She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, the fabric of his designer shirt abrasive under her tear-raw skin. She didn’t hug him back. Her arms hung loosely by her sides. In her mind, she saw her mother again. The awkward sprawl. The blood. The glassy eye. The single front tooth lying beside her head covered in pink blood. Each time she revisited it she saw something new.
Grief was beginning to morph into something else. Simmering rage. Suspicion. Shame. And Shane stood at the centre of it all. Smiling, consoling, fake as fuck. Then came a sound. A cough. Soft but deliberate. They turned.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark grey suit. His hair, almost white, was neatly combed back, and he had the calm gravity of someone used to giving orders. Behind him was another man, shorter, darker, button-eyed and unsmiling.
‘Detective Inspector Yates,’ the tall man said with a nod. ‘And this is Detective Constable Stone.’
Shane straightened. His mask shifted in a blink. Sorrow slid into concern, then quickly back to accommodating.
‘Of course,’ he said, stepping forward to shake hands. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly. This is just, unthinkable, unimaginable.’
Yates offered a small, sympathetic smile. ‘We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr Jones. I’ve spoken to my colleagues who’ve brought me up to speed but I’m afraid I do need to ask you a few questions, just to go over the sequence of events prior to Mrs Lassiter’s death. I’d like to start with you, if I may.’
Shane looked at Molly and Dee, his hand resting on the back of the sofa. ‘You’ll be all right for a bit?’
Molly nodded, tight-lipped. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid they could hear it. Dee sniffled and gave a small, miserable nod. Magda just glared. As Shane followed the detectives into the dining room, Molly’s shoulders slumped as she turned to Dee, who was hunched over again, arms crossed tightly around herself, tears still falling.
Molly went and sat beside her, gently brushing the hair from her sister’s damp cheek. Dee looked up at her with wide, glassy eyes. Molly wanted to repeat what Shane had said and promise her everything would be all right. Wanted to see past the horror of the day. Yet she remained trapped, like time had stood still and would never let her go. Words caught in her throat because nothing was all right. And deep down, she feared nothing ever would be again.
The thought landed with a punch to the gut. Molly bent over, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her breath came in shallow waves. Her chest actually hurt so bad she wondered if she should call 999. She would never hear her mother laugh again. Not the real laugh, the one that escaped unexpectedly at some ridiculous joke when they watchedThe Big Bang TheoryorSchitt’s Creek. Never hear the way she used to call Molly by her full name when she was in trouble, not Molls or Molly-Moo. Or feel the press of her hand on her shoulder during moments of reassurance.
Molly thought of the chasm that had grown between them, perhaps subliminal, or something she’d manipulated so hermum would stay at arm’s length. Not pick up signals or clues, probe too deep, ask too many questions and join the dots. Molly had traded the once close relationship with her mother for her precious love affair with Shane. Her fear of being rumbled, her obsession with him, outweighed loyalty and blood. Molly had been snappy and standoffish, secretive and sly, blaming her moods on exam stress and nerves and throughout her mum had said she understood. Trod on eggshells, made excuses for Molly and had forgiven her time and time again.
And now there was no time to make it right. Guilt crawled under her skin like maggots. She stood abruptly, pacing the room trying to shake the feeling off. Her mind felt fractured. Her thoughts wouldn’t line up. Images collided. The blood on the tiles, Shane’s arms around her, Dee’s distress, her mother’s blood-stained robe.
This was her house. Her mother’s house. A family home. And now it was a crime scene. Molly wasn’t ready for this role. Of someone who had lost her mother. Who had a funeral to plan. Who had to keep a sister from falling apart. Who had secrets to guard and suspicions to hide. But here she was.
From the dining room, voices drifted in, words intelligible, tone sombre. Shane was talking to the detectives, probably spinning his web of concern and confusion, playing the grieving widower like it was second nature. And the worst part was he was good at it.
Molly’s eyes rested on the kitchen table and there, hooked over the back of a chair was her mum’s cashmere cardigan, the one she used to slip on in the evenings to fend off the chill. She needed something familiar so paced across the lounge and into the open-plan kitchen, grabbing the cardigan like it was prize. The scent hit her, Calvin Klein Eternity. The irony of her mum’s favourite wasn’t lost on her. She pressed her face into it and wept. Blonde strands clung to the wool and Molly stared atthem, fragile threads of DNA, a link to her mum, and her breath hitched again.
She leant against the patio door frame, staring out onto the lawn as she clung onto a piece of her mum, and in doing so she was able to summon a spark of clarity. They would have to tell people. The nice police lady had rung Nancy when Magda and Dee had been too distraught but there was still a list to compile of family and friends. Princeton. She would have to write an obituary. Choose a coffin. Oh God, a coffin. Stand by Dee at a service filled with people who would all be staring at them from behind. A burial, a wake. Molly inhaled the cardigan again and calmed a notch.
It would be the performance of a lifetime, more so because she had a secret to keep and a sister to protect, grief and shame to juggle. Because while they sang hymns and said prayers there would be two people in the congregation that shared a bitter truth. That while their wife and mother was lying dead at the bottom of the stairs, alone and battered beyond recognition, they were having goodbye sex. And for that alone, Molly would never forgive herself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Detective Inspector Yates sat at the polished oak dining table, his notepad open and a standard-issue ballpoint pen in hand. The Lassiter home had an atmosphere that he was familiar with, a kind of tense stillness that lingered in homes where tragedy had come calling. Homes where the essence of the dead still clung to the living.
Yates bore himself with quiet authority. In his early fifties, he was lean and broad-shouldered, with a face that had been carved by years of exposure to grief, lies and the worst parts of humanity. His hair, once black, was now a silver sheen, cropped close. He dressed without fuss, his suits dark and off the peg, always with polished shoes and a plain wedding band that told of his commitment even in loss. He never raised his voice, never threatened, never rushed. His method was his own and revered. He believed the key to truth was patience.
He glanced up, his pale brown eyes scanning the man across the table. Shane Jones. The grieving husband who was doing a passable job of appearing devastated. The signs were all there:bloodshot eyes, deep creases in his brow, slightly trembling fingers. A man stunned by tragedy. But Yates didn’t believe him.
His years in the force had taught him the subtle distinction between grief and guilt. The question was, what was Mr Jones guilty of? ‘Let’s go over your movements again, Mr Jones,’ Yates said, tapping his pen gently against the pad. The tone was light, almost conversational. ‘After you went upstairs yesterday evening, leaving your wife and housekeeper in the kitchen, what did you do?’
Shane took a breath, dragging his hand down his face like the weight of it all was becoming too much. ‘I took a shower. Packed an overnight bag for my trip to Glasgow. I wanted to get on the road while it was still quiet. I’d booked a room for the evening as I had an early meeting this morning.’
‘And your wife? Did you see her before you left?’
A hesitation. Small. Measurable. ‘Yes. I stopped by her room. I took a bottle of white wine and two glasses. I thought we could have a drink and a chat.’
‘And how was her mood?’ Yates asked, noting how Shane’s fingers drummed against the table.
‘Not great,’ Shane admitted. ‘We’ve been having a difficult time lately. Maybe it’s the seven-year itch but we were working at it, hence the need for a chat, build bridges, that kind of thing.’
Yates nodded slowly, letting silence linger. He knew that silence made people uncomfortable. It pulled them into saying more than they meant to. ‘What did you talk about? Did you argue?’
Shane shifted in his chair. ‘I wouldn’t call it an argument exactly. We had words. Nothing aggressive. Just… we were both fed up, I suppose.’
