MCNAMARA BOOK SET ONE (McNamara Series, #1)

CHAPTER TWO-1

CHAPTER TWO

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IT WAS ALMOST TEN O’CLOCK in the morning when McNamara, together with James, returned to Nightingale Street to question their witnesses about the murder. First, they went to the Porters, and knocked on their door.

Waiting — waiting seemed such a great part of their lives, they didn’t even bother to notice it anymore — they heard hurried steps on the stairs and then, the voice of a woman shouting,

“One moment, please. I’m coming.”

A few seconds later, the door opened. The woman at the door looked at them, questioning their possible reason for being there.

Mrs Porter was short and a little on the plump side. Her face wore signs of exhaustion. She looked old, anywhere between fifty and sixty, but the detectives knew she was much younger than that.

“Oh, yes... And who are you, please?” she asked when she found her voice again. She’d been surprised to see two unknown people instead of the friend she was expecting.

“We’re with the police, ma’am. Here are our badges,” the tall man said. “CI McNamara and DS James. May we come in?”

She hesitated a moment. She was uncertain she could offer any insight into the previous night’s events. In the end, she stepped aside and invited them inside.

Although she didn’t have any information, she couldn’t just tell them to leave and slam the door in their face. Not only because they were the police. Anxiety had been bothering her since the night’s violence occurred.

She’d been trying to forget the rumour about a girl lying dead in the Dobbs’ yard, but it still haunted her. She’d spent most of the night lying awake in bed, frightened by her own imagination.

She never went out after she had heard that scream because she was alone and afraid. When she finally found the courage to glance out the window, she saw her neighbours huddled up in front of the Dobbs’ house.

Yet, she had been too frightened to leave her bedroom. She didn’t have the stomach for pain, violence, and horror. And part of her had feared more than just a grizzly sight.

She led the detectives into a living room, which looked like it had seen better days. The dark thoughts, which had kept her awake that night, nearly paralyzed her upon the arrival of the detectives. She couldn’t find her voice to invite them to take a seat, and with a shaky hand, she merely showed them to the sofa.

The policemen took their time sitting down. They looked over the living room, glancing at family pictures or small curiosities. They tried to delay the discussion with the woman.

McNamara was still looking for a way to tell her that, probably, her daughter was at the morgue. He’d been thinking about that the entire morning, but couldn’t decide what to say.

From experience, the detective knew there was no perfect way to break news like that and make it less painful. He’d always felt unprepared despite his many years with the police.

That was more evident when he had a woman like Mrs Porter before his eyes. She seemed extremely fragile and that made him hesitate more than usual.

He tried to steal some more time and delay the dreadful moment with some routine questions.

“Where’s Mr Porter, please?”

He thought maybe it would be easier for her if she had someone there, to comfort her after their leaving. He knew people endured such things easier if the burden was shared, regardless of their mutual feelings.

No, that wasn’t an absolute truth, he chided himself for being naïve. Sometimes they would use the other person and tear them to shreds just to numb their own pain.

He had hardly asked the question when tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. For a few long seconds, he feared she would start crying.

When she finally answered, she spoke slowly and sheepishly, as if she’d confessed a terrible and humiliating sin.

“He left me, you know... A week after Patsy, my daughter, left, he left too. He was so angry. Oh, dear! If only you could see him! He said I was to blame for the girl’s leaving with that boy.”

“What boy, ma’am? Do you know his name?” McNamara asked.

He shifted closer to the edge of the sofa, impatient to have finally found a lead to follow. So far, he hadn’t had any idea why his victim was targeted, and his only connection to the body they found was that little street.

“Oh, aye. He was such a good-looking boy. And he was such a smooth talker... but he was a good boy. He used to work at Mr Brown’s pub at the other end of the street... He left at the same time. I mean when Patsy left home to go God knows where. But I don’t know where they are now. I haven’t heard a peep from my Patsy ever since.”

“But do you know his name, ma’am?” McNamara asked her again patiently, although he felt like shaking her so that she would get to the point. He hated people’s blabbering, but he knew better than to interrupt.

She thought for a few seconds, shook her head and said, “I think... It was Peter but I’m not sure... In the beginning, I didn’t ask Patsy because I didn’t know she was going out with him. I found out when she left that dreadful message and went away, but that was the name she wrote on the note. That she was leaving with Peter from the pub on the corner... And then... I was too ashamed to go to the Browns and ask them... But ... what’s the matter? Has something happened to my husband or Patsy?”

Her eyes passed from one detective to the other as if begging them not to confirm her fears. Her voice almost broke.

McNamara’s eyes, as dark as the shadow cast by his stubby beard, had already given her the dreadful news.

McNamara cursed himself silently. He should have sent Jo to deal with Mrs Porter. Jo would have been the logical choice. She’d have known how to comfort her. He feared that neither he nor James could offer proper emotional support.

He searched for the right words to tell her that the girl found dead in the Dobbs’ yard was probably her daughter because of the ID and general description. Yet, no words came to him, although he’d done that in the past.

But the woman seemed so delicate that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth bluntly, as he’d done in similar circumstances. He was afraid she would fall apart in front of him.

He was staring at her, almost without blinking, trying to decide what to do. The silence was dire. It scratched their skin and deafened their ears.

Finally, when she couldn’t bear the silence anymore, Mrs Porter whispered, “It is bad, isn’t it? Which one of them, please? I only hope it isn’t Patsy. That I wouldn’t bear.”

She looked again straight into McNamara’s eyes and she knew. It was Patsy. Suddenly, another painful thought penetrated the fog in her mind. Her daughter was the girl from the Dobbs’ yard last night.

For a moment, she thought her heart had stopped beating, but she was wrong. Her heart continued beating, yet, her mind had stopped working.

She was stunned — her hands joined in her lap and a horrified grimace in the corner of her mouth. She looked like carved in stone.

McNamara knew she understood. He stood up, intending to put his hand on her shoulder and comfort her.

Surprised by that unusual thought, he admonished himself. He’d never felt anything of the sort before. He’d always remained cold and detached from everything. Only finding answers and convicting killers counted. He wasn’t a psychologist, but a policeman, so he sat down again.

To his horror, the next moment, something broke inside the woman. First, she groaned loudly, then she burst into tears. Sobs followed and it sounded as if a dam had broken.

Somewhere in her mind, she had a vision of her plans for Patsy, for the day she’d come back home. But that day would never come now and the vanity of her plans punched her in the stomach, leaving behind only sharp and devastating pain.

McNamara glanced at James, hoping for help, but gave up. He finally decided to go on with what he had to do.

He said in an apologetic voice, “I’m sorry, Mrs Porter, but I must ask you to come down to the morgue and identify the body, just to be sure. We need someone to ID the young girl, and we only have a document that says it was Patsy.”

A glimpse of hope nestled in the woman’s heart, but died almost instantly. She knew it was wishful thinking to hope the police had made a mistake.

She’d already felt it in her soul. Her Patsy was gone. The thought had been hunting her for a few days already.

She’d been feeling an acute loss during the last two weeks. She hadn’t believed in such things before and she’d called them crap. Now though, she thought such presentments really existed and berated herself for not acting sooner.

As if awakened from a trance, she said with difficulty, “When do you want me to come?”

“When you feel able to, but the sooner the better... Do you want me to send a car to drive you to the coroner’s office this afternoon?” McNamara offered.

“No, thank you, that’s kind of you but... I’ll come by myself... Maybe I’ll ask my friend, Mary, you know, Mary Brown, to accompany me. I don’t think she’d mind...” She realised she was rambling and shut up.

“All right, Mrs Porter, then we’ll see you there in the afternoon. Now, I think we’d better leave you alone,” McNamara said, standing up again.

He couldn’t wait to move on to the next item on his to-do list.

Mrs Porter nodded, but didn’t reply. She stood up with difficulty, much like an old woman, and showed the two policemen out. She opened the door mechanically and nodded to them as an afterthought.

After they left, she eased the door closed. She leaned against the wall for a few seconds. Then she slid down to the floor where she remained motionless for a while, completely numb. After a few long minutes, she burst into tears again and sobbed her heart out. Her child was gone.

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