He rubbed his face, winced as he touched his nose. ‘You hit your nose,’ Gill said. ‘I wish you’d broken something. What was it all in aid of? Can you even remember?’
‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.
‘Why?’ She was genuinely mystified.
‘To… just to see you.’
‘You were drunk,’ she said.
‘I’d had a couple-’
‘No! Just listen to yourself. It’s out of control. You’re out of control. You need help.’
He barked a laugh, humourless.
‘I don’t want you coming here, drunk. If it happens again, I will press charges.’
‘Bitch,’ he said.
White-hot rage flooded through her. It took every ounce of self-control not to fly at him, knock him off his chair. Wordlessly she took his car keys from the drawer, dropped them on the table. ‘Get out.’
‘Look, we can-’
‘Get out,’ she repeated, ‘get the fuck out and don’t come back.’
Janet felt weighed down, her movements hampered by the protective vest. They waited in cars parked outside Beaumont House, the tower block where the Perry twins lived.
Rachel yawned, which set Janet off.
‘Keep you awake, did he?’ Janet asked.
Rachel gave her a dead stare.
‘Pardon me for breathing,’ Janet said.
Word came to move in and they filed up the stairs, following the trained firearm unit in their Darth Vader outfits. Janet and Rachel stopped on the fifth-floor stairwell while the specialists went up to the next level.
They heard the thumping of the ram on the door, then the shouted instructions. ‘Police, police, get on the floor, on the floor. Lie down. Now. Hands on your head.’
A woman was yelling. ‘What’s going on? Leave them alone. Get your fucking hands off me.’
‘The mother?’ Janet said.
Once the suspects were restrained and a sweep of the flat had been done to check for booby traps, hazards and other occupants, Janet and Rachel and the search team were able to enter.
In the living room, Noel and Neil Perry had been cautioned, cuffed and were flanked by uniformed officers. They were identical: pale-blue eyes, golden-blond hair cropped close. Large square heads, bulked-up bodies. Not particularly tall, maybe five foot nine, but strong looking. They both wore striped boxers and vests. They had matching tattoos on their forearms, words in a fancy script that Janet couldn’t decipher. Pictures inked on the side of their necks.
Neither of them said a word, faces set, eyes gazing into the distance. But their mother, clad only in a sheer nightdress, was filling the silence. And then some. ‘You need a warrant,’ she said. ‘You can’t just come in here like the SAS, like a fucking militia and take people away.’