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Fisher was probably going to need more therapy, to see if he could unearth the root of the problem. In Quarry’s opinion, there was more to it than his wife leaving him. That had happened three years back now. In that time he’d seen Fisher try so hard to put his life back together.
“Frank, we need to try and move on here. I think we’ve both known for a long time that Anna is never coming back. I thought you were getting over it.”
“‘Getting over it!’ Up until a few years back I had everything. I had a good job. I was healthy. I could walk. I had a wife, a life. How the hell do you expect me to get over everything that’s happened and carry on like nothing has? You want to try stepping into my shoes for a week or two, see if you can get over it.”
Fisher was returning to the state of mind he’d been in when he’d left the hospital. In spite of the help from his friends, he’d fallen into a deep depression, and had tried to take his own life in the office. He’d been found in time by one of the apprentices. From that point on, they had watched him very closely.
A friend had persuaded Fisher to sue for compensation. Quarry had never been sure who that friend was. Fisher would have none of it at first, but eventually decided to do so because he was informed that the builder would not lose out. He would be insured for such things.
But the builder wasn’t insured. The policy had lapsed, the money used for something else. So when Fisher won his compensation claim, he took all the money the builder had.
Fisher sat in his wheelchair, shaking.
“What is it, Frank? What are you not telling me?”
Time stood still for Quarry. He stood up and crossed the room despite the smell growing much worse the closer he got to Fisher.
“Frank, you’ve come a long way. You’ve gained your self-respect. You have a good job now, accounting for a number of local firms. You have a lot of friends who come and spend time with you. You have a lot more to live for than you think. Please, tell me what’s wrong.”
Fisher raised his head, and there were tears in his eyes.
“Everything. Everything’s wrong. My whole fucking life is a mistake. Marrying my wife was. The accident was. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I then decided to listen to my fucking friend, and I sued the builder I worked with. And that was a mistake.”
“Why, Frank? It was an act of negligence that nearly cost you your life.”
Quarry could see he would have a devil of a job calming Frank Fisher down, the rage within him was so evident.
“Because the builder was my friend. I should never have done it. I should never have listened to someone else.”
“Who, Frank? Who did you listen to that you now think was a bad idea?”
“He had to stick his oar in, didn’t he? And I listened to him, and that was a mistake.”
“Who, Frank? Please, tell me.”
Fisher glared at Quarry with such an intense hatred that he feared for his life.
“Barry fucking Morrison.”
“Barry Morrison? What’s he got to do with all this?”
“He was my friend… and I listened to him.”
“You mean he was the one who advised you to sue the builder?”
Quarry was pleased. Fisher had opened up.
Fisher nodded. “Which was a mistake, because Morrison’s dead as well, now.”
Chapter Thirty
Following a quick early morning call, Reilly collected Gardener in a pool car. They were now sitting in an interview room with a table and three chairs, and a mirror on one wall.
Sitting opposite the two detectives, with a coffee and a plate of ginger biscuits, was the man who had phoned the station claiming he knew the identity of the killer of Nicola Stapleton and Barry Morrison.
Gardener had a pen and pad in front of him. Reilly also sat nursing a coffee, and an apple turnover, claiming it was the nearest he could find to one of five a day.
“Mr Baines,” said Gardener, “I believe you have some information for us.”
