Lloyd nodded, though he was feeling the very opposite. Perhaps Harwood sensed this, for now she leaned closer, her lips almost brushing his ear.
“Don’t turn on me, Lloyd.”
Then she retreated, shutting the front door firmly behind her.
***
Driving home, Lloyd cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he ever got involved with Harwood? Was he really so stupid as to have thought that he could come out of this thing unscathed? It had seemed so simple at first, but now he could see he’d been a fool. Had he come to believe his own hype—the Teflon kid who sailed through life climbing ever upward, never a mark against his name? There was a joke that followed him everywhere—a joke that infuriated him by its knowing racism—that he was “whiter than white.” The Goody Two-shoes, flawless in his prowess and reputation. Lloyd knew it made him unpopular, but oddly it was a badge he clung to now, reminding himself that it meant he was better and more committed than those other jokers. Had he thrown that all away now?
Parking up, Lloyd walked to his front door. The lights were onin the living room, which meant his father was still up. Lloyd felt a flash of irritation—why did he insist on staying up so late?—then a wave of shame. Why should he criticize his dad when it washimselfhe was furious with?
“How was your day?”
Caleb turned to his son, switching the TV off immediately. It was as if he’d been waiting for Lloyd—waiting for some company—all day and was now seizing on it eagerly. His siblings never visited, work friends no longer called round, which meant that like many old people his father was alone for most of the day. Lloyd had tried to encourage him to enroll in clubs, he’d even tried to get paid help to visit at one stage, but his father had pooh-poohed the idea. He didn’t have anything to say to new people, he said. He just wanted to spend time with family. Which in practice meant Lloyd.
“Usual,” Lloyd replied casually.
“You sure? You look... a bit beaten up, son.”
Lloyd shrugged. “A few issues at work. No big deal.”
“Problems with a case?”
“No, just... staff issues,” Lloyd answered.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Thanks, Dad, but to be honest, I just want to go to bed—I’m bushed.”
Caleb said nothing and Lloyd stayed where he was, as if awaiting his father’s permission to leave.
“You can confide in me, you know, son. I know I haven’t always been easy on you, but... you can talk to me. I’dliketo talk.”
Did Lloyd imagine it or was there a slight quiver in his dad’s voice? Did he really feel that lonely? That shut out by his own son? He stole a look at his father, who dropped his eyes to the floor quickly.
Lloyd stayed for a few minutes more, chatting about this andthat, then took himself off to bed. The truth was, he really didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to dwell on his reckless foolishness in getting into bed with Harwood. Which of course only made him hate himself more.
Today he felt like a failure, both as a police officer and as a son.
80
Sanderson wondered if she was staring into the eyes of a killer. He met her gaze, then looked away quickly, settling instead on Helen, who sat across the desk from him.
Andrew Simpson had been visibly unnerved to find police officers waiting for him in his office when he returned to close up for the day. During Sanderson’s first visit, he had been confident, precise and helpful—now he was on his guard. This no longer feltroutine.
“How well did you know Roisin Murphy?” Helen asked, skipping the niceties.
“I don’t know her.”
“But you were her landlord?”
“That doesn’t mean I know her, though. Most of my business isdone online. I meet the clients once, then sign the contracts and that’s it.”
“No more contact.”
“Not unless they’ve got a serious complaint. If it’s minor problems—leaks, boilers, what have you—it’s handled by my men.”
“Men like Nathan Price.”
