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“Too right,” added Reilly.
Gardener addressed Maurice Cragg. “Who else was on the list?”
“Manny Walters – right here in Bramfield.”
“Any luck?” asked Gardener.
“We haven’t found him yet, sir,” said Benson.
“Find him tomorrow, Paul,” said Gardener. “It’s vital that we eliminate all of these from our inquiries for one reason or another.”
Gardener stared at the boards and the clock on the wall. It was nine-thirty.
“I think that about wraps it up. Don’t be too disappointed. We haven’t yielded many results but we are further on.”
A knock on the door interrupted his final briefing. Steve Fenton came in and closed the door.
Gardener nodded. “Steve.”
“Found something important.”
“Go on,” said Gardener.
“Results are back. There is no DNA evidence to show that the burglar was ever in the bedroom or the bathroom. If he did kill her, it wasn’t upstairs.”
Gardener wasn’t too disappointed. He’d suspected as much. “How many sets of prints did we find in the bedroom?”
“Only two. Hers and Robbie’s.”
Interesting, thought Gardener. That could rule out any illicit relationships.
Fenton still stood his ground. Gardener knew there had to be more so he nodded.
“There is no trace of any prints of any known burglar in the area in that house.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Grace screamed loudly as she threw herself out of bed, hitting the floor with a bump. She was bathed in sweat, panting heavily and shaking like a leaf. She had managed to knock over the lamp and the clock from her dressing table, as well as bringing the pillow from the bed with her.
“Oh, God.” She sighed.
Everything had been so real. She could see, hear, and smell her mother. She had been able to talk to her.
She shouldn’t be surprised. It had been no different from any other nightmare she had had over the last twenty years.
She always came so very close to saving her mother but then the who
le scene ended abruptly and she was snatched away once again.
In a fit of temper, she threw the pillow at the wall. “Please, God, why?” She stared at the ceiling, as if that’s where God lived. “Why have you done this to me?”
There was no answer. There never was. “Why am I supposed to believe in you when you’ve hurt me so much?”
Following a few calming seconds, she forced herself to her knees and then to her feet, grabbing her dressing gown from the bed.
* * *
Later, in the kitchen she washed and dried her hands – twice. She put fresh coffee in the machine and switched it on.
