‘About Redmond Delaney…’ he said.
‘What about him?’
‘You thought he was a priest, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dream on.’
‘What?’
‘He was defrocked about a year ago.’
‘For what?’ All sorts of nasties went crawling through Annie’s brain at that point. She knew both Redmond and his twin Orla had been a target for abuse from his brothers Tory and Pat. She knew too that the abused sometimes become abusers in their turn. ‘Not kids?’ she said.
‘Kids? You’re joking. No, it was a shitload of his female parishioners. Sounds like Redmond was like the Pied Piper to ‘em, only using his dick instead of a flute. Liked to beat the crap out of them, too. Enjoyed it, they say.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not yet, but I’m on it – I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Go easy.’
‘Easy’s my middle name.’
Annie was sitting in the big gold-leather-padded porter’s chair in a corner of the hall at one, waiting for Tony. When the bell rang, she got to her feet and answered the door with a smile.
‘Hiya, Tone,’ she said.
Tony just turned and led the way to the Jag. Opened the back door. Annie got in. He waited a moment while she settled herself, then he closed it. Got behind the wheel.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
Annie pulled the slip of paper with the address out of her pocket and handed it to him. He glanced at it, said: ‘OK,’ put the car in first, and they were off.
‘Nice day,’ said Annie.
Tony grunted.
‘That’s what I like about you, Tone. No annoying fucking small talk.’
He didn’t comment; he knew she was taking the piss.
‘Can I just say something?’
‘You can say anything you like,’ said Tony, his eyes on the road. ‘Mr Carter’s asked me to do this, so I’m doing it.’
‘Under protest, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I thought you knew me, Tone.’
‘Yeah.’ His eyes flicked up to the mirror, met hers, then flicked away. ‘I thought that, too.’
Annie said no more. Tony might be doing this under protest, but if Max had told him to do it, then he would, and he would provide major back-up if she needed it, whether he approved or not. She settled back and enjoyed the ride, inhaling the scent of clean polished leather and Tony’s pungent aftershave.
It was almost like the old days.
Except it wasn’t, and would never be again, because her whole world was in ruins and her marriage was over.
Sunnybrook was an imposing Victorian brick mansion with fancy fretworked eaves. Its frontage looked on to a tarmac car park and the drive up to the house was half a mile long. Once the home of a wealthy family, it had been sold off and converted to a nursing home.
Someone had thrown a lot of money into the conversion, Annie could see that the minute she walked in through the crisply red-painted doors. The carpet was also red, and immaculately clean. The woodwork on the vast staircase was old, well-buffed mahogany. It smelled fine in here, of polish and air freshener, and there were fake floral arrangements dotted about the place to brighten the look of it.
A brisk young woman with a dark ponytail and wearing a light blue smock instantly appeared.
‘You’re Mrs Carter?’ she asked.
Annie said yes she was.
‘I’m Helen. This way then,’ she said, and took her up in a lift two floors, to Sandy Farrell’s room.
As they travelled upward, the girl said: ‘I look after Sandy. He’s not been at all well. He’s had three really serious strokes, and I’m afraid they’ve left him unable to speak. But we do communicate.’
How? wondered Annie, her heart sinking. Was she wasting her time coming here? She’d phoned ahead, made sure it was OK to visit, saying she was a friend of the family – well, she was a friend of Dolly’s, so it was more or less true. Sarah had told her not to break the news to Sandy about Dolly, and she had no intention of doing that. Why the hell would she burden him with anything so tragic?
‘Hiya, Sand,’ said the girl, leading Annie into the room.
Fuck, thought Annie as she met Sandy Farrell for the first time.
He was sitting lopsided in a high-backed chair beside a hospital bed, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. He couldn’t be much over forty, but he looked weak as gnat’s piss, with sharp cheekbones jutting against yellowish skin. His hair was crew-cut, pale brown fading to grey. His eyes were like Dolly’s, exactly the same shade of blue. There the similarity ended. Dolly had been robust, a little bulldog of a woman. This man, with his twisted mouth and vacant stare, was just the opposite.
‘Visitor for you,’ said Helen. ‘This is Mrs Carter, she’s a friend of your family’s.’
Nothing.
There was a lovely view out of the window, a big emerald lawn in front of a forest of dark pines, but Sandy wasn’t looking at that; he wasn’t looking at anything. He was just staring at the wall, making no sound, no movement.
Jesus, thought Annie. Poor bastard.
Helen, still smiling, took a small notebook out of her pocket, and a pencil, and indicated that Annie should sit on the bed beside her. Annie did. Then Helen said: ‘Will you say hello, then, Sand? How about an H?’
Sandy blinked once with his left eye.
‘And an E?’
Another blink. Same eye.
Helen turned her smiling face on Annie. ‘You see? We can chat like this.’
Annie took a breath. OK then. ‘Hello, Sandy,’ she said.
There was no reaction, nothing at all. But he’d just said hello to her, so they were talking. In a way.
‘Sandy, I wanted to ask you about your dad. I know there was an accident. On the railway.’ Annie turned her head and looked at Helen. ‘Is this OK? I don’t want to upset him.’
‘Sandy?’ asked Helen.
Sandy blinked his left eye.
‘That means it’s all right,’ said Helen. ‘But why do you want to know about that?’
‘Sandy’s sister Sarah told me about the accident, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I’m hoping Sandy will.’
Helen frowned at Annie. ‘I’m not sure…’ Then she looked at Sandy.
‘All I want to know is, does he know the name of the train driver. That’s all.’
Helen sat poised, pencil in hand. ‘I’m not sure about this. If it upsets Sandy at all, then I’m stopping. All right?’
‘That’s fine,’ said Annie.
Helen nodded. ‘A?’ she said to Sandy.
Sandy blinked his left eye.
‘B?’ asked Helen.
Nothing.
Helen carried on, right through the alphabet until she came to R.
Sandy blinked. Helen wrote down AR.
She went through the alphabet again and came to T. Sandy blinked.
‘Arth,’ said Annie. ‘Arthur?’
Sandy blinked his left eye.
‘And his surname?’ Annie asked.
‘A,’ said Helen. Nothing. ‘B?’ Sandy blinked his left eye. ‘B then,’ said Helen. ‘A, B, C…’ Helen talked on until she reached I, then Sandy blinked. Helen carried on, and finally they had it. The name of the driver at the controls of the engine on the day of Sam Farrell’s death was Arthur Biggs.
‘Is there anything else he can tell me?’ asked Annie.
Helen started again. ‘A?’ she asked. Nothing. ‘B? C? D?’
Sandy blinked his left eye.
‘D then. A? B? C? D? E?’
Blink.
‘DE. A?’
Another blink.
‘A again?’ asked Helen. ‘B? C? D?’
Sandy blinked his left eye.
Annie and Helen stared at the notebook.
Helen had printed there in capital letters: ARTHUR BIGGS.
Below that, she’d printed DEAD.
Annie stared at it, and then looked at Sandy and said one word: ‘How?’
Sandy came back with the answer. Annie gazed at the notebook.
It said HANGED.