Authors: Debbie Johnson

Fear No Evil (39 page)

BOOK: Fear No Evil

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Rose and Roger Middlemas had come. I suppose I should have expected nothing less.

‘Thank you,’ she said, cornering me afterwards as I pretended interest in a plate of vol-au-vents. ‘For everything you’ve done. It hasn’t brought Joy back, but at least we know we did what we could for her, and that nobody else will meet the same fate. We wish we could thank Tish as well. She sounded like a wonderful person, and our only regret is that she became involved in this because of us.’

No. Not because of you, Rose, I thought. Because of me. I shook away the guilt. If I let it take hold, it would wash me away like a tsunami, and I’d fall to the floor there and then, on the shagpile carpet in Mr and Mrs Landry’s front room. I was holding a glass of red wine, and it’d leave a terrible stain.

More unexpected had been the presence of Wigwam, with Lorraine Connelly on his arm. They’d been to the service at the church, and to the graveside, but wisely opted out of the reception at home. They wouldn’t exactly fit in. Wigwam had nodded once to me as he left, brown eyes unreadable. Gangster boy in a suit, glamorous blonde for eye candy. On the surface at least.

Betty was there, with Justin and Adam. Alec made an appearance. Tish’s friends, from school, from the newspaper. From her bloody hairdressers. They’d probably experienced a sharp fall in profits. My mum and dad and the rest of my family, grieving themselves but keeping a careful eye on me as well. And Dan was there, too.

He approached, tall and lean in black, chatted to Mr and Mrs Middlemas until we’d all run out of small talk. There’s only so much polite conversation that can be had at the funeral of a thirty-four-year-old woman who died to expose a corrupt multi-millionaire business tycoon. Without slipping into the territory of ghosts and ghouls and pacts with Satan of course, which really wasn’t appropriate. Not with a drunk geriatric priest on the premises.

Dan took my arm, steered me outside to the front garden. It was raining. Again. We sheltered in the porch, and I drained the remainder of my wine.

‘So,’ he said, still holding on to my hand. ‘How are you doing?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ I replied. ‘How was it this morning?’

He’d been round all the Deerborne buildings, including Hart House, with Father Kerrigan. Held a small service for the children who’d died all that time ago. We were still debating whether we should try and track down any of their descendants – I said no, he said maybe. Seemed like yet another of those things we’d have to agree to disagree on.

The BMW and its cash-rich contents had been dispatched to Father K, via Dan. I did wonder whether he’d refuse it. Even though Dan gave him a let-out clause, by not telling him its history, Duane was presumably not a stupid man and could figure out it came from a less-than Christian source. But the clergy are nothing if not pragmatic – and a lot of good could be done with the proceeds of a little bad.

Both Doe Hall and the Stag Building were now up for sale, due to Will Deerborne’s sudden reversal in fortunes. Following his confession to the police two days earlier, he was going to be needing all his spare cash to keep him in ciggies and phone cards.

I never thought for a minute that he’d do it, but I suppose there’d been enough humanity there for my impassioned speech, or possibly the lurking threat of more close encounters with canine faeces, to push him over the edge and into the waiting arms of Alec Jones. The collar of the century for the lovely D.I.

I’d also found out, though he wouldn’t tell me exactly what he’d said, that Dan had visited him for a heart-to-heart. Not quite a confessional, but he was playing by the same rules and staying silent. It had been the very next day that Alec had called to let me know about Will’s decision to tell all. I had the sneaking suspicion that Dan had, quite literally, put the fear of God into Will Deerborne – and I could think of no one better suited to receive it. Bullying in the name of the Lord was just fine by me.

It had been all over the telly, the radio, the papers. Will Deerborne’s life, as he knew it, was over. It didn’t bring Tish back – but it took away some of the acid gnawing at my stomach. He was locked up, and that made me feel better.

‘It was good,’ Dan replied, his eyes searching mine. ‘I felt nothing there any more. I believe they’re gone, that they’re in…’

‘A better place? I’m glad about that. It couldn’t get much worse for them, could it? And I’m glad about Will. I’m just struggling with the whole… forgiveness thing, I suppose. Does it ever come easy?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘If it was easy, everybody would be doing it, not just us superhero types. And forgiving yourself is the hardest thing of all.’

Emily again, always there, like an open wound.

‘Do you believe in ghosts, Dan?’ I asked.

‘Am I really the right person to answer that question?’ he said, smiling.

‘Probably not. You believe in bloody anything. But… I think Tish is still around somewhere. And I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help hoping she is. That I’ll see her again some day.’

He nodded, took my glass away and placed it on the step.

‘Come on,’ he said, pulling me away down the driveway. ‘We need to talk. About our new enterprise.’

‘What new enterprise?’ I asked, glancing back over my shoulder. I really shouldn’t be walking out on Tish’s funeral like this, but I was choking in there and he knew it.

‘The new enterprise we’re about to plan. You know? The one where you use your super-sleuth detective skills, and I use my unrivalled knowledge of things that go bump in the night? Protecting the unprotected and battling evil through the power of prayer and picking locks?’

‘Oh,’ I replied, climbing into the passenger seat of his van. ‘That new enterprise. And where exactly are we going to have this conversation?’

‘Well, in the pub. Obviously,’ he said, giving me a grin that could melt Antarctica as he started up the engine.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debbie Johnson is a former journalist who lives and works in Merseyside. After a lifetime of reading crime, romance and fantasy, she now writes all three.
Fear No Evil
is Debbie’s first novel featuring private detective Jayne McCartney, drawing inspiration from both the city of Liverpool and her own time working in the local media. Although Debbie has never been a private eye herself, she is extremely nosy, and likes to piece together her own versions of reality by eavesdropping on conversations, watching people at the bus stop across the road, and imagining crime scenes as she walks her dog. Because it’s always the people who walk the dogs who find the bodies. Find out more at
www.debbiejohnsonauthor.com

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