Rooney smoked the cigarette down to the butt, and lit up another. Maybe he was putting two and two together and making five, but the whole thing was just too much of a coincidence. Maybe Eric had sworn to go straight on his kid brother’s grave, but he might also have sworn some kind of revenge.
As soon as Rooney had gone, Mrs Lee Judd heaved her bulk up the worn stairs, one step at a time. She had a bed made up for herself downstairs, and hardly ever went up to the bedrooms — when any of the family stayed her daughters cleaned up there, and Eric changed his own sheets. She was frightened, not wanting to believe what Rooney had hinted at, just like she didn’t want to believe that Eric had been up to no good since he lost his job at the gallery. She’d confronted him with it when he brought home the new TV set for her birthday, and he’d flown into a rage, saying that he’d spent all his hard-earned savings to make her happy, but he could never make up to her for Tommy. She always put Tommy first, just like she’d done when they were kids, and now he was dead he still got more love and attention than she ever gave to her surviving son. She had wept, and then he had put his arms around her, crying too, saying that all he ever wanted was to make up to her for what happened to Tommy.
She was crying now, as she heaved herself up stair after stair, because deep down in her weary heart, she knew that Tommy would have done anything for Eric. Little Tommy always followed Eric around like he was some kind of hero, had started to strut about the streets in his bomber jacket, and she had been worried he was getting into trouble, with his big brother leading him by the hand.
The bedroom was untidy, dirty, with old beer cans and bottles lying everywhere, and ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts. The wardrobe door was open, revealing rows of suits and shoes, and she rifled through the dresser drawers. They were full of shirts and T-shirts, some stuffed back dirty, likewise a drawer full of underwear. On the top of the dresser was a picture of Tommy, held in his brother’s arms when he was no more than four or five, and she picked it up, kissed it, said a silent prayer for forgiveness for searching her son’s room like a thief. As she put the photograph back on the dresser, she saw a smaller top drawer, open just a fraction, and slid it open. Inside was a tangle of jewellery — watches, bracelets, rings and heavy gold pendants with thick twisted-gold chains. There were also rolls of dollars, secured with rubber bands. She eased the top drawer closed then searched the others, finding two guns, knives and more rolls of banknotes. Her bosom heaved as she drew a deep breath, standing in the untidy room with her swollen feet planted wide apart to maintain her balance. Then, helping herself along the wall, she moved out and down the stairs, one by one.
Her breath rattled in her chest as she returned to the living room, picked up the phone and dialled a telephone number written on a pad beside the phone — Kelly, Eric’s current girlfriend, whose number he had left in case of emergencies. There had been a lot of numbers over the years, always thoughtfully tucked by the phone. ‘Kelly, honey, this is Eric’s mama — he with you?’
She could hear loud music thudding in the background, heard Kelly shouting for Eric, who came quickly to the phone, his voice full of concern. ‘Mama? You sick?’
‘Yes, boy, I am. You come right home now.’ She put the phone down before he could say any more, then eased her bulk into the sagging armchair. She picked up her walking stick from the side of the chair, raised it high, and brought it down on the new TV set, smashing it repeatedly against the casing, then thrusting it with all her might into the screen. The glass cracked, and still she kept on thrashing, as if she was thrashing Eric, the way she had when they told her about Tommy. She had beaten the hell out of him then, and now she attacked the fruit of his crimes with the same violence.
The pain shot down her left arm like a red-hot iron passing through her veins, piercing her again and again. The stick dropped from her hand as her body jerked in spasms of excruciating agony, and the last thing her frightened eyes saw was the picture of her dead son, Tommy Lee Judd, shot six times by a woman detective she’d heard was a drunk.
Rooney lit a third cigarette, inhaling deeply. He’d been outside in the car a good fifteen minutes. He could be wrong, he knew, she’d said the other kids were all in good jobs, and maybe they’d bought all the fancy new domestic appliances. He leaned forward to turn on the ignition, deciding he’d call it quits for the night, and check it out in the morning.
Not five minutes after Rooney had driven off a new black-on-black Cherokee jeep with black-tinted windows screeched to a halt in Mrs Lee Judd’s drive. Eric, high on crack cocaine, ran from it and tried his keys, knocking when he found the bolts still fastened inside. He raced round to the back door, and kicked the screen door aside to see his mama lying face down, close to the fireplace, with her right hand outstretched. Just a few inches from her fingers was the framed picture of Tommy, the glass smashed to smithereens. In the last moments of her life she had tried to hold him — a last-born child is often the favourite, and Tommy had been hers.
Eric stood rooted to the spot, his head feeling as though it was on fire. He knew she was dead, that her big heart had burst in her chest, as blood oozed from her nose and mouth, and he didn’t need to feel for a pulse. Slowly he stepped over her, and bent to retrieve the broken picture. He removed the jagged pieces of glass, and set it back on the shelf, his hand shaking. He felt it was some kind of omen, a message from the grave, and one that he would obey. The bitch cop would pay for what she had done. He’d make her pay.
Rooney let himself in, and was attacked by Tiger, though the dog was clearly more motivated by affection than any desire to guard the household. Rosie had already gone to bed, and Rooney undressed, cleaned his teeth, and got into bed beside her. She turned over and propped her head on her elbow.
‘You know, you were making the floor shake. You men are all alike, creeping round the bed, then sitting on it to take off your shoes.’
‘I was trying not to wake you,’ he grumbled.
‘Well, you didn’t succeed — first bang on the front door did it. You were gone a long time.’ She stared at him, but his eyes were closed. ‘Want to talk about it?’ she asked.
He lifted one big arm up to let her snuggle in beside him, then drew her closer. ‘I may be wrong, and I hope to God I am, but I think Lorraine may have a problem. You know the kid she shot? In a drug raid?’
‘Yeah, I know about him.’
Rooney sighed. ‘Well, he’s got a brother, and this brother worked for the Nathan gallery, sort of handy-man-cum-driver-cum-delivery. Kid’s been out of work since the gallery went up in smoke — and I just feel uneasy about it. Could be him making the phone calls. I kind of gave his mother a bit of a warning to back off just in case I’m right, that he’s gonna try and take some kind of revenge on Lorraine.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Yep. There were another twenty-odd calls on her answerphone and one had what sounded like gunfire, six shots. She pumped the same amount into Tommy Lee Judd.’
‘What you going to do?’
He sighed again. ‘I’ll talk to Burton, maybe see if he can sort it out, or run a check on the guy.’
Rosie lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. ‘How did you find all this out?’