Stephen Booth – One Last Breath (страница 17)
Mrs Quinn shrugged very slightly, as if merely settling her T-shirt more comfortably around her shoulders. ‘Well, marriage,’ she said. ‘You know.’
‘I don’t think I understand what you mean, Mrs Quinn.’
‘I mean that she couldn’t be bothered making the effort to keep their marriage together.’
‘Ah. Not if it meant putting herself out to visit her husband in the nick?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And then they divorced.’
‘She couldn’t wait, I imagine. That’s the way things go these days. Couples don’t stand by each other, not like we used to do in my day. When we made our marriage vows, they counted for something. Now, they’re planning the divorce before they’ve swept up the confetti. It’s utter hypocrisy, in my view.’
‘You don’t think much of your former daughter-in-law?’
‘It’s not obligatory, is it?’
‘Well, no …’
‘I didn’t think she was bringing the children up very well, if you want the truth.’
‘That’s not an unusual view for grandparents to take,’ said Fry.
‘That’s as may be. But I was convinced it was the reason Simon went off the rails the way he did when the murder happened. If he’d been a more stable, disciplined child, like his sister, it might have been different. But he’d already been allowed to get into bad ways by the time he was fifteen. He was mixing with the wrong company, missing lessons at school. Drinking alcohol, even.’
‘None of that was your son’s fault, I suppose? He was Simon’s father, after all.’
‘I have my own views,’ said Enid Quinn firmly. ‘I know where I put the blame.’
Fry paused. Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper saw her give him a slight nod.
‘Mrs Quinn, your son’s former wife, Rebecca Lowe, was attacked and killed last night at her home in Aston,’ he said.
Enid Quinn could no longer keep her hands still. Unsteadily, she felt in her pocket for a handkerchief, but didn’t use it except to twist it in her fingers.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Andrea called me this morning. That’s my granddaughter. She still keeps in touch. But Mansell can’t have done that to Rebecca. He wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
She didn’t answer, and Fry began to get impatient.
‘You realize we have to take this very seriously, Mrs Quinn,’ she said. ‘It’s no use protesting that your son is innocent. He was convicted by a court and served his sentence. And now we think he’s a danger to more people. We need to find him.’
Mrs Quinn seemed to gain a little more dignity.
‘I was not going to protest Mansell’s innocence,’ she said. ‘On the contrary, I’m quite sure that he was guilty of murdering Carol Proctor.’
‘You are?’
‘Yes. But you see, whatever I think, it won’t stop my son from seeking what he wants.’
‘And what’s that, Mrs Quinn?’ said Fry.
‘Retribution.’
9
Adopting his best manner with grieving members of the public, DI Hitchens turned to the Lowes. ‘Are you ready?’
Simon Lowe nodded. From Andrea, there was no visible response. But they seemed to take a step closer together, and then began to move towards the viewing window.
Andrea Lowe wore blue denims and a pearl-grey sweatshirt, with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She seemed very calm and self-contained. But Diane Fry had seen her almost step out into the traffic as she crossed the car park to get to the mortuary.
Her brother seemed the most distressed. He clung to Andrea’s hand, looking almost like an older version of her, but slightly lighter in his colouring and several inches taller. At first, Fry thought he seemed to have no strength in him for the task of identifying his mother, yet it was Simon who spoke.
‘Yes, it’s her. That’s our mother.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Simon’s voice was very low, and he hardly moved his mouth when he spoke, as if all the energy had been drained out of him. His sister said nothing, but leaned closer to the glass, as close as she could get. She dropped her brother’s hand and pressed her fingers against the window, like a small child peering into a toy shop. Her breath condensed on the glass, and she touched the patch of moisture with her forehead.
Through the window, the mortuary attendant hovered uncertainly, not sure if an identification had been made and he should now replace the sheet, or whether the bereaved relatives should be allowed a last, lingering look at the deceased.
‘Miss Lowe, are you all right?’ said Fry.
Andrea nodded, but Simon pulled her hand away from the glass and gripped it. Hitchens shuffled his feet and looked around for the family liaison officer, who was trained to deal with grieving relatives.
‘You know we’re looking for your father,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was released from prison yesterday.’
Then a strange thing happened. Simon Lowe changed colour. Fry had seen this happen to family members identifying their loved ones – but usually they turned white, or worse, an unnerving shade of green. But Simon had flushed a deep red, almost purple. Blood suffused his face and neck until he reminded Fry of the corpse of a strangulation victim who had lain on the same slab as Rebecca Lowe not many months ago.
‘If you mean Mansell Quinn,’ said Simon, ‘he’s not my father.’
‘Oh, but I thought –’
Andrea turned away from the glass at last and threw her arms round her brother, becoming the little sister in a moment. Simon took a deep breath that shuddered through air passages swollen with emotion.
‘He
‘I see,’ said Hitchens.
‘Do you?’
‘I think I understand how you feel. So if you should happen to have any idea where your … I mean, where Mr Quinn is at the moment, you would be sure to let us know?’
‘Of course we would,’ said Simon.
‘And you, madam?’
Hitchens waited politely for Andrea to reply.
‘I spoke to Mum, you know. Not long before it happened. I spoke to her on the phone, and I told her to make sure she was safe. I didn’t think she was taking the situation seriously enough. But that was Mum – she preferred to enjoy life than to worry about things all the time.’
‘We’ll want a statement from you,’ said Hitchens. ‘If you feel up to it.’
‘I’ll do it today,’ she said.
‘In the meantime …’
‘We’ll tell you anything we can think of that might help, Inspector.’
Fry noticed that it was Simon who had taken over again. Rebecca Lowe’s children clung together as though they were inseparable.
The cattle market that used to stand on the main road in Hope had been demolished. Perhaps it had lost too much business during the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001, when all livestock markets had been closed for a year. Now the site had been redeveloped for housing.
‘Mansell Quinn was given a twenty-year sentence,’ said Ben Cooper. ‘If he was refused parole, his automatic release date must have been two-thirds of the way through his sentence. That’s, er …’
‘Thirteen years and four months.’
Diane Fry looked up briefly as Cooper slowed to avoid a squirrel that darted across the road. But, as usual, she showed little interest in the scenery.
‘Why do you think he changed his story about the Carol Proctor murder?’ said Cooper. ‘All it meant was that they refused him parole and he got knocked back.’
‘There are all kinds of factors the parole board would have taken into consideration,’ said Fry. ‘They’d want to know about his plans when he got out. And he had some issues to deal with – anger problems.’
‘Right.’
Hope village lay in the centre of the valley, dominated on one side by Lose Hill and Win Hill, and on the other by the cement works. Going up the valley, the chimney of the works had been visible from as far away as the Rising Sun Inn. Its curious tower-like structure resembled the ruins of a castle, with gaping holes like empty windows in a high battlement. Behind it was the long white scar of the quarries driven deep into Bradwell Moor.