She takes a long, deep drag on the cigarette. ‘Nothing,’ she replies. ‘Because that’s what you mean to me.’
Her point is valid. We are nothing more than strangers, bound together by blood. The blood of others I’ve shed, like my dad’s.
‘Why did Dad admit to killing Daisy Barber?’ I ask.
‘Why do you reckon?’
‘He didn’t want me to be blamed for it.’ That’s the only reason I can think of.
‘If you know, then why are you asking?’
‘How did he find out I was responsible?’
‘I thought you said you can now remember everything?’
‘Not all of it, no.’
She eyes me cautiously. ‘If I tell you what you want to know, what’s in it for me?’
I think for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I don’t have much money ...’
She offers a humourless laugh. ‘I’m eighty-two years old. What would I want with blood money?’
‘Then what?’
She leans closer to me. ‘I want the truth to come out. I want you to admit to the police what you did to that girl. Tell them what you are and clear my boy’s name.’
‘What good will that do?’
‘You took fifteen years of his life away from him. Then, when they set him free, you stole the rest of it. You owe him. An eye for an eye.’
‘But he’s dead.’
‘I don’t care!’ she shouts, and she hits the armrest with her fist.
I look her squarely in the eye. She won’t be backing down.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell them.’
‘Tell them what?’
‘That I killed Daisy.’
She scans my face, searching for an almost hidden tell: a micro-expression that suggests I’m saying what she wants to hear.
‘Detective Sergeant Barney Flynn.’
‘Who?’
‘Type his name into your telephone.’
‘Why? Who is he?’
‘Do as I tell you.’
I find a news story about him in which he discusses a manslaughter trial in which the defendant was found guilty.
‘Where is he based now?’ she asks.
