One Last Breath

‘Did she make a good prison visitor?’

‘She visited him a few times, but she went less and less often, and eventually stopped going altogether.’

‘Why do you think she stopped, Mrs Quinn?’

‘At first, Rebecca said it was too difficult getting there by public transport, and she couldn’t afford taxi fares and a hotel overnight. But then she gave another version. She said she couldn’t keep up the pretence any more once Mansell was inside.’

Cooper looked up and saw Gavin Murfin go past the front window. He waved, shrugged, and signalled that he was going round to the back of the house.

‘Pretence? What pretence?’ said Fry.

Mrs Quinn shrugged very slightly, as if merely settling her T-shirt more comfortably around her shoulders. ‘Well, marriage,’ she said. ‘You know.’

‘I don’t think I understand what you mean, Mrs Quinn.’

‘I mean that she couldn’t be bothered making the effort to keep their marriage together.’

‘Ah. Not if it meant putting herself out to visit her husband in the nick?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And then they divorced.’

‘She couldn’t wait, I imagine. That’s the way things go these days. Couples don’t stand by each other, not like we used to do in my day. When we made our marriage vows, they counted for something. Now, they’re planning the divorce before they’ve swept up the confetti. It’s utter hypocrisy, in my view.’

‘You don’t think much of your former daughter-in-law?’

‘It’s not obligatory, is it?’

‘Well, no …’

‘I didn’t think she was bringing the children up very well, if you want the truth.’

‘That’s not an unusual view for grandparents to take,’ said Fry.

‘That’s as may be. But I was convinced it was the reason Simon went off the rails the way he did when the murder happened. If he’d been a more stable, disciplined child, like his sister, it might have been different. But he’d already been allowed to get into bad ways by the time he was fifteen. He was mixing with the wrong company, missing lessons at school. Drinking alcohol, even.’

‘None of that was your son’s fault, I suppose? He was Simon’s father, after all.’

‘I have my own views,’ said Enid Quinn firmly. ‘I know where I put the blame.’

Fry paused. Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper saw her give him a slight nod.

‘Mrs Quinn, your son’s former wife, Rebecca Lowe, was attacked and killed last night at her home in Aston,’ he said.

Enid Quinn could no longer keep her hands still. Unsteadily, she felt in her pocket for a handkerchief, but didn’t use it except to twist it in her fingers.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Andrea called me this morning. That’s my granddaughter. She still keeps in touch. But Mansell can’t have done that to Rebecca. He wouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

She didn’t answer, and Fry began to get impatient.

‘You realize we have to take this very seriously, Mrs Quinn,’ she said. ‘It’s no use protesting that your son is innocent. He was convicted by a court and served his sentence. And now we think he’s a danger to more people. We need to find him.’

Mrs Quinn seemed to gain a little more dignity.

‘I was not going to protest Mansell’s innocence,’ she said. ‘On the contrary, I’m quite sure that he was guilty of murdering Carol Proctor.’

‘You are?’

‘Yes. But you see, whatever I think, it won’t stop my son from seeking what he wants.’

‘And what’s that, Mrs Quinn?’ said Fry.

‘Retribution.’

9

Adopting his best manner with grieving members of the public, DI Hitchens turned to the Lowes. ‘Are you ready?’

Simon Lowe nodded. From Andrea, there was no visible response. But they seemed to take a step closer together, and then began to move towards the viewing window.

Andrea Lowe wore blue denims and a pearl-grey sweatshirt, with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She seemed very calm and self-contained. But Diane Fry had seen her almost step out into the traffic as she crossed the car park to get to the mortuary.

Her brother seemed the most distressed. He clung to Andrea’s hand, looking almost like an older version of her, but slightly lighter in his colouring and several inches taller. At first, Fry thought he seemed to have no strength in him for the task of identifying his mother, yet it was Simon who spoke.

‘Yes, it’s her. That’s our mother.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Simon’s voice was very low, and he hardly moved his mouth when he spoke, as if all the energy had been drained out of him. His sister said nothing, but leaned closer to the glass, as close as she could get. She dropped her brother’s hand and pressed her fingers against the window, like a small child peering into a toy shop. Her breath condensed on the glass, and she touched the patch of moisture with her forehead.

Through the window, the mortuary attendant hovered uncertainly, not sure if an identification had been made and he should now replace the sheet, or whether the bereaved relatives should be allowed a last, lingering look at the deceased.

‘Miss Lowe, are you all right?’ said Fry.

Andrea nodded, but Simon pulled her hand away from the glass and gripped it. Hitchens shuffled his feet and looked around for the family liaison officer, who was trained to deal with grieving relatives.

‘You know we’re looking for your father,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was released from prison yesterday.’

Then a strange thing happened. Simon Lowe changed colour. Fry had seen this happen to family members identifying their loved ones – but usually they turned white, or worse, an unnerving shade of green. But Simon had flushed a deep red, almost purple. Blood suffused his face and neck until he reminded Fry of the corpse of a strangulation victim who had lain on the same slab as Rebecca Lowe not many months ago.

‘If you mean Mansell Quinn,’ said Simon, ‘he’s not my father.’

‘Oh, but I thought –’

Andrea turned away from the glass at last and threw her arms round her brother, becoming the little sister in a moment. Simon took a deep breath that shuddered through air passages swollen with emotion.