The Blissfully Dead (15 page)

Chapter 26
Day 8 – Patrick

B
onnie was ecstatic when she saw Patrick walk into his
parents
’ front room, where she had been playing with his old Fuzzy Felt farm set. She flung aside the board and threw herself into his arms.

‘Daddy! My daddy!’ she cried, reminding him of the ending of the movie
The Railway Children,
as she grasped him tightly around his neck, still clutching a limp felt cow in her fist.

His mother, Mairead, looked pleased to see him too. ‘Pat! We weren’t expecting you for hours yet!’

He smiled at her. ‘It’s all getting a bit fraught at work. Needed a couple of hours away from it. Who fancies a trip to the swings?’

‘Me!’ shrieked Bonnie, struggling to get down. ‘Gonna wear my wellies!’

‘Coming, Mum? Or do you fancy putting your feet up for a bit?’

Mairead pursed her lips. ‘I’ll come, I think. I could do with some fresh pear.’

‘Fresh
pear
?’

‘Air, Patrick, I said. Air. And you look like you could yourself too; you’re as white as a rice pudding.’

She had definitely said ‘pear’. This wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her randomly misusing words, but he had always put it down to her being tired. Now that Gill was going back to work and Mairead was resuming her duties as Bonnie’s post-nursery nanny, he hoped it wouldn’t all be too much for her. He felt the familiar stab of guilt at the burden he was placing on his parents – or, at least, his mum, he thought, regarding his dad, Jim, fast asleep with his mouth wide open on the sofa.

‘Let’s go, then,’ he said, helping Bonnie push her feet into her spotty wellies. ‘If I sit down, I won’t get up again.’

It was such a cold day that the playground in Bushy Park was almost empty. Bonnie’s cheeks turned bright red and her nose was running within moments of her leaping into the sandpit with both feet, where she raced around in circles cackling with excitement.

Patrick and Mairead sat together on a nearby bench.

‘She makes me feel knackered just looking at her,’ Patrick observed.

‘She’s a dote,’ Mairead said fondly. ‘So, how’s work going?’

Patrick sighed and took out his e-cigarette. ‘Tough. I feel like Bonnie’s not the only one going round in circles. It’s so frustrating when we get stuck like this, and terrifying to think that if we don’t figure it out, another girl could die.’

‘Ah, it’s a responsible job all right,’ his mother agreed, refusing to engage with the grimness of what he’d said. ‘And how’s the lovely Carmella?’ She’d always had a soft spot for Carmella. They’d met once, and Mairead had been delighted to discover that she knew of Carmella’s auntie from County Meath – which, in Mairead’s book, made them friends for life.

‘She’s fine. She went over to Dublin today following a lead. She’ll be back later.’

‘Dublin?’ His mother looked puzzled. ‘That’s an awful long flight!’

Patrick turned to look at her. ‘What are you on about, Mum?’

‘You can’t be sending her over there for just a day, when it takes nine hours to get there on a plane!’

‘
Nine
hours? Mum, are you winding me up? You know it only takes an hour to fly to Dublin!’ Patrick experienced a new rush of all the irritation he’d felt earlier with Gareth Batey.

‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Does it now? I must be
mistaken
.’

‘You are,’ said Pat briskly, standing up to hide his worried expression. This was not normal.
Oh God
, he thought,
please don’t let her be losing her marbles
. He took a deep drag of his e-cig and was about to join Bonnie in the sandpit when a familiar voice called his name. Looking up, he thought for a second he was hallucinating. Of all people,
Suzanne
was jogging down the path alongside the playground towards him. He laughed at the incongruity of it, and she did too, stopping on the other side of the low fence.

‘Fancy seeing you here!’ she said, panting loudly. He couldn’t help noticing the way the skintight Lycra top and leggings hugged her figure. ‘You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of a case, would you?’

He looked sharply at her to see if this was a criticism, but she was still smiling at him.

‘Needed to clear my head.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Pat, I know how many hours you’ve put in over the last week. Of course I don’t begrudge you a couple off. Is that your Bonnie?’

Bonnie was now gawping up at an older boy, of five or six, who was studiously ignoring her as he made a sandcastle.

‘It is,’ he said proudly.

Suzanne gazed at her, her shoulders still heaving. ‘She’s absolutely beautiful.’

‘And this is my mother, Mairead.’ He turned to her. ‘Mum, this is my boss, Suzanne. DCI Laughland.’

‘You look awful glamorous for a detective,’ Mairead said
suspiciously
.

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Lennon,’ she replied, wiping her forehead. ‘Not that I feel it at the moment, after running three miles, I must be bright red . . . Pat, since we both find ourselves here, could we have a quick word?’

He vaulted over the fence to where Suzanne stood on the gravel path. ‘Mum, keep an eye on Bonnie, would you?’ he called back.

It was odd, being so near Suzanne when she was unkempt and sweaty, but Patrick couldn’t help feeling turned on. It was the way her breasts were heaving, the flush at her collarbone, the scent of fresh sweat coming off her. He had a mental flash of her in a post-coital tangle of sheets, a cat-that-got-the-cream smile on her face, arms reaching out to him.

Their eyes met.

‘So,’ she said, briskly zipping up her jacket to cover her chest.

Why did she make him feel like a randy teenager? He suddenly smiled at her, unable to help himself, and she returned the smile. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but their chemistry puffed almost visibly around them in the chill February air, like Suzanne’s hot breath.

‘So,’ he repeated softly, equally unable to stop himself reaching out and gently touching her hand.

The spell was broken by a screeching voice. ‘
Daddeee! Look at meeeee!
’

He and Suzanne both turned to see Bonnie lying on her back in the sandpit making sand angels, while Mairead tutted and tried to peel her onto her feet.

‘Any news from Carmella in Dublin?’ Suzanne asked abruptly, taking a swig from her water bottle.

‘Not yet. She’s about to visit the girl at home, says she’ll call when she’s done.’

‘Hmm. Anything else?’

Patrick frowned. ‘Not a lot. Batey’s dicking around getting nowhere, says he’s been to all the burger bars but nobody saw Rose. I got pissed off with him, actually – he should’ve been chasing up Peter Bell and the hotel key card. Oh, one bit of good news . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Wendy’s made an OnTarget connection to where Rose was found – “Room 365” is apparently the name of one of their songs. I’d never have figured that one out in a million years. Bright girl, that one.’

‘Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say that an encyclopedic knowledge of OnTarget’s back catalogue would normally be an asset in a PC’s skillset, but good on her.’

Patrick laughed. ‘I meant that she’s a bright girl, in general. I like her.’

‘She likes you too,’ Suzanne said, a trifle darkly, Patrick thought, puzzled. ‘Anyway, I’d better be heading off; I’m getting cold. Are you back in this afternoon?’

He nodded. ‘See you later, boss.’

‘See you, Pat. Good to bump into you. Say goodbye to your mum and Bonnie.’

She smiled again and set off, her blonde ponytail swinging on her back and her long legs stretching gracefully as she ran. Patrick couldn’t help but stare after her, watching the way her buttocks moved in the tight black Lycra. She had an amazing figure – she could pass for a teenager from behind, he thought.

‘Patrick!’ his mother called sharply.

‘Yes?’ He climbed slowly back over the fence into the playground and jumped into the sandpit with both feet, to make Bonnie laugh. She did laugh, but Mairead was fixing him with one of her Paddington stares.

‘I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking, you know,’ she said,
sotto voce
so that Bonnie couldn’t hear. ‘Would you care to tell me exactly what’s going on with you and that one, now?’

It wasn’t difficult for Patrick to arrange his features into an expression of horror and outrage – although what he was really
horrified
about was how easily his mother appeared to have read the situation.

‘Nothing, Mum,’ he said meekly. ‘I swear. We’re just work
colleagues
.’

‘And the rest, Patrick Martin Lennon. You watch yourself with that one. You’ve enough on your plate.’

‘I know I have,’ he said, but he couldn’t prevent a pang of misery stabbing him in the chest. So was that it, then? Having ‘enough on his plate’ meant that he was trapped in an unhappy marriage with Gill forever, with no hope of ever getting what
he
wanted out of a relationship?

The trouble was, he wasn’t entirely sure what it even was that he wanted anymore, or with whom.

He and his mother both watched Suzanne jog away in between the trees, until she shrank to a blonde dot and vanished.

It was the first time since Gill’s release that he had articulated, even to himself, that his marriage was unhappy.

As soon as Patrick got back to the station, the woman on reception said, ‘There’s a chap here to see you.’ She gestured towards the waiting area, where a bearded man in a corduroy jacket sat thumbing a smartphone. Graham Burns, the social media manager from Global Sounds. His trousers, Patrick noticed, were a few inches too short, displaying a pair of bright yellow socks.

Patrick strolled over. ‘Mr Burns.’

Burns looked up, startled. He jumped to his feet. ‘Detective. I think I’ve found something . . . interesting.’

Patrick led Burns to an interview room and asked him if he wanted a coffee.

‘Flat white, please.’

Patrick gave him a look.

‘Um . . . actually, don’t worry. I’m good. Yeah.’ He was carrying a mustard yellow satchel, which he rummaged inside, pulling out a sheaf of papers. ‘You remember you asked me if I could access the private messages Rose and Jess exchanged?’

Patrick nodded, trying not to look too eager.

‘Well . . . I could be fired for doing this, but . . . you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’

Patrick couldn’t make that promise in case this evidence was ever needed in court, so said, ‘What did you find?’

Graham handed over the sheets of A4 paper and spoke as
Patrick
cast his eye over them. ‘These were sent last year, on the
fifteenth of October.’

The first message was from Jess to Rose.

Hey, I saw you posting about Shawn, saying you didn’t believe he’d ever go with a groupie
. . .
Well, a friend of mine got picked out of the crowd at Wembley and met Shawn at a hotel!!!

As Patrick read, Burns pulled a cotton handkerchief out of his inside pocket, blowing his nose loudly.

Rose wrote back:
OMG, no WAY!!! What happened? Did she have sex with him?! What was it like?

Jess replied:
Get this: apparently, Shawn wanted to tie her up and smack her bum with a riding crop!!!

Rose replied with a row of smiley faces in various states of shock and alarm.
Did she let him?!?!

Yeah. She said she couldn’t sit down for a week. But this is obvs TOP SECRET, OK?

Patrick looked up. ‘Is that it? Did they exchange any more
messages
?’

‘No, not that I could find. It’s possible there were more, but if they deleted them, they wouldn’t be stored anywhere. It’s pretty worrying stuff, isn’t it?’

‘I assume you know about Shawn and the young woman in Dublin.’

‘Yeah, I was aware of that . . . Part of my remit is to stop rumours spreading about the band on social media, to manage their
reputation
. So if any of this stuff ever got out . . .’

Patrick stood up and led Burns out past the reception area, thanking him and asking him not to talk to anyone about what he’d found.