A young lad poked his head up at the far end of the shop, smiling at me courteously as I raised a hand and began to stroll around. There was no sign of ‘Abe’ at the moment, so I continued walking around, looking at the copious amounts of sealant.
Spotting a pink fluffy pen, my lips involuntarily curved into a smile. It was exactly the kind of thing Fran would adore – uber-garish and ridiculous. She’d claim to hate it, yet I knew if she owned it, she would never part with it. As much as I tried to suppress the thoughts, memories of Fran seemed to keep flooding in. I missed her, and the gnawing uncertainty of whether our marriage had reached its end kept swirling around my mind. Every time the thought crossed my mind that the last time I might have ever looked into her eyes was when she had pinned me against the wall with her elbow, a sharp, icy pang of pain came to my chest.
I thought about the potential minimum sentence she might face, wondering if a skilled lawyer could argue ‘belief in imminent attack’ in her favour. Yet, even with a strong defence, she could still face a lifetime behind bars. The law rarely showed leniency for taking a life, even when it might be considered self-defence.
‘Oh, hello there,’ I heard a voice say. Lo and behold, there he was: Abraham Clark, now aged about forty-odd years since that photo. ‘Cool shades,’ he said. I had forgotten they were still on. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure if he was being sarcastic or not.
‘Sorry, you may get this a lot, but has anyone ever told you, you look like Abe Clark, the politician?’
The man gave what I think he thought was a humble smile as he swished back a loose lock of his hair.
‘From a long time ago, yes,’ he replied, with a kind of fake modesty that felt sort of sickening, honestly. You could tell the man was obviously enjoying being recognised. Like he was realising he wouldn’t need to touch his Viagra tonight.
‘So, tell me,’ I said, summoning Chad Dangerfield, ‘the hotshot bad boy of politics is now running a DIY shop? Shouldn’t you be coasting off that sweet, sweet parliament pension fund?’
‘Well, everyone needs a hobby,’ he replied. ‘And this was my father’s shop, so I was keen to make sure it stayed in the family.’
I was done with the artificial affability. He seemed at ease, which made it the perfect time to strike.
‘Mr Clark, I’m an investigator for a case that’s currently unfolding, and wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.’
He tilted his head back, an ever-so-small tremble on his lips. I could see from the way his face shifted that he was still a little bit proud that someone had come to find him. ‘Do you have five minutes?’ I asked.
‘Of course, but only if you buy some bin liners,’ he said with a simper and an old wrinkly finger pointed towards me.
‘Gordon O’Neill. You knew him?’ I asked, ignoring his Sunday matinee stand-up routine.
That name struck a chord. The smile on his face vanished, and I could see him become guarded. He asked the boy in the shop to go and check some of the stock in the back, while I examined his wrinkly hands clutching the edges of the counter.
‘A long time ago, we were friends. Part of the same charity.’
‘Are you aware that he’s dead?’
I watched carefully as I saw Mr Clark look visibly jolted by the revelation, his thick, wiry eyebrows shooting up his face, jaw dropping open.
‘I was not, no. That’s a shame. I haven’t spoken to him for quite some time.’
‘You used to be quite close, correct?’
‘We did, but again, a long time ago.’
‘And am I correct in thinking you were close with a Mr Macleod too? Thomas Macleod?’
‘Yeah, he was part of the charity, too. But that was decades ago. We all went our own separate ways, after a while. I mean, I briefly saw Gordon at Thomas’s funeral, but haven’t seen him since then.’
‘And I take it you’re aware that Mr O’Neill was murdered?’
I watched carefully as I saw Mr Clark’s face sort of collapse with disbelief, like someone had instantly sucked the smugness out of it, his expression morphing into shock then quickly into fear. His hand started to tremble. He pushed it into his pocket, attempting to hide the tremor, but I had already spotted the bronze ring on his finger.
‘That’s horrible,’ he murmured. ‘Do I need protection? Police protection? Should I call the police?’
‘Why would you need to call the police?’
‘Well, I was friends with both of these men, and both of these men were murdered; that seems awfully coincidental. What if I’m next?’ His voice was rasping now, frantic, his hand scratching the inside of his leg from his pocket.
‘Why would you be next?’ I asked stoically.
‘What was your name again? Why are you here? Telling me this?’ Mr Clark said, raising his voice now. In the internal reflection of my sunglasses, I could see who I presumed to be his grandson emerge from the back. He quickly scuttled away when he noticed his grandfather’s fury.
