Хилари Боннер - A Kind Of Wild Justice

She gave a small involuntary gasp.

‘He had a stroke soon after Jimbo’s last trial,’ said Tommy. ‘Been like this ever since. His left arm and his left leg are paralysed. We don’t know what he can understand.’

Tommy walked across to the chair and stroked his father’s still abundant shock of white hair. More like father to son than son to father. But that’s the way all our parental relationships change in the end, Jo thought to herself.

‘Do we, Dad, eh?’ he murmured, his voice suddenly soft and ripe with affection. Then he patted the old man’s hand, but still Sam did not react.

Swiftly Tommy retreated to Jo’s side. ‘Right, that’s all you’re getting,’ he said, as he ushered her out into the hallway again. ‘I wanted you to see that,’ he went on, once he had closed the living-room door behind them. ‘We’ve kept Sam’s condition a secret. That’s why you can’t print anything. Dad would hate people to know that he had become a dribbling wreck. I mean, he’s still Sam the Man. As long as he’s alive he’ll always be that.’ Tommy spoke with quiet pride, reverence even.

Against her better judgement Jo found that she was moved. ‘I am very sorry, Tommy,’ she said. And in a strange way she meant it, too. She had no illusions about the villainy of Sam O’Donnell or what a nasty piece of work he could be, but there had always been something special about him. He had been big in every way, a character, one of the last of a dying breed. She knew better than to romanticise his sort but with Sam you just couldn’t help doing so just a bit.

Tommy was not interested. ‘I didn’t show you Dad to get your sympathy,’ he told her. ‘I wanted you to see what you’ve done, you and that bastard Fielding. You got that new trial staged against Jimbo and that was what did it. No doubt about it. Dad adored Jimbo. All that DNA stuff. He couldn’t take it. He was ill, really, right from when it all started again. He had a very slight stroke just before the hearing at Okehampton, that’s why you’ve seen him using a stick since then. But he was all right, in his head anyway, until after Jimbo disappeared. Then he had another stroke. And it was a big one. It was all just too much for him.’

Joanna felt suddenly irritated. ‘Tommy, you can hardly blame me and Mike Fielding. If you have to blame anybody you should blame your brother.’

Tommy shook his head stubbornly. Joanna knew that he was a bright, intelligent man, everyone knew of his determination to legitimise the O’Donnell family and how hard he had already worked towards it. The fresh prosecution against his brother couldn’t have helped with that. But apparently, in common with so many of these East End villains, when it came to family Tommy had all the old blind spots. ‘There was no call for it all to be dragged out again,’ he said frostily. ‘It was history. And it didn’t do anybody any good, did it? Not Angela Phillips’s family and not us. We’ve not only lost Jimbo, we’ve as good as lost Dad because of it too. He’s out of it. The only mercy is we don’t even think he knows Jimbo’s dead.’

‘Tommy, Angela Phillips died in the most horrific circumstances possible,’ Joanna responded tetchily, throwing caution to the wind. ‘Your brother killed her. The DNA proved it and if it had been available twenty years ago Jimbo would have gone down then. That’s what the new trial was about, that’s why it was all “dragged out”, as you put it, again. And if it weren’t for some bloody stupid anomaly of the law he would have been locked up and he wouldn’t be dead. He’d be safely behind bars. Where he belonged. He was a murderer and a rapist. You must accept that. I reckon your father did in the end and that’s probably what made him ill.’

‘I accept nothing. Jimbo’s dead, that’s all I know. And he was my brother.’

‘Look, do you mind if I ask you some questions while I am here?’ she ventured recklessly.

‘Yes, I fucking well do,’ he stormed at her. Then he repeated his earlier remark, but his voice was much louder and angrier now. ‘I just wanted you to see what you did to my father. And now you’ve seen it — get out.’ He didn’t take a step towards her. He said nothing that was specifically threatening. He didn’t need to. You don’t argue with an angry O’Donnell.

She opened the door to the house herself, shut it quietly behind her and hurried to her car, parked down the street.

When she put the key in the ignition she noticed that her hand was shaking.

Back in the office, she worked on her column through the afternoon. Just after five Paul called through and told her his deputy was editing that night. ‘I’m taking an early cut,’ he said. ‘If you’re clear, how about an evening at home? Maybe phone for a pizza or something.’

Joanna was pleasantly surprised. The Comet operated a system of duty editors at night. Either Paul, his deputy, or one of three assistant editors edited each night, staying in the office until well after the foreigns dropped, often until one in the morning and sometimes later. But Paul was a hands-on editor, as almost all of the good ones were. Except on Fridays, which was designated as a family evening, he would rarely leave Canary Wharf until ten or eleven even when somebody else was officially editing. She agreed with alacrity and told him she would give him a lift home if he liked and he could give his driver the night off.

They left the office soon after seven, the traffic was as amenable as it ever is at that time, and they made it to Richmond in just over an hour and a quarter. Paul was companionable enough, if a little distant. But she was used to that. It was the way things were. Indeed, he spent most of the journey home talking to the night desk on his mobile phone. That was the way things were, too. Always.

At home he settled down with Emily at the computer in her bedroom while Joanna made drinks and ordered a pizza. Emily was always excited to have Paul home and inclined to monopolise his time when he was there. Joanna didn’t blame her. She saw little enough of the father she idolised. The pizza arrived and all three sat down at the kitchen table together. That was rare enough, too, which was why Emily had been allowed to stay up and eat later than usual.

Paul teased her gently once or twice about the purple hair and Jo suspected from their daughter’s rather sheepish reaction that she might already be regretting whatever whim or peer pressure had led her into yesterday’s drastic hairdo. Paul had the knack of handling Emily, of bringing her round almost always to his way of thinking. He was very good with her, always had been. Indeed, they were like peas in a pod. Emily was a real chip off the old block. Joanna was inordinately proud of her, even if she did sometimes fear that she was old beyond her years. Apart from when it came to that hair!

In spite of the teasing Jo could tell how much their daughter was enjoying the family supper and vowed to try to make it happen more often. Paul promised to take her swimming at the weekend and Emily went to bed happily, although still reluctantly, around 9.45 p.m. Joanna poured the remains of the bottle of red wine she had earlier opened into her and Paul’s glasses, and asked him if he would like her to open another.

‘In a minute,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you. I’ve been waiting for us to have some time alone.’

She noticed that he was looking very serious. She had already stood up and was halfway to the wine rack in the corner. She turned around and walked back to the table. ‘Well?’

‘You should know that I am aware that you are once again having an affair with Mike Fielding,’ Paul announced in an expressionless voice.

Joanna sat down with a bit of a bump. That was the last thing she had expected to hear. Her first instinct was to lie. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about...’ she began.