Norman Hastings, on his knees before his wife, had sworn on the Bible that no one else knew, that he had never done it before. But she knew he had, because of all the clothes. She found more in the garage, more wigs and shoes. She had burnt everything.
Rooney asked, ‘This photographer... do you think he might have had the same inclinations?’
‘He was homosexual, but after I found Norman, I refused ever to go to him again.’
Rooney took out his notebook. ‘What’s his name?’
She wrung her hands. ‘Dear God, this won’t come out, will it? His parents are elderly — all his friends, his daughters — please tell me this will never come out?’
Rooney promised he would do his best to keep it from being disclosed to the press. He was lying. The photographer’s name was Craig Lyall; she even supplied his studio and home address.
Rooney walked down the immaculate path from the tidy little house, and crossed to his car. The big-eared wonder had been right — now he had a lot more to go on. He suddenly remembered Lorraine Page again, and the Laura Bradley case. He recalled how shocked she had been at the normality of the house and family of the brutalized, abused child. He looked back at the Hastings house, and suddenly it wasn’t so neat or tidy and homely. He felt deeply sorry for the man, trapped in that perfect little prison. For the first time he also felt an odd compassion for Lorraine Page; she had been a crack officer all those years ago. What a terrible waste.
‘Lorraine! Lorraine! We’re leaving, did you hear? Lorraine? Rosie bellowed.
‘Okay, I’ll see you later.’ She was desperate for them both to go, wanting to take her savings and get the hell out. She was so impatient that as soon as the screen door closed she ran to her closet, and wrenched it open, falling to her knees to search for the money. She found the shoes, and then stared in disbelief at the pitiful remains of her hoard. She began hurling things out of the closet, convinced there must be some mistake. Then she sat back on her heels and punched at the door.
‘Rosie!’ she snarled.
Rosie and Jake were at the bottom of the steps when the screen door flew open. Lorraine hurled herself down the stairs, her hands splayed like claws. She grabbed Rosie by the throat. ‘Where is it?’
Jake tried to haul her off, but she thrust him back so hard that he crashed into the garbage cans. She dived at Rosie again, who was screeching at the top of her voice.
‘My money! You stole my money, you fucking bitch?
Rosie reeled back as Lorraine punched her in the face, tripped over a paving stone and fell. Lorraine sprang at her, pulling at her hair. ‘You fucking bitch! That was my money, my money — you two-faced cunt, you piece of shit... you jucker!’
People were coming out of the grocery store to watch. Lorraine was on top of Rosie now, hitting her. Jake was trying to drag her off, but nothing he did could stop Lorraine. She swiped and spat like a wild cat, and then she collapsed, kicking and pounding the road with her fists.
Rosie’s nose was bleeding, her face was scratched, her dress ripped and she was shaking with terror. She had never seen anyone so crazy, well, not when they were sober.
Jake had handled crazies and drunks, but Lorraine’s immense strength surprised him — she’d almost broken his jaw. He now hauled her to her feet and dragged her over to the steps. He turned on two gawping onlookers: ‘Show’s over, okay?’
Lorraine didn’t resist. She let Jake propel her up the stairs, and a trembling Rosie followed slowly, keeping a good distance.
Jake sat Lorraine on the sofa, then squatted back on his heels in front of her. ‘What the hell was that all about?’
Lorraine glared at Rosie. ‘Tell him!’ she shrieked.
Rosie started to cry, dabbing at her face, and Lorraine swung back her fist and caught Rosie another blow, which started her screaming. Jake prised them apart, pushing Lorraine away. Abruptly she raised her hands. ‘Okay, okay... but if she won’t tell you then I will. Every cent I’ve saved and fiickin’ worked my ass off for — she has stolen. I’ve got no more than twenty, thirty bucks left from over a thousand.’
Jake frowned. ‘Where did you get a grand from? Rob a bank, for chrissakes?’
‘What is this? An inquisition? It was my dough. She’s the one who stole it. Why not interrogate her?’
Jake stood up, ran his hand over his thinning head. ‘How much is left?’
Lorraine closed her eyes. ‘Not enough to drink myself to death, which is what I intended doing.’
‘So, you want to die. Fuck you — and your attitude. Anyone that can make a thousand bucks in less than a week gotta have somethin’ goin’ for them — unless you did pull a heist, but somehow I doubt it...’
Lorraine gave her odd squint-eyed look to Jake. ‘Okay. You want to know how I made it? Blackmail, I blackmailed a little queer bastard...’
Jake grinned. ‘Can we all have a go at him — or is it just you that’s got the information on him?’
‘It was Art, at the gallery, he’s into porno — no paintings — porno, with kids.’
Rooney walked into his office and beamed at Bean. ‘Guess what? Norman Hastings was a cross-dresser!’
Bean gaped as Rooney displayed the photographs from Craig Lyall’s studio. Norman Hastings in a blonde wig, dressed up and in full make-up, smiled with thick, glossy red lips into the camera lens. ‘Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it!’
Rooney was pleased with his efforts. He told Bean to bring in the pictures of the dead women, and Rooney held up Hastings’s photograph.
‘What if Teacher picked up Hastings? Maybe thought he was a hooker?’
Bean deflated Rooney by reminding him that Hastings was found in male clothes, so that theory was out of the window.
‘Maybe he knew him? Maybe they dressed up together?’
They were going down the maybe road again, but at least they now had a road. All Hastings’s friends would be requestioned.
‘What was the photographer like?’ Bean asked.
Rooney picked at his nose. ‘Campy, queer, probably a cross-dresser too. Best get him back in, you have a talk to him. I got so excited when he showed the photos I might have missed something.’
‘Fellows was right, wasn’t he?’ Bean mumbled. They had begun walking towards the exit when he stopped. ‘Bill, what if Helen Murphy is or was not the woman who had been attacked? Maybe we should have another interview with that woman Laura Bradley, go over everythin’ again.’
‘What did you say?’ Rooney snapped. ‘The last thing, Laura Bradley?’
Bean explained again about the two uniformed guys who had interviewed a woman at the address where the cab driver thought he had dropped off the injured woman.
‘Laura Bradley? That her name?’ Rooney stood in the corridor, blinking. He could picture that little girl, see rookie Lorraine Page’s face. ‘Check her out.’
Lorraine told Jake and Rosie the entire Art, Nula and Didi story, and described her visit to Mike. She felt drained, by them, by everything.
Jake gently touched her head, fixing a stray strand of hair. ‘You gonna come clean about that time you got a crack over the back of the head? You had money that night, too.’
‘You really are grilling me tonight, Jake, what’s with you?’
‘I just know it helps to talk things over. You still want to slit your wrists?’
She smiled. ‘Maybe not quite so much.’