‘Thank you.’
‘What’s happening with me dad?’
‘I can’t discuss that with you,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ He stood and paced over to the window. ‘He’s my dad.’
‘I know. Connor, I wanted to ask you about a man called Stanley Keane. You know him?’
‘No,’ he scowled.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I said, didn’t I?’
‘Has anyone been to the house to see your dad since he came home?’
He groaned, hit at his head with the heels of his hands. ‘Why won’t you just get it? My dad, he’s done nothing. You’ve got to let him go.’
‘Once we’re satisfied-’ she began but he jumped in. ‘No! No!’ he shouted, stabbing his finger at her. He was off his face, wired up on something, she was sure. She could see the sweat darken his hairline.
‘You think he did those niggers, he never. He never.’ He swung away from her. The sweatshirt they’d supplied was too big for him, covering half of his hands and down to his knees.
‘We’ll see. Please, Connor, sit down.’
‘No! We won’t see,’ he mimicked her. ‘You’ve got to let him go. You haven’t got the gun, have you?’
‘What do you know about the gun?’ she said.
He sniffed, scratched the back of his head. He was stepping side to side, unable to keep still.
‘Connor? Did you see someone last night shooting at your house? You can tell me.’
He ignored her and said, ‘He wasn’t around on Friday night, he’d gone. Did he tell you that? It wasn’t him.’ He hadn’t gone far though – to Keane’s – but he was ensconced in the boozer when the murders happened, which left Stanley Keane as their key candidate.
‘We have to go by the evidence,’ Rachel said. None of which quite matched anyone. Yet.
‘You haven’t got the gun, have you?’ he said again.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Connor, I can’t talk about it, but your dad is still in custody and he’ll be there as long as we require him to be. And I’ll tell you this for nothing, he’s going back inside. He’s broken the terms of his licence.’
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Fucking bitch.’ He moved his hand quickly, behind his back, and then he had the gun. The barrel pointing straight at her. Maybe three feet between them. He couldn’t miss.
‘Put that down,’ she said, her mouth dry, sweat slicking her skin, buzzing in her ears. The gun wavered; firearms were heavy, Rachel knew. She also knew she had to keep him talking, had to engage him if she stood a hope in hell of getting out of there. ‘This isn’t going to help anyone,’ she said, ‘not your dad or you.’
‘You tell them to let him go.’ His eyes shone.
‘It doesn’t work like that, Connor.’
She was so hot, burning up, and her stomach clenched hard as rock. ‘No one will do anything while you’re holding a gun.’