Well, did it matter? Did anything really matter? Sometimes she thought someone beating the crap out of her might do her some good.
She remained on the sofa, staring philosophically at Suzy, wondering if she had a similar attitude to life. Despite the heavy foundation, the bruise on her cheek still shone through. Why would she put herself through that? Why would any sane woman stay loyal to a violent nutcase like Tommy Glover?
‘What are you doing to my mother?’
Shane Carling. Eighteen years old and straining to fill the shoes of the man of the house. Still baby-faced but attempting to counter the apparent innocence with a scalp of stubble and a tattoo of three swords on his neck. Now getting gobby like he always did. He stood in the doorway, jabbing his finger at the detectives while the unintimidated Marcel blocked his path and itched for an excuse to get him in an armlock and call for a van.
‘We’re having a quiet chat,’ Hannah told him. ‘Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.’
‘Quiet chat, my arse,’ Suzy said. ‘They’re accusing me again. I want them out!’
‘You heard her,’ Shane said. He tried to take a step forward, but Marcel didn’t budge. Shane’s glower became increasingly aggressive, but it was no match for Marcel’s unwavering stare.
Hannah kept her voice flat, calm. ‘We’re not accusing you of anything. Can we have a proper adult conversation now, please?’
Suzy mulled it over. Gradually, the tension drained from her and she lowered herself onto her chair. Shane and Marcel continued their staring match, like championship boxers at a weigh-in.
Realising she had just stubbed out her cigarette, Suzy picked up a carton from the table, but discovered it was empty.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ She looked across at her son. ‘Fetch me some cigarettes, lad.’
Shane seemed relieved at the excuse to break eye contact. ‘Ma . . .’
She waved him away. ‘It’s all right. Let them say their piece and go. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘Where are your cigs?’
She snapped again. ‘I don’t bloody know. Try my bedroom. One of my bags. Use your head.’
Shane took one last glance at Marcel before disappearing upstairs. Hannah gained the impression he was more scared of his own mother than he was of the police officer.
She turned back to Suzy. ‘We’re not trying to make life difficult for you, but you don’t seem to appreciate how dangerous Tommy is.’
‘He’s not dangerous. Not to me. He loves me.’
Ah, Hannah thought. So there it is. Love. Everything can look brighter through the prism of love.
‘You’ve heard what he did to Marie, haven’t you? That was his fiancée. The woman he once loved. We don’t know if she’s ever going to come out of hospital. And even if she does, she’ll never be the same.’
Suzy turned away as if she didn’t want to hear any more, but Hannah pressed on.
‘Did you know he insisted on getting the engagement ring back? And when she refused, he attacked her. And when she still refused, he cut off her finger to get it. That’s the kind of man your Tommy is. That’s what he does to the women he claims to love.’
Suzy’s head was still turned to the side, but there was a discernible tremble in her lower lip.
‘Where the hell is he with those ciggies?’ she said. ‘I’m gasping here.’
Hannah watched her for a few seconds, allowing her words to percolate further into Suzy’s brain. If the woman could see sense, if she could just allow herself to step back and see the danger she was in . . .
And then there was a movement in the corner of Hannah’s eye. At another doorway, leading to the kitchen.
She was standing there, as pretty as a field of flowers. Only eight years old. A sunshine smile that seemed to fill the room with bird-song. She was wearing her school uniform: bottle-green sweater, black skirt, shiny black shoes, and white socks pulled up tight and precisely aligned below her kneecaps. As always, a lock of her hair had escaped to coil between her eyes.
And then she was gone, retreating into the depths of the kitchen.
Hannah stood, moved towards the kitchen. She couldn’t help herself.
‘Hey!’ Suzy said. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Hannah heard the voice but couldn’t stop. From behind her came further protestations from Suzy, then words from Marcel as he tried to hold the woman back. It was all just background noise to Hannah now.
The kitchen was empty. The back door was open, admitting a broad wedge of warm September sunshine, but there was no sign of anyone in the garden.
Hannah surveyed the room. Finger-stained cupboards, one absent its door. The washing machine thrumming its motor and sloshing its contents. A basin full of soapy water. A precarious mountain of dishes on the draining board . . .
The voices grew louder. Shane pounded downstairs again and joined the commotion. Marcel had his hands full back there.
She took a step closer to the sink . . .
Something winked at her. A brief glint of brilliance. Like a light-bulb moment. Hannah could almost hear the ding in her head.
Yes. There. Evidently, Suzy had been washing the dishes when they’d arrived. Hannah remembered her drying her hands on that grubby towel. And in preparation for the task, she had removed her ring.
It rested on a window ledge above the sink. Rose gold, with a bulbous central blue stone surrounded by smaller white gems. Exactly as she had seen it in the crime reports.
This ring had belonged to Tommy Glover’s fiancée, before he hacked it from her hand.
Tommy had been here.
