Devil in the Detail by A.J. Cross (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

sank slowly back, her face tightening. ‘Mom, just go and … have some coffee or something.’

Traynor kept his voice low. ‘Mrs Lawrence, it’s fine for your mother to stay for a few minutes.’

She shook her head. Mrs Monroe turned away and left the room. The room fell silent.

‘You’re not a police officer. What are you?’

He moved his chair a little closer to the bed. ‘I’m a criminologist. I’m part of the police investigation.’

She didn’t respond.

‘I study crime of all kinds, develop theories to assist our understanding as to why it happens, increase our ability to solve it. Hopefully find ways to predict and prevent it.’ He waited. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’

Still no response. Her face almost matched the pillows for whiteness.

Finally, she made eye contact, her voice shaking. ‘I know what you’re thinking. That I wasn’t very nice to my mother. Well, Dr Traynor, right now I don’t feel very “nice”. I feel angry. I can’t hold what’s happened in my head. Each time I wake up, and it’s like, “What’s happened? What am I doing here?” and it hits me again and I’m drowning.’ She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Traynor knew all too well the emotions she was expressing. He waited for the sobs to subside. ‘Everybody experiences grief in their own way, Mrs Lawrence. It changes over time, believe me. It doesn’t get better, exactly. It gets different.’

Not looking at him, she pulled a wad of tissues from a box next to her, pressed it against her face, whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need for an apology. My force colleagues and I are truly sympathetic to your situation. I’m here because we need to know as much about what happened as you are able to tell us. If you feel unable to do that today, I can come back. It’s not a problem, Mrs Lawrence.’

‘Stay, please. You have a job to do and I know I have to help you do it, but I’m really worried.’ She looked up at him. Her eyes were reddened, the pupils themselves a deep azure blue. ‘How can I help you and the police if I can’t make sense of it in my own head?’

‘Talking about it might give you that sense. Anything you are able to say to me has value.’

She looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

‘Start wherever you wish.’

She pushed her hair from her face, her voice low, hesitant. ‘It, we … I had an appointment. Here at the hospital. Late afternoon, sometime, I can’t remember exactly. Then, we went to see Mike’s parents to tell them …’ She closed her eyes. ‘We left their house and went into town for dinner … to celebrate …’

Behind his neutral face, Traynor listened as she approached that part of the evening they needed to know about. He kept his voice low. ‘And then?’

‘We left the restaurant. Went to the car … Started our journey home.’

He wrote, sending her quick, monitoring glances, seeing changes to her face which had lost the small amount of colour it had gained in the previous minute or so and was now tight with tension. ‘And then … then, we were … lost and heading along a road.’ Her words and breathing quickened. ‘A narrow road. We got stuck in a diversion and we didn’t know what to do and we took a turning into a street and suddenly there were no lights, no people, no cars …’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

He leant towards her. ‘Mrs Lawrence? Mrs Lawrence, it’s OK. You don’t have to say any more.’

She slowly focused on him. ‘I can’t go any further.’

She saw Traynor close his notepad.

‘It’s no good. I can’t give you what you need.’

‘It’s early days, Mrs Lawrence, and I think it might help you to know that my aim is to support you as you talk about what happened.’

She gave him a tired smile. ‘I haven’t been much help, have I?’

‘You’ve made a start. Right now, your memory is protecting you, holding on to what it knows. That’s not unusual following trauma. Things could well change.’

He stood as the nurse came into the room. ‘I’ll check on how you are tomorrow. There’s no pressure,’ he added, knowing for many at headquarters it wasn’t true. ‘I can come back whenever you wish.’

Getting no response, he walked to the door, acutely aware of the urgent need for whatever information was locked inside Molly Lawrence’s memory, also knowing it had to be at her pace.

Mrs Monroe was waiting outside the room, looking anxious.

He nodded to her. ‘Molly has made a start.’

FOURTEEN

Wednesday 12 December. 9.30 a.m.

One hand gripping his phone, Watts raised the other to Traynor as he came inside the office. ‘Yeah, we appreciate it. You hear anything else, let me know.’

He ended the call, raised both arms, linking his fingers behind his head, his face creasing into a broad smile. ‘Traynor, I can assure you that there is somebody up there looking down on this investigation.’ Traynor grinned, glanced up at the ceiling and back at him. ‘And you’ll be saying the same when I tell you about the tip-off that’s just come in.’

‘From?’

‘Nigel. He’s in charge of security at the mini-market close to the scene. He knows the area well. According to him, a youngster by the name of Presley Henry has been bragging around the area about a family member being involved in the Lawrence shooting, saying that his uncle “did the Toyota job”. If you want to know why that’s got my interest, Presley’s uncle is Huey Whyte, a suspect in a shooting ten years back. I’ve checked the records. Guess which gun we’re talking about for that? It’s the same as the one used on the Lawrences. I’ve had no direct contact with Whyte during the last three or so years, but I know young Henry’s aunt so I’m going to see her.’ He reached for his coat and keys. ‘Did Mrs