive, taking care not to stumble on the gravel in her heels. The curtains at the downstairs windows were drawn, but the lights were on behind them. The slide door on the porch was unlocked, so she yanked it open and stepped in to ring the doorbell. When nobody answered, she bent down and yelled through the letter box.

  ‘Samantha?’

  She could hear music from inside the house, but it felt wrong, all of it. Go back, a small voice in Yvonne’s head warned. Turn around and get Colin.

  Yvonne Hershey was a lot of things: pushy, competitive, sometimes a little inconsiderate of people’s feelings. But she was also brave, and it was this that decided her next course of action. She set her jaw, fully prepared for Samantha to be angry with her for the intrusion. She would accept a telling-off, she decided. It would be worth it. They’d probably laugh about it later, when she stopped being angry about being stood up.

  The spare key was under the half-dead cactus; the same place Samantha, somewhat unimaginatively, always left it. With increasing unease, Yvonne let hersel
f into the house and stood in the hall, the walls of which were adorned with pictures of the boys.

  ‘Samantha?’ Her voice sounded strange to her own ears: too many false notes, too much emotion in the vocal cords.

  Cautiously she pushed open the living room door, and immediately backed up so hard she slammed into the under-stairs cupboard, her hand pressed to her mouth in horror. She heard a strange sound and realised it was her own voice, keening in the back of her throat.

  Something thumped upstairs, breaking the spell. In terror she ran from the house and down the drive, screaming Colin’s name. He got out of the cab and came running, managing to catch her as she pitched forward, hysterical, pointing back towards the house.

  The taxi driver got out too.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Ring the Guards,’ Colin ordered, taking control. ‘Yvonne, stay here, do you hear me?’

  ‘Hold on, mate.’ The driver reached under his seat and produced a nasty-looking wooden club. ‘You’d better take this with you.’

  Colin accepted the weapon and set off towards the house.

  The living room was a horror show. He stared at blood-spattered walls and a body he recognised as Michael Mullins. He hadn’t liked the man much in life, but seeing him this way made him feel sick to his stomach. Michael was half off the sofa, one hand on the floor, fingers curled. Colin knew there was nothing he could do for him. Quickly he checked the rest of the ground floor and then proceeded upstairs, very slowly, holding the club out in front of him in both hands.

  ‘Samantha?’

  She was in her bedroom, lying across the bed wearing a satin nightie. He crab-walked over to her and put his fingers to her neck; exhaled with relief when he felt a faint pulse.

  With his back to the wall, he pulled his phone from the inside of his jacket and called for an ambulance. When he was done, he checked the boys’ bedrooms, horrifically aware of his heart beating too hard and fast in his chest. He opened all the wardrobes, using the tip of the club, convinced he was about to be set upon any second. It wasn’t until he heard the sirens that he relaxed and went back to Samantha, unsure what to do. His natural instinct was to cover her, protect her dignity. But he had watched enough late-night cop shows to know that contaminating a scene was a big no-no. He was still dithering when the bedroom door creaked open behind him.