Last Goodbye_An absolutely gripping murder mystery thriller

by Arlene Hunt

  Somebody rested a hand on her shoulder, pushed her back down. She tried to bat it away.

  Then Quinn was there. She tried to focus on him, could see his mouth moving. After a few tries, she shook her head, pointed to her ears. Over his shoulder she could see Roxy Malloy standing on the patchy grass. She was crying, tears tracking streaks through the dirt on her face.

  Dazed, Miranda lifted her hand to the side of her head. Her fingers came away bloody. Blood was running down her face from somewhere in her scalp. She turned her head in the opposite direction and witnessed something that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

  A firefighter was kneeling on the grass, working on Cora. He moved from chest compressions to mouth-to-mouth and back to compressions. Miranda watched, feeling useless. Lights flashed, more people arrived, paramedics. Everyone was showered in dust and debris; the air was full of particles and white dust. Still the man worked, mouth, chest, mouth, chest.

  Someone leaned over Miranda and began to speak to her. Miranda blinked slowly, tried to concentrate, tried to force her mind to work, to think.

  The man shone a light in her eyes, held up a finger. She tried to follow it as best she could, but it blurred and she was no longer sure what she was supposed to do.

  More people came. A woman with a ponytail put a different mask over her face and a brace around her neck. Another man helped slide her onto a stretcher. The first man was gesturing to them, then to her. She could still see Quinn’s mouth moving.

  Her vision began to fade, starting with the edges. She wanted to tell the man about it, thought about tapping him on the back, but she couldn’t move her arms.

  She couldn’t do anything.

  Except lose consciousness.

  * * *

  When she opened her eyes, she was lying in a hospital bed. Her mouth was dry and her head ached so badly it hurt to move her eyes.

  ‘Hey.’

  She managed to roll her eyes to the right. Quinn was sitting in a chair by her bed with a magazine on his lap. He looked filthy and exhausted. She tried a word, failed, and got it the second time.

  ‘Cora?’

  He looked at her, shook his head.

  ‘She didn’t make it.’

  Miranda closed her eyes for a long time. When she opened them again, she had only one question.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The prick had the basement rigged, booby-trapped with old gas barrels. If you’d gone in through the conservatory out back, you’d have lost your head to a shotgun blast.’

  He dug a photo from his pocket and held it up close to her face. It was of a couple, the man in his sixties, the woman much younger and unhappy-looking. Standing between them was a sullen-faced teenager. Miranda squinted, added a few years and a few pounds to the boy.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘That’s Quentin Williams, aka the Sweetheart Killer.’

  ‘He’s so young.’

  ‘We found his “manifesto” in his bedroom. The guy was a fucking crackpot.’

  ‘His manifesto?’

  ‘Nothing but reams and reams of self-obsessed weaponised misogyny. Do you know what an incel is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, me neither until now, but apparently it stands for “involuntary celibate”, shitheads who think society is to blame for their lack of a sex life, with women as the number one block to their happiness.’ Quinn shook his head. He looked angry and a little sickened. ‘I’ve been reading this guy’s crap since yesterday; messed up doesn’t even begin to cover it. He was escalating, too, Samantha Mullins was supposed to be his final single “rose”; he was planning to keep her, can you believe that? Like she was some kind of sexual pet. I mean, this guy was off the charts. If you and Simmons hadn’t …’ He looked away. ‘You did it, Miranda, you stopped this guy, you and Simmons.’

  Miranda closed her eyes, saw the look on Cora’s face; heard her say, ‘Sergeant?’ before she fell.

  She did not open her eyes again until she was sure Quinn had left.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The house was easy to find. The old man from the local shop who had given Roxy directions had been spot on.

  It was a small cottage surrounded by gorse at the end of a short lane, overlooking a rocky field that sloped down towards the Atlantic.

  Roxy parked the car, got out and took a lungful of fresh sea air. Gulls screamed overhead and swooped below road level, riding eddies and gusts, effortless in their movements.

  She walked up the short path and knocked on the door. She heard footsteps approaching and held up her ID.

  The fear in Delia Shawcross’s eyes was a visceral thing, and it bloomed the moment she opened the door and saw her standing there.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t talk now, I was about to go out.’

  She tried to close the door, but Roxy blocked it with her foot.

  If Quinn had been here, he might have tried reason, empathy, charm, flattery: all the gifts he had at his disposal, all the things it took to be a detective. Roxy knew right at that moment that she had none of those things. But she had other skills, like persistence, doggedness and physicality.

  ‘Delia, you do have to talk to me; you need to talk to me.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’

  Roxy hardened her voice. ‘You’ll notice I’m not in uniform, but if that’s how you want to play it, we can do that, get a judge involved and make this official. I can go away and come back with a colleague or two, a squad car the neighbours can gawk at, and a social worker for young Charlie. Do you want that?’

  Hearing Roxy utter her son’s name was like a slap. Delia’s head jerked backwards, her eyes grew wide, her expression changed from one of anger to resignation.

  ‘That is not fair,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  They stood, neither budging. Roxy heard a blackbird singing in the still bare branches of the tree behind her. Spring was coming, rebirth.

  With a defeated moan, Delia opened the door, ushering Roxy into a hall with wooden beams in the ceiling, limestone tiles on the floor. She wrapped her mauve cardigan tight around her body. She was thin, a little gaunt. She looked like someone who didn’t eat much, didn’t sleep much, someone weighed down by unspoken burdens.

  The kitchen to the rear of the house was a surprise. Roxy had been expecting something poky and dark, cottagey. Instead she entered a double-height room with an exposed brick wall at one end, a hi-tech ultra-modern kitchen at the other. Then again, she thought as she reassessed her thoughts, Delia could probably afford it.

  She took a seat at the granite-topped island and watched as Delia walked to the double fridge, opened one side and pulled out a bottle of white wine.

  ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have one?’

  ‘It’s your house.’

  Delia made a strange sound, but she got a glass off a shelf, poured a very healthy measure and gulped half of it down immediately. Once she’d taken a second mouthful, she looked at Roxy with less fear and a lot more loathing.

  ‘Where’s your son?’

  ‘He’s upstairs, asleep.’

  ‘You realise that if you lie to me, Delia, I’ll get a court order for Charlie’s DNA. I don’t need much: a cheek swab, some of his hair with the root intact.’

  ‘You’re a bitch, you know that?’

  ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  Delia gulped her wine and refilled her glass.

  ‘How did you find me anyway?’

  ‘Charlie’s vaccination records. You used your mother’s maiden name.’

  ‘Shit.’ Delia shook her head. ‘I was never very good at subterfuge.’

  Roxy leaned forward, resting her arms on the granite.

  ‘Charlie is Gregory Milton’s son, isn’t he? The TV shrink?’

  Delia’s look could have stopped a charging bull elep
hant.

  ‘No, he’s my son.’

  ‘Immaculate conception, was it?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘You were Milton’s PR before Andrea.’

  ‘So what?’

  Did you have an affair with Milton? Did it go bad? Is that why you quit Albas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what was it then? A one night stand?’

  Delia took another drink and closed her eyes. Her hand holding the glass was shaking.

  ‘Look Delia, I wouldn’t be here if I had another option. Andrea Colgan was your friend, now she’s dead and I’m trying to understand why. Talk to me, Delia. Tell me what you know. What happened between you and Milton?’

  Delia pulled out a chair and sat down. After a moment she lowered her head.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Roxy got to her feet. ‘The hard way then.’

  ‘No – please don’t do this.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s my job.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Delia glanced at the ceiling, took a long deep breath. ‘You’re a real bitch.’

  ‘So you said.’

  By the time she was done, Delia had finished the wine, though she showed no signs of drunkenness. She stared at Roxy, holding the stem of the empty glass in her right hand, her eyes clear.

  ‘He’s a rapist,’ Roxy said, disgusted.

  ‘He doesn’t see it like that.’

  ‘Bullshit. Sex without consent is rape.’

  ‘How do you prove you didn’t give consent?’ Delia glanced at her sourly. ‘You don’t understand. Gregory Milton is a flirt, he’s charming, you think he’s on your side, you think he’s your friend.’ She shook her head. ‘Next thing you know you wake up naked with no idea how you got there.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report him?’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To us.’

  Delia laughed bitterly.

  ‘It would be my word against his. Please, I’ve seen what happens to women who accuse men like Milton of rape.

  ‘You must have known he’d carry on attacking women.’

  Delia looked down into her empty glass.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I found out I was pregnant.’

  ‘With Charlie.’

  ‘Right, I knew right away it was because of him. Declan… Declan couldn’t have children.’

  ‘You decided to go ahead with the pregnancy.’

  ‘Charlie is innocent in all this, none of this is his fault.’

  ‘Why does he do it?’ Roxy wanted to know. ‘He’s rich, famous, good-looking if you like that kind of thing. I don’t get it.’

  ‘The man is a monster,’ Delia said, emphasising the word. ‘When I confronted him he told me I was delusional, that I’d come on to him. He likes it, he likes the power. He likes knowing he has implanted his seed, he likes knowing his progeny are out there.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many children he’s fathered?’

  She shook her head. ‘How would I know? He’s fifty-five. God knows how long he’s been doing this.’

  ‘Tell me what happened when you went to Dy Anderson.’

  Delia looked away.

  ‘That was the worst part. I thought … Dy was always talking about the company as family, I really thought he would support me, I thought he’d … he’d do something about Milton.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Sure, look around you. This is my reward for not saying anything; this is my gilded prison. Do you like it?’

  Upstairs a child began to cry.

  Delia stood up, brushed her hand back from her forehead and straightened her shoulder.

  ‘My son needs me, Sergeant. I’m sure you can find your own way out.’

  ‘I’m not leaving without Charlie’s DNA.’

  ‘After everything I told you, you’re going to push this further?’

  Roxy got to her feet too.

  ‘After everything you told me I’m going to make sure that bastard never has an opportunity to hurt another woman again.’ She looked grim. ‘This is not a negotiation, Delia. Don’t worry, I know, I’m a bitch.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Ever since she was a kid, Roxy had hated the media, an industry that seemed to thrive so magnificently on the misery of others.

  But now, as she watched the clip of Gregory Milton being led by Quinn to a waiting squad car, surrounded by a horde of photographers, she allowed herself a smile.

  ‘I like that you parked the car across the street, sir: gave the scrum plenty of time to take pictures.’

  ‘That was your collar,’ Quinn said. ‘Should have been you taking the pervert down. You got the DNA match from Delia Shawcross’s son so we could match it against Andrea Colgan’s foetus. He’d never have given his consent, that’s for sure. It would have dragged on through the courts for ever.

  She glanced at him; he was sitting in a chair, feet up on the desk, eating something … something that looked disgusting.

  ‘What are you eating?’

  ‘This?’ He waved the offending article. ‘It’s a coddle wrap.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Jaysus, Malloy, and I thought you were a Dub.’

  ‘I am a Dub.’

  ‘And you don’t know what coddle is? What’s the world coming to at all?’

  The incident room door opened and Gussy’s secretary Nancy stuck her head through the gap.

  ‘Sergeant Malloy? The superintendent would like a word.’

  Roxy glanced at Quinn.

  ‘Don’t keep the man waiting.’

  Gussy was scribbling away when she entered.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Malloy, there you are, come in, come in, sit down.’

  Roxy sat.

  ‘I saw the news.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Gussy’s moustache twitched as he leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I also saw your report.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You want to arrest Dy Anderson, am I correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I believe he killed Andrea Colgan.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that. Though I find it hard to understand when your colleague hauled Gregory Milton in for the exact same crime.’

  ‘I believe I’m wrong. Not about Milton being a rapist, but about him being a killer.’

  ‘The evidence says otherwise. You know we found Andrea’s phone and laptop after a search of his home.’

  ‘Yes, how convenient.’ Roxy looked at Gussy and spread her hands in exasperation. ‘Sir, there’s something wrong here. I can feel it.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’ Gussy rubbed his forehead. ‘What more evidence do you need, Sergeant? A recording of Milton committing the act itself?’

  ‘No, but—’

  Gussy held up a hand. ‘It might have escaped your notice, Sergeant, but what you have on your hands right now is a win. Your colleagues will benefit from it, you will benefit from it, and I will benefit from it. You had your detractors and you proved them wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘Even the Commissioner is happy.’

  ‘Oh that will surely help me sleep better at night.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Sergeant.’

  ‘My apologies.’

  ‘You need to learn how to choose your battles and take your victories where you find them.’

  ‘Where in the Bible does it say that?’

  Gussy picked up his pen. ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant, your request is denied. Do close the door on your way out.’

  She left.

  Downstairs, Miranda Lynn had arrived on crutches. She was still technically off duty, but nobody dared give her a hard time about being there.

  ‘Hey,’ Roxy said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Getting there. Sore, still a little deaf, you know.’

  ‘Sure, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Miranda looked down, took a breath. ‘Quinn said you went to Cora’s funeral.’


  ‘I did,’ Roxy said, softening her voice.

  ‘I wanted to be there.’

  ‘I know, Miranda. Her family understood.’

  ‘They sent me flowers in the hospital, can you believe that?’

  ‘They seem like nice people.’

  Miranda lowered herself carefully onto a chair.

  ‘She was a good person, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I should have made her wait outside.’

  Roxy put her hands in her pockets.

  ‘I knew Officer Simmons, Sergeant. When she made her mind up about something, nothing on this earth would have changed it.’

  They were silent for a moment.

  ‘How did it go with Gussy?’ Miranda asked. ‘Quinn said you have reservations about the Colgan killing.’

  ‘I’m not to rock the win-win boat.’ Roxy threw herself into her chair and kicked it backwards until it rolled to a stop at the wall.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Miranda said, ‘he’s probably right.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘You have a guilty man bang to rights with evidence he cannot deny. If you introduce doubt, there’s a possibility that a good barrister could use it and get Milton off, and no guarantee Anderson would be charged with anything at all.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ Miranda smiled. ‘You don’t see yourself, do you, Malloy?’

  ‘Rhetorical question, does anyone?’

  ‘Most people are self-aware to a certain degree, but not you.’

  Roxy sighed. ‘What have I done or not done to warrant another of your lectures?’

  ‘You think that’s what I do? Lecture?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Maybe I do. It’s how I make my thoughts known.’ Miranda struggled to her feet again. ‘You won, Sergeant Malloy. If you don’t do something stupid in the meantime, Gussy will rubber-stamp your promotion because of this. Milton’s been kicked off his show, his reputation is in tatters. He’s not in a position of power any longer. He’ll do jail time, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Not for me.’ Roxy said. ‘Not even close.’

  ‘You’ll learn,’ Miranda said, and hobbled towards the door. ‘Pick your battles, Sergeant, it’s the only way to survive.’