Chapters (78)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Remarkable Praise for Nicci French
- Also by Nicci French
- About the Publisher
She had stood in the doorway and told Dermot that she wanted, no, needed to see his brother. That he mustn’t end things. She felt agonized and humiliated all over again for her ardent, frightened eighteen-year-old self.
“He really liked you,” said Dermot.
“It was a long time ago. That’s why all this . . .” She waved her hand in the air, assuming that Dermot knew about everything. How could he not? “I don’t know what to say about it.”
“He used to say how clever you were,” said Dermot, putting tea bags into two mugs. “How you were going to be a doctor. Maybe that’s why he wanted you to be his executor. Because you’re clever.”
“I don’t know anything about things like wills. Do you?”
“I’m an electrician. That’s how much I know about wills.”
“Did he tell you what he was going to do?”
“Liam didn’t generally tell me things like that.”
They stared at each other. It seemed almost comic to her but Dermot didn’t seem to be finding it funny in any way.
“At least you’re his brother. I’m one of his teenage girlfriends. Of which, I’ve heard, there were many.”
“You’ve been talking to Mum.”
“Yes.”
“She thought the sun shone out of his arse.”
Jude watched him as he poured the boiling water over the tea bags.
“That must have been hard for you, as his kid brother.”
Dermot shrugged. “It was all right.”
“Were you two close?”
“Close?”
He looked away from her, out of the little window.
“If you don’t want to talk about it . . .”
Dermot turned back to Jude. He seemed to be making his mind up about something.
“Well,” he said at last. “He pushed me around a bit when I was little. I used to trail after him, I badly wanted to be in his gang, you know. He was pretty fucking cool. He would get me to do his dirty work, cover for him to Mum and Dad. But yeah, we were brothers. He was my only brother and now he’s dead.” He stopped, chewed his lower lip. “So it’s just me. I’ll always be in his shadow now.”
“I’m really sorry. So sorry, Dermot.” Those useless words, over and over and over again.
Dermot nodded, muttered something Jude couldn’t catch. His mouth was pulled tight but it quivered, as if he was preventing himself from crying.
They sat at the kitchen table, by the window that looked out onto the street. Opposite was a small car park. Jude propped her chin on her hand.
“So I don’t know anything about the law and nor do you.”
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Have you looked at it?”