28

As a young boy, William had been in the Scouts. He’d learned all about tying knots – yarn, overhand, reef, Turk’s head and granny knots were all familiar to him; he’d won his knot-tying badge in Scouts and had brought it home proudly to show his family. So tying a hangman’s noose wasn’t beyond him.

The devastated Maguires worked it all out, later. Too late.

Wills had used one of Dad’s heavy hammers tied to the end of the rope to toss it over the bough, then tied the rope off to another nearby tree, secured it so that it was taut. Then he’d formed the noose, placed it around his own neck, levered himself up onto the hated wheelchair – and kicked the chair aside.

‘Do you think he suffered?’ Mum asked, over and over, her face made ugly with tears.

‘It must have been very quick,’ said Donny, while Dad sat in his chair staring at the floor, unable to take it in.

‘But he seemed to be happier,’ Mum protested, howling with grief. ‘I thought he’d turned a corner.’

‘We all did,’ said Donny.

What Donny thought now was that William had decided that he was leaving this world, and that decision had made him feel less burdened by his disability. So, to all intents and purposes, he had seemed happy. But all it really meant was that he’d seen there would be an end to it, and he was glad.

Those bastards killed him, Donny thought when the undertakers came, and his colleagues from down the nick patted him awkwardly on the back and said how sorry they were, how awful it was.

All Donny could think was, They killed him: Dickie Cole and Dora O’Brien.

Dickie he couldn’t get to. He’d be punished enough, inside. Well, good. But there she was, oiling around town with that rotten arsehole Pargeter, like she owned the entire world. Draped in furs and dripping with jewels. While Wills was being carted out of his home in a box. Next stop, the graveyard.

It wasn’t right.

It couldn’t be.

Donny’s rage at Dora grew sharper, icier; it begged for vengeance.

One way or another, Dora O’Brien was going to pay.

29

Christmas was over and life went on. There was a new prime minister in the shape of Harold Macmillan. Bogart had died. And the Post Office had introduced TV detector vans in a crackdown on licence-dodging. Dora was telling Frank – quite often – that she had ‘women’s problems’ because she didn’t want him sliming over her more than was absolutely necessary. Truth was, she did have problems, but they certainly weren’t the ones he thought they were. He moved her into a flat, a nice one in Mayfair, and she chose the furnishings, did it up lovely.

Life was looking up for her. She went to see Mum and her sisters when she knew Dad was going to be out at work, because she knew the sort of welcome she’d get from him. A boot up the arse, if she was lucky. She didn’t get a warm welcome from her siblings but at least they didn’t totally shun her. And Mum still loved her, hugged and adored her as she should.