No guard of honour from the fire brigade saluted Dominick Kelly’s coffin as it was wheeled into the church. No red fire truck bore him on his final journey to the crematorium. His widow and two young children did not attend the short ceremony but blood decreed that his mother and siblings participate. The press, confined to the back of the church, had been asked by the parish priest to be discreet and respect the family’s grief. Amanda sat beside Eric Walker. They were rivals, closely protecting their own sources, striving to achieve the bigger headline, the most sensational angle. He whispered his congratulations to her on the Free Karl Lawson campaign as they watched the small family group follow the coffin up the aisle.
Amanda had expected a reaction to her campaign but nothing like the one she’d received. Signatures, far too many to calculate, had crashed the Capital Eye website, snarled up the phone lines and resulted in record sales of the newspaper. Online and in print, Karl Lawson was once again the headline story. The campaign was still ongoing and would continue until he was freed.
Another internal police investigation had been launched to discover how such sensitive information had been leaked. She had been questioned and threatened with legal proceedings unless she divulged the name of her source. The only proven case against her was that she was a diligent and investigative crime reporter. She had left no fingerprints on her relationship with Hunter. They had never exchanged tokens of affection, love-struck poems or a lingering glance that could be traced back to them.
He had not been in touch with her since that night in the industrial estate. The scoop had, indeed, been his farewell gift to her – and the freedom campaign was her farewell gift to Karl Lawson. She had broken him, then built him up again so seamlessly it was difficult now to understand how he had ever become a suspect in the first place.
She was waiting with Eric outside the church when Dominick Kelly’s coffin was wheeled past on a gurney by the undertakers and dispatched without ceremony to the crematorium. Elizabeth Kelly had been the last person to speak with her son before he took his own life. Her sons, knowing the media were curious as to the manner of Dominick’s death, formed a human shield around their mother as they entered the small crematorium chapel. Elizabeth looked as frail as a wraith. Amanda reckoned she could soon follow her son.
Two days later, she visited Elizabeth at her home on High Strand Crescent. Situated on a height that gave the bungalows a view of the sea, High Strand Crescent was part of old Glenmoore. The fields at the back stretched as far as Glenmoore Woods and, to the front, the sea rolled towards the horizon.
This was Amanda’s second time to visit High Strand Crescent. She had been investigating Karl Lawson’s childhood on the last occasion and then, as now, she had wondered what it must have been like to grow up in a green, open space with fields on one side, the pull of tides before him and room to breathe in between. Her childhood home on Raleigh Way had been a cottage with a low roof and windows that never let in enough light. Neighbours were always within eyesight, and earshot too, not that they ever admitted to hearing what went on behind the slatted blinds.
Elizabeth’s blinds were still drawn over the windows and Amanda had to ring the doorbell twice before the elderly woman answered. After an initial hesitation, she allowed Amanda into the bungalow, accepting without question that she was a friend of Dominick’s and had been abroad at the time of his funeral. Amanda offered her condolences and Elizabeth squeezed her hands in gratitude. She had the polite, slightly bemused expression older people got before they sank into dementia.
She served tea in china cups. Everything about her was delicate, from her trembling hands to her stooped, bony shoulders. She spoke in a low, hurried voice about her son. Such a relief to have someone who wanted to hear what she had to say instead of turning away at the mention of his name. A pariah name that had shamed his family so deeply Elizabeth was afraid to utter it aloud. She showed Amanda the notebook he had left with her before his death. Rambling writings in which he claimed he could hear the voice of God channelling his words through his faithful servant, Dominick. He had written quotes from the Bible and highlighted them in yellow.
‘Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image.’ Genesis 9:6-7.
Other quotes, also highlighted, expressed the same grim warnings. Elizabeth described him as being ‘ecstatic’ when he spoke about the day of retribution. When all his sins would be washed away and cleansed in the blood of the Lord. Amanda read the last quote he had written in his notebook.
‘But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur, which is the second death.’ Revelation 21:8.
A week later, he drank a bottle of whiskey and swallowed enough sleeping pills to ensure he never woke up again. The wrinkles on Elizabeth’s tissue-fine skin deepened.
‘Poor Karl, what he’s suffered,’ she said. ‘Those media people. They should be ashamed of themselves the way they hounded him, and he’s still not free. What will I say when he comes to see me… what can I say…’ She wrung her hands and Amanda stood, anxious to leave before the old woman began to cry.
‘He’ll be free soon.’ She spoke with assurance as she embraced Elizabeth Kelly and bade her goodbye. She had another deadline to meet.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Winter outside the prison walls. The shimmer of ice on bare, knuckled branches, his breath hazing the morning air. The speed of the traffic shocked Karl, everything moving in fast-forward motion, the pavements more congested, the sounds duller than the high-pitched clatter of prison life. Three taxis passed before he felt confident enough to hail one. Fionn had offered to pick him up but he wanted to spend those first few hours of freedom on his own. A miscarriage of justice. False imprisonment but no formal apology. Just an assurance that he was free to go.
Cherrywood Terrace was quiet, the morning rush over, children in school, people at work. A For Sale sign stood in Justin’s garden. The house had been made presentable to potential buyers, the windowsills and gateposts freshly painted, the garden hedge neatly trimmed. The front door had been painted a bright shade of yellow. The colour was out of keeping with the more subtle grape and umber shades of the neighbouring doors, but Karl knew that this was a house where sadness needed to be vanquished.