Page 166 of The Last Love Song
She was certain of only one thing. Sorcha had been murdered by mistake, protecting the man she loved. It was Con the gunman had been after.
The list in front of her was the same as it had been for seventeen years: suspects who would have wanted to harm Con, and were clever enough to set her up too. The fact that Sorcha had obviously known the murderer had been a key point in the prosecution’s evidence. That at least narrowed the list down.
Helen studied the names once more.
Derek Longthorne. He’d certainly hated Con at the time, and Helen had always thought him odd. She did not cross his name off the list.
Todd. He’d had every reason to want Con dead, after being publicly cuckolded. She left his name too.
Lulu. Was this a crime of passion? She left the star’s name alone.
Ian. Had he discovered Con wanted him out of the band and decided to gun him down in a drug-crazed fit of rage?
Helen’s hand hovered over Ian’s name. After what had happened to her, anything was possible, but she doubted he had had enough brain cells back then to plan a crime of this complexity. Still...
Brad. She crossed his name off. He’d been incarcerated in his drying-out clinic on that Friday night.
Freddy. The only reason she could come up with was that he knew The Fishermen were falling apart. A murder of one of the band’s members would have boosted sales. He was clever enough to have planned it and he had access to the building but...
Helen sighed. None of it made sense. It never had.
If only she could talk to Con and interrogate him about what Sorcha hadactuallysaid just before she died. It was his statement alongside DI Garratt’s that had persuaded the jury to convict her.
Con was God knows where.
Her only hope was that Garratt – probably retired by now – would see her.
She’d looked up the address in the telephone book and tried the number earlier in the evening. The sound of his voice sent shudders down her spine but at least she knew he was still alive. Helen hadn’t said anything – just hung up. She had his address. Tomorrow, after she had visited the library, she would visit him.
Helen pressed the button that ran her through the microfiche to 19 September 1969. The shooting had of course been front-page news in all of the papers. There was a photograph of Con coming out of the hospital after Sorcha had died. His face betrayed such terrible devastation she could hardly bear to look at it.
On the following page, there was a promotional shot of TheFishermen taken a few weeks before the shooting. Helen slid back again to the picture of Con. Then back to The Fishermen. There was something her brain was registering but not computing.
She looked at both photos again. Finally, she realised what it was.
In the front-page photo, Con was wearing a cardigan. This in itself was odd, but odder still was the fact that it was identical to the one Derek was wearing in the promotional shot.
Probably a coincidence. Helen sighed. It meant nothing, but at least it was a new fact.
She took the photocopies of both photographs and set off to catch a bus to Ealing.
The exterior of the small terraced house was immaculate. Pansies stood in neat rows around the edge of the patch of green grass and, as Helen rang the brass bell, a little fresh polish smeared her index finger.
The door opened.
‘Mr Garratt?’
Despite being well into his seventies, Helen knew he recognised her instantly.
‘Miss McCarthy. Have you come to murder me on my doorstep?’
‘No. I’ve come to ask for your help.’
‘I see.’ He studied her warily. ‘Forgive me if I feel ill at ease. It’s not the first time I’ve had an ex-con turn up to exact their revenge. I have a panic button wired to the police station for just such a situation as this.’
‘The last thing I want is for you to die. I’m trying to clear my name and you are one of the only people that can help me. You can search me for a gun or a knife if you want. Please just give me a few minutes of your time.’
‘You have them, right now.’
