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‘We’ll talk this out another time,’ Sean impatiently said. ‘What did you find out about Tyrone’s family background?’
Tom gave him a look, but shrugged. ‘He’s from Essex, the London fringe, born in Chingford, lived on the edge of Epping Forest most of his life – I got his date of birth from the magazine, he had to fill in the usual income-tax and national-insurance forms. I checked up in the Records Office, drove over to Chingford, managed to find someone who’d lived next door to his parents years ago and remembered him – an old girl with false teeth that didn’t quite fit, she whistled on every other word. But her memory was as clear as a bell. She told me which school he’d gone to, I called in there, pretending to be checking references – several teachers remembered him; they liked him, gave him a rave report, in fact. They told me something else, too – I checked it out in the back issues of the local newspaper, and they were right. He’s an only child and his parents both died while he was young. His mother when he was in his teens, his father when he was about six – and listen to this, it seems his father fell downstairs in their house and was killed outright. He was drunk at the time; the inquest brought it in as an accident.’
In the shadowy car, Sean turned his head to stare at him, narrow-eyed. ‘But you don’t think it was?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. Just a hunch.’
‘I trust your hunches, Tom, always have.’
Tom grinned. ‘Thanks. OK, then, from the report in the local paper both the boy and his mother were upstairs at the time – they claimed to have been together in the boy’s bedroom when they heard him fall. He’d been drinking for hours, and the forensic report given to the coroner confirmed that. But the widow admitted that her husband had been knocking her about before he fell – the police evidence was that when they saw her that night she was covered in bruises, had a split lip and a black eye. And a neighbour heard her screaming, but apparently that was normal for this pair. They were always fighting.’
‘I think I get your drift,’ Sean said slowly. ‘You mean – did he fall, or was he pushed? And how old was Tyrone then?’
‘Six.’
Sean grimaced. ‘Yes. A bit young to start out on a career as a murderer, but if he was there and saw it happen it must have set up a trauma, reinforced any hereditary tendency to violence. I suppose the mother didn’t come to a violent end too?’
‘No, she died of natural causes, and I’m told the boy worshipped the ground she walked on. He was devastated when she died, these neighbours told me, and listen to this – they said he was a quiet, dreamy, gentle boy, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘But half kills policemen,’ muttered Sean and Tom nodded.
‘Weird, isn’t it? Anyway, he had to go and live with his grandmother, in Epping Forest. She was his mother’s mother, and had hated his father, had tried to stop her daughter marrying him. A shrewd old woman, obviously, if the guy used to beat up the daughter. I got out of the magazine editor that Tyrone is crazy about the house he used to live in with his grandmother, a big, detached place … the editor called it a folly, but I don’t know what that means, except it sounds like a white elephant to me. Tyrone inherited it when the old lady died eight years ago.’
‘Eight years ago?’ repeated Sean sharply. ‘Again? Everything in this story seems to lead straight back to whatever happened eight years ago.’
Tom looked blank. ‘It does? What haven’t you told me?’
‘Oh, never mind – carry on, I was just babbling.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Tom said drily, but went on. ‘He kept the house on while he was in prison because he got some insurance money left to him by his grandmother, but that’s all eaten up now and he’s having to sell the house because he can’t afford it.’
Sean stiffened. ‘Did this editor give you the address?’
Tom Moor turned to look at him, picking up on his tone. ‘He didn’t know it. I asked him. He gave me Tyrone’s current address – it’s just a bedsit.’
Sean stifled a groan. ‘Well, give that to me, Tom.’
Tom handed over a folder. ‘Here you are – photostats of the birth certificate, the death certificate of the father, and the coroner’s report, his home address, income-tax number, national-insurance number … I practically got his vaccination certificates!’
‘Thanks,’ Sean said, punching his arm lightly. ‘I owe you one. Great work. You go on home to bed now, and tell Cherie I’m sorry.’
‘Won’t make no difference, man. Cherie hates you. And wait till you see my bill – you won’t owe me nothing when you’ve paid that!’ Tom chuckled and got out of the Porsche, leaned on the roof and said, ‘Hey, think I’ll get me one of these after you’ve paid my bill.’
When Tom had gone, Sean drove to the address Tom had given him. It was a huge, rambling late-Victorian house in the back streets of Hackney which had been converted into single-room flatlets. The one Johnny Tyrone occupied was dark and nobody answered when he rang the bell although a few faces showed at windows and stared down at him in a hostile way.
He yelled up at them but none of them opened a window; they vanished again when he waved and shouted up again.
Sean drove back to Annie’s house; that was still dark, too, and nobody answered the bell there, either.
They’re together, he thought. But where? His stomach burned with acid. He settled down in his car again, to brood and wait.
Annie got back home at ten o’clock. Johnny had wanted her to spend the night with him, but she had yet to learn her lines for the next day and she had to be up at six, she told him.
‘I’d love to stay all night, but I know from bitter experience that if I don’t sleep I’m good for nothing next day.’
Holding her close he asked, ‘When, then? Do you realise we’ve never spent a night together? We’ve only ever snatched a few hours and then had to hurry off, even when we were living under the same roof, in case your mother caught us.’
‘At the weekend? Saturday night, Johnny – I don’t have to get up on Sunday, I have the day off. We could sleep here that
