Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow. Тилли Бэгшоу

nodded miserably.

      ‘That Mrs Baden passed on to you?’

      Another nod. Then, more lucid than before: ‘He could be dead, Detective. I know that. I’m not stupid. He used to call me two, three, four times a week, no matter what state he was in. Then last summer the calls stopped, just like that.’ Her eyes welled up with tears. ‘Until it’s beyond doubt, until I know for one hundred per cent sure, I can’t give up hope entirely. You understand, don’t you?’

      ‘I do,’ Goodman assured her. ‘Which is why it’s so important we find out what happened to Brandon, Mrs Grolsch. We need to know, for our investigation. And you need to know too, one way or the other. Right?’

      She nodded vigorously.

      ‘Were there any other adults he might have turned to, after he left home? When he stopped calling you. A teacher at school? A counselor? A doctor, even?’

      Frances Grolsch sighed heavily. ‘Brandon didn’t like teachers. He had a lot of therapists, but I don’t know if he’d’ve reached out to any of them.’

      A thought suddenly occurred to Goodman.

      ‘Did he ever see a therapist named Dr Nicola Roberts?’

      Frances furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. Then, closing her eyes, as if the effort was too much for her, she shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t think so. I don’t remember that name.’ Looking up at Goodman, she suddenly asked, ‘What is your investigation anyway? Is Brandon in trouble, Detective?’

      Goodman stared back at this broken, lonely woman, with her bullying husband, rattling around this opulent prison of a house. I suspect Brandon’s been in trouble for a very, very long time, he thought.

      ‘We don’t know anything for sure yet, ma’am,’ he said aloud, pulling out his card and pressing it into her clammy hand. ‘But if you remember anything – anything at all that you think might help – please call me.’

      ‘Mmm hmmm,’ said Frances Grolsch, looking dazed.

      Goodman headed out to his car. It had been quite the elucidating visit. Clearly he and Johnson needed to speak to Mr and Mrs Willie Baden, and the sooner the better. But driving away, it was the toxic atmosphere in the Grolsch household that haunted him more than anything, sending shivers running down his spine.

      Poor Brandon.

      Families like that were how monsters were made.

      No amount of money could compensate for a life that loveless and bleak.

      Passing the neighboring home with the birthday balloons outside, he found himself saying a silent prayer for nine-year-old Ryan.

       Good luck, buddy. I think you might need it.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      ‘Treyvon? Trey!’

      Marsha Raymond’s voice echoed down the hall of the flimsy single-story house on Denker Avenue. Marsha had moved in here two years ago with her son, Trey, and her mother Coretta, after their last place got torched. The Hoovers, one of the worst gangs in Westmont, threw a petrol bomb through Marsha Raymond’s bedroom window one night. No reason for it. No feud or bad blood. It just happened.

      That was a bad time all around, back when Treyvon was still using, and dealing to fund his habit. A lot of good things had happened since then. Moving into this place. Trey getting clean. Getting a job. The Raymonds had Dr Douglas, God rest him, and his beautiful wife Nikki to thank for all that. Sometimes, Marsha thought, the Lord truly did work in mysterious ways.

      ‘TREY!’ she yelled now, struggling to make herself heard over her son’s booming music. ‘You got a visitor! Get out here.’

      Haddon Defoe stood in the hallway and grinned as he watched Trey’s formidable mother march into her son’s bedroom and haul the boy out. What a long way Trey Raymond had come since Haddon first met him at the rehab clinic. With Doug. And not only Trey. The whole family. Back then the boy had been a desperate, wild-eyed addict, skeletally thin, his body covered in sores. He was having seizures, the whole nine yards. No one knew better than Haddon how often intervention attempts failed, especially with kids from hellholes like Westmont, kids as deep in their addiction as Treyvon Raymond was. But every now and then, things worked out perfectly. This was one of those rare cases.

      ‘Hey, man!’ Haddon high-fived Trey as his mom frogmarched him out into the hall. ‘How you been?’

      ‘Good, man,’ Trey said proudly. ‘I’m doing good. I wasn’t expecting you.’

      ‘I was in the neighborhood.’

      Haddon winked and they both laughed. Westmont was not a neighborhood that a man like Haddon Defoe ‘passed through’. Haddon and Trey might share the same skin color, but they came from very different worlds. Haddon had grown up in Brentwood, the son of a doctor and a UCLA history professor. The black kids at the Roberts-Defoe Venice Clinic had nicknamed him ‘Obama’, a reference to his educated, privileged upbringing and whiter-than-white tastes, including a passion for baroque classical music and an obsession with 1920s silent movies. There was nothing Haddon Defoe couldn’t tell you about Charlie Chaplin, but Tupac lyrics drew a complete blank. Trey, on the other hand, was the product of a teenage relationship between his indomitable mother, Marsha Raymond, and a good-for-nothing troublemaker named Billy James who’d disappeared from their lives long ago and whom Trey assumed was either incarcerated or dead.

      ‘Seriously, Dr Defoe, is everything OK?’ Trey asked Haddon, leading him through to the tiny front room. ‘Why are you here?’

      Haddon rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Everything’s fine, Trey. I wanted to check in on you, that’s all. I know Doug would have wanted me to.’

      Trey nodded gratefully. Doug Roberts had been the closest thing to a father he’d ever had. He missed him terribly. Haddon Defoe had been the Doc’s best friend, which made him honorary family in Trey’s eyes.

      ‘How are things going at work? How’s Nikki?’ Haddon asked.

      ‘You mean since the murder?’

      Haddon looked blank. ‘What murder?’

      ‘Seriously?’ Trey frowned. ‘You haven’t heard? Don’t you watch the news, man?’ Trey told him about what had happened to Lisa Flannagan, and the LAPD visit to Nikki’s office.

      ‘Lisa was one of Dr Roberts’ patients.’

      ‘This isn’t the girl they found by the freeway? Willie Baden’s mistress?’ Haddon asked, astonished.

      ‘She was a lot more than that,’ Trey said defensively. ‘Lisa was a beautiful person, she really was. The cops think Dr Roberts might have been the last person to see her alive. Apart from her killer, obviously.’

      ‘Obviously.’ Haddon seemed lost in thought. ‘What were they like?’ he asked.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The detectives who came to Nikki’s office.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Trey. ‘You know. They were cops. One of them seemed all right, I guess. But his partner was this short, fat, Irish guy. Real mean. Racist too. You could see it in his eyes.’

      Haddon Defoe nodded, still thinking.

      ‘How’s Nikki taken it? Was she close to this girl?’

      Trey shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Not especially, I guess. Dr Roberts seems OK. I mean, she’s sad. Everyone’s sad. It’s a shock.’

      ‘I’ll bet,’ said Haddon.

      They chatted for a few more minutes before Haddon left, declining all Marsha’s attempts