Helen stared at Garratt. ‘They would be. It was my gun. It’s obvious. Someone is trying to frame me.’
‘You think so? Then I’d say they’ve done a pretty good job, Miss McCarthy.’
‘This is like some bad detective story. You have absolutely no proof, no motive, no witnesses...’
‘I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong. Just before she died, Mrs Daly told us it was you she saw at the door, you who shot at her.’
Helen’s entire body turned to ice. ‘She saidwhat?’
‘I believe you manoeuvred Mrs Daly downstairs into the basement, into a studio that was soundproofed so no one could hear the shots as you murdered her. Mr Daly told us all how you were jealous of his wife, stemming from years back—’
‘Enough! Enough! I’m calling a lawyer!’
Detective Inspector Garratt stood up. ‘Do that, Miss McCarthy, right now. You’re going to need all the help youcan get. Helen McCarthy, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sorcha Daly. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and could be used as evidence against you...’
50
London, 1986
Helen stood atop the exact slab on the terrace where they had handcuffed her wrists. She looked down. The mortar had been replaced with moss and lichen. Her anger and outrage had started here, seventeen years ago, and never for a moment had they left her.
Even at night, her dreams were colourful, filled with the media circus that had followed her arrest, and the trial, where Con Daly had broken down in tears as he told the jury that Sorcha had been three months pregnant, that Helen knew, and had therefore not only murdered his wife, but his child too.
Helen sighed. She’d never stood a chance.
Seventeen years to think and brood over who it was that had set her up so perfectly. Of course, the one person she needed was dead.
At first, she couldn’t believe that after all her kindness to Sorcha, she had accused Helen of the shooting before she died. But, as she went through the trial, and witness after witness came up to speak against her, to talk of her obsession with her business, her hard nature, the way she was always alone...her faith in human nature had disappeared completely. During her incarceration, Helen had accepted that to the outside world, she appeared callous and unsentimental. Little did everyone know that all she longed for was acceptance. If she was business-minded, it was only because, for her entirelife, she felt she had something to prove. How ironic that it had been her undoing.
She hadn’t made friends in prison, trusting no one. She’d let her guard slip with Sorcha for a short time and look what had happened.
Helen walked slowly indoors. She made her way upstairs, where the empty carcasses of her furry animals had been rearranged on the bed.
She sat down and reached for a skinny teddy.
No vendettas, no recriminations...
The words of the governor rang in her head.
Should she forget about the past, sell this house and the one in Ireland and go abroad to a place where she could start afresh?
Helen clutched the teddy to her chest.
No. Her anger was all she had to live for.
51
Derek straightened his tie. Looking in the mirror, he studied the beige suit, ten years old but stamped with the mark of expensive tailoring. It was important that appearances be kept up this afternoon.
To all the world he was still Derek Longthorne, ex-member of The Fishermen, now a successful businessman and entrepreneur.
He’d dyed his hair last night and thought it might have been a mistake. Maybe he’d used too much peroxide. His hair shone like a halo of bright yellow sunshine, highlighting his grey eyebrows and the skin that was beginning to sag around his jowls. He sighed. It was too late to do a repair job.
Derek looked around the bedroom to check that everything was neat and orderly, then walked into the sitting room. The sofa, a good fifteen years old, was threadbare. He’d taken a needle and cotton and tried to patch up the bits where the material had given way completely, but there was no denying its tattiness. The room, once so bright and welcoming, needed redecoration.
He hated the place. It was symbolic of the demise of his fortunes.
Derek walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.His hand shook as he reached in the cupboard for the jar of coffee.
