Susan Maguire thought of the tallest building she knew; it was the Roman Catholic church she had been attending since she was a child, which seemed somehow appropriate. She had been happily married for many years, and held her husband in high esteem, but she loved her kids the best. Lived for her kids. Donny was grown-up now, a man, a capable and cool character. But oh, her youngest. Her heart broke over that, every time she thought of it. Dear sweet Wills. Gone forever.

She knew the church so well. She caught the bus, got off, walked up to the place that was warmly familiar to her, so special. It was easy to slip inside, and turn left in the porch, which took you up a steep circular staircase and led out into the bell chamber where the ringers assembled every week.

With tears in her eyes she opened the leaded-glass window at the top of the tower and stepped out onto the old stonework. The wall at the edge of the tower was low, and she approached it, the wind gusting, ruffling her hair, making her shiver. But she was going to see Wills again. To comfort him.

With no further thought, Susan Maguire stepped off the tower, and fell.

37

‘Kim Merton,’ said DI Colin Crompton, taking the roll-up from his mouth and chucking a piece of paper onto Donny Maguire’s desk.

‘Who?’ Donny squinted up at his DI then picked up the piece of paper and looked at it.

‘Gangland whore,’ said Crompton succinctly, letting out a stream of smoke in disgust. ‘Or at least she was, until someone decided she’d be better off dead.’

Donny nodded, remembering. His brain – usually so sharp – felt fogged, not his own. First there had been the unspeakable horror of Wills’s death and then – Christ! – their mum. Sweet smiling Susan Maguire, always gentle, always kind. Now Donny could see where kindness got you in life. Fucking nowhere.

His mother had killed herself. Flung herself off the church tower.

It was beyond a nightmare.

Crompton had suggested compassionate leave after his mother’s funeral, but Donny had refused. He wanted to keep busy, because only that would stop him from going completely bloody crazy. He thought that Dad was heading that way too. Dad was in bits, and spent most days sitting in a chair staring into space, seeing no reason to go on.

‘Kim was the girl who had the basement party. The one where Tony Dillon got sliced up like a salami by Dickie Cole,’ said Donny.

‘That’s right,’ said the DI.

‘But she drowned. Didn’t she?’

‘Nah. No water in the lungs. Back of the head caved in. She was dead before she went in the river.’

Crompton tossed another sheet down onto the desk.

‘And that’s Philip Krayburn, dodgy fucker who ran a lot of long firm operations, also dead. And there’s this one.’ Crompton tossed the last sheet of paper down. ‘Casey Pullman.’