Daniel Blake - Soul Murder

For Michael and Sheila Royce, whose friendship means more to my family than they can possibly imagine.

Cover Page

Title Page Soul Murder Daniel Blake

Dedication For Michael and Sheila Royce, whose friendship means more to my family than they can possibly imagine.

Friday, October 1st. 12:15 p.m.

Monday, October 4th. 8:12 a.m.

9:38 a.m.

Thursday, October 7th. 10:57 p.m.

Tuesday, October 12th. 10:08 a.m.

1:25 p.m.

Friday, October 15th. 7:11 a.m.

Monday, October 18th. 6:53 p.m.

10:04 p.m.

10:30 p.m.

11:17 p.m.

11: 42 p.m.

Tuesday, October 19th. 11:24 a.m.

1: 09 p.m.

Thursday, October 21st. 10:26 a.m.

Thursday, October 28th. 3:51 p.m.

Saturday, October 30th. 9:32 p.m.

Sunday, October 31st. 9:24 p.m.

10:12 p.m.

11:17 p.m.

Monday, November 1st. 8:22 a.m.

11:30 a.m.

12:57 p.m.

2: 01 p.m.

Tuesday, November 2nd. 11:54 a.m.

Wednesday, November 3rd. 9:11 a.m.

Thursday, November 4th. 9:20 a.m.

Friday, November 5th. 7:14 a.m.

Sunday, November 7th. 12:15 p.m.

Monday, November 8th. 8:52 a.m.

Tuesday, November 9th. 5:44 p.m.

Wednesday, November 10th. 7:46 a.m.

8: 44 a.m.

11:31 a.m.

12:28 p.m.

1:39 p.m.

Thursday, November 11th. 9:41 a.m.

Friday, November 12th. 4:00 p.m.

Saturday, November 13th. 10:16 a.m.

11: 08 a.m.

Sunday, November 14th. 3:33 p.m.

Monday, November 15th. 9:49 a.m.

9:55 a.m.

10:10 a.m.

Tuesday, November 16th. 7:24 p.m.

Wednesday, November 17th. 4:56 a.m.

8:23 a.m.

Thursday, November 18th. 3:07 p.m.

4:01 p.m.

11:52 p.m.

Friday, November 19th. 10:37 a.m.

Saturday, November 20th. 2:48 p.m.

11:43 p.m.

Sunday, November 21st. 12:39 p.m.

4:44 p.m.

Monday, November 22nd. 7:20 p.m.

7:58 p.m.

8:05 p.m.

9:12 p.m.

10:09 p.m.

10:56 p.m.

Tuesday, November 23rd. 1:28 a.m.

4:17 a.m.

8:49 a.m.

11:06 a.m.

11:35 a.m.

1:13 p.m.

1:20 p.m.

Wednesday, November 24th , 9:37 a.m.

11:44 a.m.

4:51 p.m. (Pacific Time)

5:28 p.m. (Pacific Time)

Thursday, November 25th. 2:29 p.m. (Central Time)

Friday, November 26th. 3:49 p.m.

5:10 p.m.

Monday, November 29th. 9:23 a.m.

Tuesday, November 30th. 4:15 p.m.

6:04 p.m.

Wednesday, December 1st. 8:18 a.m.

9:29 a.m.

10:47 a.m.

11:31 a.m.

11:45 a.m.

2:12 p.m.

Thursday, December 2nd. 2:56 p.m.

Saturday, December 4th. 11:03 a.m.

Sunday, December 5th, 10:10 a.m.

10:38 a.m.

11:15 a.m.

12:35 p.m.

12:47 p.m.

2:38 p.m.

3:15 p.m.

3:34 p.m.

Monday, December 6th. 8:30 a.m.

6:32 p.m.

8:08 p.m.

Tuesday, December 7th. 9:48 p.m.

10:32 p.m.

Wednesday, December 8th. 9:12 a.m.

11:41 a.m.

3:03 p.m.

Thursday, December 9th. 5:45 p.m.

6:37 p.m.

6:39 p.m.

6:41 p.m.

7:02 p.m.

7:24 p.m.

8:15 p.m.

10:10 p.m.

Friday, December 10th. 2:13 a.m.

8:00 a.m.

8:34 a.m.

8:51 a.m.

8:53 a.m.

8:55 a.m.

8:56 a.m.

9:00 a.m.

11:00 a.m.

11:07 a.m.

12:37 p.m.

1:04 p.m.

1:16 p.m.

1:22 p.m.

1:40 p.m.

1:52 p.m.

1:56 p.m.

1:57 p.m.

2:23 p.m.

2:45 p.m.

2:51 p.m.

2:58 p.m.

3:00 p.m.

3:04 p.m.

4:30 p.m.

5:55 p.m.

Saturday, December 11th. 9:43 a.m.

Sunday, December 12th. 3:12 p.m.

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Franco Patrese hadn’t been inside a church for ten years.

Ironic, then, that his first time back was straight into the mothership itself; Saint Paul Cathedral, center of spiritual life for close on a million Pittsburgh Catholics.

The bishop himself had insisted. Gregory Kohler had first gotten to know Franco’s parents when he, as a young priest, had helped officiate at their wedding. He’d taught Franco and his sisters in the days when priests and nuns could still be found inside the classroom, and over the years had become family friend as well as pastor.

Now he’d offered Franco and his sisters the cathedral. You didn’t turn the bishop down, not if you were a good Catholic; and Bianca and Valentina had certainly kept the faith, even if Franco hadn’t. Besides, they needed all the seats they could get. Half of Bloomfield – an area of the city so Italian that the parking meters are painted red, green and white – had come to pay their respects to Franco’s parents.

Alberto and Ilaria Patrese had been killed five days before. Alberto had gone to pass a truck on the freeway at exactly the moment the truck driver had himself pulled out to overtake an eighteen-wheeler. The collision had flipped the Patreses’ car across the central reservation and into the path of three lanes of traffic coming the other way.

They hadn’t had a prayer.

The police had come to Franco first, as he was one of them: a homicide detective, working out of the department’s North Shore headquarters. When two uniformed officers had approached Franco’s desk, he’d known instantly that someone in his family was dead. He recognized the expression on those officers’ faces as clearly as if he’d looked in a mirror. He’d had to break similar news many times. It was the worst part of the job, and by some distance. Nothing rips at people’s lives like the death of a loved one.

Franco had found the immediate aftermath unexpectedly bittersweet. There’d been tears, of course, and shock giving way to spikes of anger and confusion; but there’d also been rolling gales of laughter at the hundreds of family stories polished and embellished down the years. He’d kept himself occupied with death’s legion of petty bureaucracies: police reports, autopsies, certificates, funeral arrangements, contacting relatives long-lost and far-flung. Busy meant less time to think, and less time to think meant more time to be strong, to make sure everyone else was bearing up all right, to deflect even the slightest gaze away from himself.

He was doing it even now, during the funeral service, sat in the front pew with his sisters either side of him and his nephews and niece tucked solemnly between the adults. Determined to be the rock on which the waves of grief could crash themselves out, Franco pulled Valentina close, ruffled the children’s hair, and squeezed Bianca’s hand when her jaw juddered and bounced against the tears.

The last notes of ‘Amazing Grace’ faded, and the congregation sat as Kohler climbed the steps to the pulpit. He was in his sixties, with a mane of hair that would have been the envy of a man half his age. The hands he raised as though in benediction of his flock were large and strong, and they did not shake.

Franco tuned out. He heard the grateful laughter when the bishop said something dry and affectionate, but he was miles away, thinking about the things he wished he’d told his parents while he’d still had the chance, and about the things he was glad he hadn’t told them. They hadn’t known everything about his life, and he had no illusions that they should have done so. He knew they’d loved him, and nothing was more important. But he knew too that loving people meant protecting them.