His girl was gone. He recalled Ann-Marie’s hand curled loose in his own. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear. Tiny nails, translucent. He turned to the door. Debbie moved after him. Don’t touch me, he prayed, don’t lay a finger on me.
‘It won’t bring her back,’ she shouted.
I didn’t let her go, he thought. Don’t blame me, not for any of this. If you’d just held her hand. You should have held her hand. He left the room, the words banging like a chant in his head. You should have held her hand.
*****
Jeremy Gleason’s next of kin was his mother who lived at an address in one of the poorer areas of Old Trafford.
Janine went to tell her the news.
‘Who is it?’ The woman yelled through the front door, unwilling to open it at such a late hour.
‘Police,’ Janine answered.
Before she could offer to post her proof of ID there was the sound of locks being drawn back. Mrs Gleason opened the door.
‘Now what’s he done?’ She demanded. Her face was furrowed with lines; they radiated from her thin mouth, fanned her eyes and scored across her forehead. Pouches of dark skin hung beneath her eyes. She had brassy golden hair and wore a cheap, blue, velour lounging-suit and a red plaid dressing gown. Janine noticed bare feet with orange nail polish.
‘Can I come in a minute?’
The woman stepped back and let her in. ‘Always in trouble, always,’ Mrs Gleason continued, her voice high and brittle, as she led Janine into a small sitting room awash with Oriental bric-a-brac. The telly was on, the volume muted. ‘The times I’ve had you lot round. In the end I told ‘em, I can’t do anything with him. He’s not bad – he’s just stupid. Born stupid.’
‘Mrs Gleason,’ Janine stopped her. ‘Please sit down. I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news.’
The woman froze. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Sat unsteadily on the sofa. Janine watched her hand grip the edge of the seat cushion.
‘I got a phone call this evening, a man had been found. He’d been shot.’
Mrs Gleason stared at her, her pupils huge, her mouth trembling.
‘I’m so very sorry.’
‘You sure?’
‘It’s Jeremy.’
Mrs Gleason shook her head; her brow creased even more deeply, her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at the ceiling, wrapped her arms about herself.
Janine took in the clutch of family photos on a shelf: Mrs Gleason and another woman, a sister perhaps; one of Jeremy at a wedding, lanky and grinning; one of him with a child, a little boy. His child?
