Blood Tears Read Online Free Page A

driven to that extreme. Unless modelling yourself on Victor Meldrew has become a capital offence.’ I think again of how composed the woman before me has become. Then I notice the small hanky poking out from a tight fist. Blue veins and brown liver spots stand out in stark contrast to the tight, white knuckles. She is mourning, just in her own particular fashion.
    I spot the crucifix above the bed and the statue of Our Lady, arms outstretched, on the dressing table.
    ‘You a Catholic, son?’
    ‘Once upon a time,’ I answered.
    ‘Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.’
    ‘Was Paddy a regular church-goer?’ I ignore her pointed comment.
    ‘Never missed it.’
    ‘Did he have many friends?’
    ‘Are your ears painted on? He was the spit of Victor Meldrew. People avoided the daft sod. He had… acquaintances.’
    ‘Acquaintances?’
    ‘Your ears are painted on, son. Acquaintances as in folk he bumped into now and again. Folk would normally speak to him only when cornered. They ran a mile when they saw him coming.’
    ‘Do you know of anyone who would want to do your brother harm?’
    ‘Jim Phillips at number 23. Our Patrick had his garden fork for well over a year. That’s about the only person I can think of that might be annoyed with him.’
    ‘A garden fork?’ People say some weird things when they are trying to find a frame of reference in their mind for an event as vast as this.
    ‘Aye, but you don’t know Jim Phillips. Treats that garden like it was his bairn.’ She paused and looked out of the small window. The view was a sky of concrete grey. Defiance, or whatever was keeping her in the conversation, fell away and before me I saw a small, frightened woman.
    ‘Miss Connelly, do you have somewhere you can go?’
    ‘They’re no’ putting me out of my home, son.’ Steel returned to her spine, but fear and fatigue pulled at the muscles of her face.
    ‘I’m not suggesting that it’s permanent, just until you can get someone in to clean the place. It’ll be some while until we’re finished examining your home. You don’t want to have to face that every day and it would help us find the killer faster if we have a free rein in the house.’ I don’t have to ask, but it feels like the right thing to do.
    ‘Aye, you’re right, son. I wasn’t thinking. Our Agnes has a house down in Ayr. I’ll give her a phone and ask if I can sleep in her spare room for a wee while.’
    ‘Be sure to give the female constable a note of where Agnes stays, so we can keep in touch with you.’
    ‘Aye.’ She looked deep into my eyes. ‘You’ll find him, son. Won’t you? Patrick was a miserable old git, but he didn’t deserve this. You’ll get him won’t you?’ Her hand gripped at my sleeve.

    Back at the station, the shift has gathered to hear the news. I’m standing waiting for the din to die down. Everyone’s talking about last night. A good time was had by all, if the noise of the chatter is anything to go by.
    There’s a box of cakes on the table in front of me. Must be somebody’s birthday.
    ‘Okay, folks. Rein it in. Time to review what’s happened this morning. Peters was first on the scene.’ Against my better judgement, I give him his place. ‘Tell everyone what we know.’
    As Peters reviews the facts we’d determined so far, my mind chases ahead of him. Had Connelly been killed where his body had been found, or was the kill zone elsewhere? The spray of blood should indicate the murder was committed in the victim’s home… and the amount of blood indicates the wounds were inflicted before death.
    The sick bastard wanted the old man to suffer.
    He must have made some noise as those wounds were inflicted.  Surely his sister would have heard and come to investigate? Unless they’d been carried out post-mortem… which I'm sure wasn’t how it happened. She must have cuddled up in bed with a tub of Temazepam. If he wasn’t killed there, then where? And how did the killer get him back inside