Angel of Death

They prowled around the locked gates, some tried to climb over the walls, cameramen with long distance lenses took photos of the house, reporters peered up the drive, shouting his name.

But Terry was upstairs in his bedroom, taking off his clothes. He had a long, hot bath for half an hour, feeling the warmth seeping into his chilled flesh, staring at nothing, listening to the distant uproar which the press were making outside.

When he climbed out he put on a towelling robe, brushed back his wet hair, and made a phone call to the local police.

His son might have been charged with murder, but Terry had always had a good relationship with them, contributed to their benefit society, bought tickets for the police ball, gone along to watch them play rugby at the police sports ground.

They arrived quite promptly. He watched from upstairs as they talked to the reporters, wondering exactly what they were saying.

The other cars moved off after a few minutes. Soon there was only the police car left. The uniformed officers rang the bell. Terry opened the gates electronically, went down to the front door to talk to them. He knew them both. Decent guys, polite and sympathetic.

‘They will probably camp outside your gates, Mr Finnigan, we can’t stop them parking on the highway, but they won’t invade your grounds, we made it clear that we wouldn’t stand for them trespassing. You’ll be all right, so long as you don’t leave the house.’

‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much, I’m very grateful to you.’

They drove away and he went into the kitchen to make himself supper. First, he pulled down all the blinds so that nobody could watch him. He heated up some vegetable soup and ate it at the kitchen table, listening to the radio. The programme played old pop classics, songs he knew and remembered from his youth. It seemed so long ago, a place he had visited once, briefly. He had thought he was happy. Now, with hindsight, he saw he had merely been content enough.

He had never been happy. Never, in his whole life, except the day Sean was born and he thought he had glimpsed a future for them.

The future was never within sight, though. You never saw what was coming, and just as well, or you wouldn’t want to live to meet it.

He made himself a toasted sandwich – filling it with grated cheese and brown pickle. Comfort food, reminding him of his childhood. His mother had made these sandwiches at the fire, on a long-handled toasting fork, first toast, then cheese inside, then she pressed them together and cut them into triangles. He had loved them. He had loved his mother. But he had to get away from the sordid muddle of that life. He had escaped to safety and reassurance, had thought he would always be safe.

You never were.

The phone rang; he answered it warily, afraid it would be the press, but it wasn’t. It was Francis Belcannon, sounding harsh and angry.

‘My daughter is breaking off this engagement, she’ll send her ring back to your son. Just make sure you keep our names out of this. I don’t want to see my daughter splashed all over the gutter press, is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ Terry wearily said. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Francis . . .’

Belcannon hung up so violently that Terry’s ears were almost shattered.

Well, he couldn’t blame the man. That poor girl, how she must be suffering; she had loved Sean. Why, why, why, couldn’t Sean have loved her, been faithful to her?

A sob choked in his throat. The engagement was over; there would be no marvellous marriage. Sean had killed that girl for nothing. Had murdered his own child for nothing.

The phone shrilled again. He sat staring at it, not wanting to talk to anyone, but eventually picked it up again.

This time it was Bernie. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days. Where have you been?’

‘Greece.’

‘Ah.’ A significant pause. ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Did you deal with your local problem?’

‘Yes.’ Another pointless, stupid death. He regretted Miranda almost as much as he did his dead grandchild. He had liked Miranda; had liked and admired her. She was beautiful and good at her job. She hadn’t deserved what happened to her.

None of this need ever have happened.

‘Well, good,’ Bernie said briskly. ‘Now, my boys tell me we would do well to move into your line of business, they were very impressed by what they saw. We need to have a meeting, soon, to discuss terms.’

Whose terms? Terry thought with dreary resignation. The last thing he wanted was to have a partner forced on him, to lose control of the business he had taken years to build up.

But to fight Bernie would use up energy he needed to fight for Sean.