His abrupt laugh echoed with disbelief. ‘That would be one for the books, right enough,’ he said. ‘Amanda Bowe threatened by the man she saved from a miscarriage of justice.’
‘I’m serious, Hunter. He broke into my apartment and left the toilet seat up.’
‘The toilet seat up? Give me a break, Amanda.’
‘I never leave it up. Never. And he used the toilet to let me know he’d been here.’
Hunter was silent as she listed the hoaxes and threats she had endured since Karl Lawson was released from jail.
‘How do you know he’s the one giving you grief?’ he asked when she paused for breath.
‘Grief? I’m taking about death threats.’
‘What proof do you have that it’s him?’
‘Who else can it be?’
‘I could list the names but I don’t have time for a marathon conversation.’
‘For God’s sake, Hunter, why aren’t you taking this seriously?’
‘You destroyed him, Amanda. Then you tried to put him back together again with your self-serving freedom campaign, which had nothing to do with his release. Once the legalities were sorted, it was inevitable.’
‘You destroyed him, too. He has as much reason to hate you. What if he comes after you as well? And your family? He talks about bloodbaths. How many bodies does it take to fill one?’
‘If Lawson’s playing games, I’ll sort him out quickly enough.’
‘How?’
‘That needn’t concern you.’ His expression was grim, as closed off as the night she had seen him talking to Killer Shroff in Rimbles. He had been incognito then, an undercover cop who straddled the fine line between crime and conformity, and revelled in the risks he took. ‘Don’t contact me again,’ he warned as he was leaving. ‘You’re still under suspicion and your phone could be tapped. So could mine. Just trust me to take care of things. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He departed as abruptly as he had arrived. In the chill of his leaving, his protective rush back to his family, she saw the ashes of what… love? Lust? Mutual usage? They had plundered what they needed from each other and all they had left to do was return without a backward glance to their separate lives.
Chapter Thirty
Karl was awakened at two in the morning by a prolonged blast on the doorbell. He pulled on a pair of joggers and ran down the stairs. The familiar fear kicked in when he recognised Detective Garda Hunter on the doorstep. The detective was dressed in a hoodie and jeans. The hood, pulled up over his head, accentuated his high forehead and broad cheeks. Karl looked beyond him, expecting to see his female partner, and was surprised to discover he was alone.
‘What is it, Detective? Come to arrest me again?’ His bravado hid his unease and the silence that followed was deliberate, timed to work his pulse rate and set his heart pounding.
‘That depends on what you’ve been doing… or are going to do,’ the detective eventually answered him. ‘You’re flying to New York tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ He had no idea how the detective had come by that information. The fact that he was aware of his plans increased Karl’s anxiety.
‘Documentation in order?’ Detective Hunter moved closer.
‘I assure you, everything is in order.’
‘You must be looking forward to seeing your daughter.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t come to my house in the small hours to discuss my relationship with my daughter.’ He resisted the inclination to step back from the man’s threatening gaze. The twitch of an eyelid, a muscle spasm so slight as to be imagined; yet Karl saw this involuntary movement in slow motion, or so it seemed, and it increased his fear that anything could happen, no matter how unimaginable, and he would be swept into the vortex. ‘Why are you here, Detective? If it’s to interrogate me, I intend to call my solicitor before continuing this conversation.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the detective replied. ‘This is an informal call. Advisory, you could say. Are you aware that you’re under investigation for breaking and entering, for terrorism, threatening behaviour and stalking?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard. Obviously, you were well mentored in jail.’
The accusations being outlined were crazy, yet they could be made to fit his crime. Square peg, round hole – that wouldn’t matter to the man standing before him.
‘Terrorism? How am I supposed to have terrorised anyone? And who am I stalking? I demand to know their names.’
The detective thrust his head forward until their faces were almost touching. ‘I’m giving you fair warning before the guards close in on you—’
‘I’m calling my solicitor—’
‘You don’t call anyone.’ He moved so quickly that Karl had no time to react before his arm was grabbed and lifted above his head. The man’s solid bulk pinned him against the doorframe.
‘I can make sure you never enter the United States,’ he said. ‘Documentation is everything and with a reputation as flawed as yours, it won’t be a problem. Do we understand each other?’
‘I haven’t a clue—’
‘I’m doing you a favour, Lawson. If you ever mention one word about tonight, and the fact that I’ve gone out on a limb to protect you, you’ll feel the full weight of the law on your back.’
‘Detective Hunter, you’re here illegally on my property and you’re threatening me.’
‘Advising you. Kids grow up fast these days. Your daughter could be a mother before you see her again. What you’ve done will put you away for a hell of a long time. And you needn’t depend on any freedom campaign to release you next time around. So, to repeat my question. Do we understand each other?’
It came to him then, a blast of awareness that gathered the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and slotted them into place. Detective Garda Jon Hunter and Amanda Bowe. Finally, it all made sense.
‘Yes, Detective Hunter. I understand you perfectly.’
‘Better get your beauty sleep then.’ He released Karl’s arm and stepped back. ‘You’ve an early flight to catch in the morning.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Sunday lunch in Raleigh Way was a tradition Imelda began after the death of her husband and had continued ever since. This weekly lunch was Amanda’s main contact with Rebecca and the sisters used it to keep in touch, knowing they would drift apart if it was not there to anchor them. As children, they had been conjoined by fear, wary of their father’s moods, his sudden outbursts of violence. Amanda had learned early to disguise that fear, even when it ripped through her chest and her breath was a bubble that refused to burst. Rebecca could never pretend. She shivered like an aspen when he raised his voice but Amanda, as she grew older, had stared him down, even when it meant the side of his hand on her face.