Pat Molloy grimaced and shifted in his chair.
He’d been home for an hour and had spent it with a whiskey, reading Sean Martin’s book. Not to see how he described the case, but looking for some clues to add to what Sean had told him all those years ago. He’d stayed up late reading it the night before, but the visit from Trudy had hardened his resolve.
His large house was shielded from the countryside by high brick walls. He and his wife, Eileen, had bought it years before, when there was still money to be made in criminal law, aided by an inheritance from his father.
A few years ago, Pat thought the wall gave him privacy, so that neighbours and passers-by couldn’t see in. Now, he’d changed his mind. His life was ending, he knew that, and he wanted to see the hills beyond and the passing traffic, the dog walkers and the ramblers. He wanted to see life. Instead, all he had were the small fruit trees that broke the monotony of the lawn and a solid line of brickwork.
He put his head back and closed his eyes. It had been a long day. He’d taken a walk to the courthouse, just to see some old faces, but it had all seemed so jaded. The ones who had been there for years looked worn out, and the younger ones seemed disinterested. He thought he missed it, but really it just reminded him how he should have left it all behind a few years earlier. When it came to the final moments, none of it mattered.
The ones who knew him tried to hide their shock at his appearance but didn’t do a good job of it. That wasn’t how he wanted to be remembered, as a tired and ill old man. He wanted to scream at them that they’d all end up like this too, that life shouldn’t be all about chasing the money, but he knew no one would listen. He’d have ignored the warning when he was younger too.
Eileen came into the room. ‘Do you want some supper?’
He opened his eyes and gazed at her, and not for the first time marvelled at his good fortune. They’d made a good team and had enjoyed some special times. He hadn’t always treated her well, but she’d stayed with him, certain that they were better together than apart, and for that he was grateful.
‘I’m all right with this for now.’ He raised the glass.
‘You need to eat. You’ve got a fight ahead of you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not up for a fight, my dear.’
She folded her arms and glared at him. ‘I expect better from you, not to just give up.’
‘Just let me sort out my affairs and then I’ll focus on me. Dan is thinking about my offer.’
‘Do you think he’ll accept?’
‘I don’t know if he wants to be a boss. He could join one of those big firms and be part of a team, but I hope not. It makes me sound vain, but that firm and my name on that window is my legacy.’
She kissed him on his forehead. ‘And us, and our children.’ She looked down at the book. ‘So, what’s all this reading? You need to rest up.’
‘Just a book by an old client.’ He showed her the cover of Sean Martin’s book.
‘Oh, that man. I never liked him.’
He took a drink as he flicked through the photo section. ‘Nor me.’ Something caught his attention, and he stopped, lost in the book.
Eileen stood and considered him for a few seconds, but it was clear his attention was gone. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’
‘Very good, my dear,’ Pat muttered as she left the room. He stared at the picture and tried to work out what it was about it that had made him pause. He closed his eyes again and rubbed his chest. It was almost as if he could feel the cancer growing inside him, devouring his organs, taking him over. He felt robbed, cheated. He’d been looking forward to his retirement and then bang, it was all taken away.
Forty years earlier, he’d been a young articled clerk, fresh from university, following in his own father’s footsteps. It had been his vocation, but he had taken a different route to his father. Not for Pat the grind of commercial law, his father’s career spent drawing up contracts and taking debtors to court. Pat had been attracted to criminal law because of the excitement, back when justice was often meted out by the police in the back alleys, neither side interested in a court hearing.
Then there was the day-to-day stress. The judges who wanted to embarrass him. The clients who wanted to hit him because they didn’t like his advice. The tedium of form-filling. The stale stench of clients who came into the office from a dirty home. The despair in the eyes of people whose lives had turned out wretched and had realised that it was never going to get any better.
Those times seemed distant but, in some ways, it felt like they’d only just happened. Life was simpler back then. No Internet. No smartphones. No micromanagement. The job was conducted by notes written on scraps of paper and in rooms heavy with cigarette smoke, with police officers who relied on trickery and deceit, and often brutality.
In some ways, things were better now. In others, they weren’t. However they compared, he’d lived through all of it, and those years had enriched his life.
Then he remembered Sean Martin. The shock of his words at the party. The whole room had seemed to retreat, his mind focused on what Sean had said and the sadistic gleam in his eyes. It hadn’t been enough that he’d got out; he’d wanted Pat to know that he’d cheated everyone.
Perhaps it had been a drunken joke?
He took another sip. He didn’t believe that. Not for a moment.
Pat couldn’t work out why that case in particular still bothered him so much. He’d freed more bad people than he could count. Not just killers, but robbers and rapists and child molesters, and he’d never given it a second thought. He had just been doing his job. Perhaps it was because the evidence had been the problem in those cases, so that it was the fault of the police that the cases weren’t strong enough. In Sean’s case, the evidence had been fine. Pat had just found an expert who was able to throw in some doubt, and he’d searched so hard because he’d been convinced of Sean’s innocence.
Because Sean had made him believe in his innocence.
Sean Martin was the shadow on his career. He needed to know whether he was right, or whether it was just a drunken joke; Sean enjoying the look in Pat’s eye, stupid from the relief of being out of prison. If he was innocent, prison might have done strange things to him.
Pat looked again at the book, and suddenly the clue was clear to him. Sean Martin hadn’t been able to stop himself; he must have enjoyed the thought that the answer was right there in the book for everyone to see but no one else would ever spot it. It was the same arrogance that had allowed Sean to admit to Pat where he’d hidden the murder weapon.
And that arrogance would be his downfall. The book might be Sean’s own little private joke, but for Pat it was the final section of the picture Sean had painted for him at the appeal party.
Pat put his glass down and creaked to his feet, coughing as he did. He shuffled to the hallway and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door.
‘I’m just going out,’ he shouted up the stairs, hoping to be heard over the sound of running bath taps.
There was no answer.
He was pleased about that. He knew Eileen would disapprove.
The cold night hit him hard, making him cough again, but he needed internal peace more than he wanted a warm night.
He knew exactly where he was going.