Chapter Twenty-Two

In Memoriam

Time lost all meaning. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

It was the largest injustice Savannah could envision. Lyra wasn’t supposed to go. She wasn’t supposed to give up. She was supposed to have wallowed for a while before bringing herself back, just as she had countless times before.

Part of Savannah had believed Lyra would be changed forever this time. That the near-death experience and subsequent renewal of life would provide Lyra with a bedrock of home to build on. Even this part had been adamant that, at the bare minimum, she would survive.

Savannah couldn’t believe she hadn’t. With her death, the already gaping hole in Savannah’s soul expanded further, as wide as a pit of hell. Savannah had been rocked hard by Theo’s death. It had torn through her like a bullet train through a sheet of wood. But, she’d been able to dive into training and channelling her energy into other pursuits after grieving and for the most part, she’d been doing okay with it. She’d never accept it, and she wanted the perpetrator to suffer for what they’d done. Beyond that, and the constant presence Theo had in her mind, she’d been able to carry on. Not move on – she didn’t believe she’d ever be able to do so – but she was able to focus on her future and the wonders before her.

With Lyra gone… that felt larger. It felt preternatural. An endless void of suffering. Savannah had hated leaving her mother all her life, even to go to school, and while that had lessened since Jeremy’s arrest – it granted her the surety Lyra was safe – it had never gone away. The thought of Lyra leaving her was something so imperceptible and reprehensible she’d never been able to allow it into her mind.

Yet, here she was. Her mother had passed on and left her and the twins behind. The hole in her heart could only be filled by Lyra. That it was never going to be filled, for the rest of her life, destroyed her.

Lauren was distressed, too. Even she couldn’t put her feelings into words.

Alexis’s reaction was the polar opposite.

It was the early hours of the morning, and Lauren was driving Savannah and Alexis home. No words were spoken, leaving the scene free to replay in Savannah’s mind.

Alexis had called the ambulance. She walked into Lyra’s room, her expression a sheen of ice. Savannah released Lyra’s body for a moment (a moment longer than she could bear; she physically felt a tug in her gut trying to reinstate contact with her during the brief separation) to allow Alexis in.

Alexis stood at her shoulder, looking at Lyra without expression. She moved closer and placed a hand on Lyra’s face. A single, infinitesimal tear rolled down her cheek, smudging her delicate eyeliner in one specific, minuscule spot she’d rage at later.

Alexis spoke the words that would haunt Savannah to her dying day.

‘I told you I couldn’t do this without you. I told you I needed you. I told you not to leave me. And yet, you left me anyway. I will never forgive that. And I will never forget that.’ Alexis retracted her hand and left the room, without so much as a furtive glance back at them.

Savannah looked into the passenger side window at Alexis in the back seat. The moonlight shone through the window onto her set jaw, her pursed lips. Those electric blue eyes bore a hole into the countryside, the moonlight accentuating their silver flecks, tough and unyielding.

When they were a mile from town, Lauren broke the silence. ‘Have either of you heard from Aaron?’

Alexis, without turning her head, checking her phone or moving in any way, blurted back a ‘no’.

Savannah twisted her head. Even that movement exhausted her. Her joints felt like clay. Her body screeched out for sleep, but her mind was working overtime, denying it that privilege.

‘No, I haven’t. I left him a voicemail to ring me when he got home,’ she sighed. Words felt too heavy. Too much, too soon. ‘He hasn’t.’

‘Right, well, we’ll… go back and check if he’s there, then if he isn’t, we’ll go find him.’

Savannah gave a single, near imperceptible inclination of the head. Alexis gave no affirmation. Her hands balled into fists.

Savannah was unable to access anger like Alexis. All she could feel was a deep sorrow. She was in a narrow, endless, pitch-black corridor with no light. In here, those walls shifted closer and closer, suffocating her.

She couldn’t stop it. In that corridor, her memories of her mother, things she’d rarely pondered over, rushed to her. The strength to fight them off evaded her. They enveloped her, and the car and countryside fell away, and she became the girl in the memories.

Her first day at nursery. She kicked up one hell of a fuss upon being forced to leave Lyra at the start of the day. Once she entered nursery and engaged with the teachers, she was content, with a nagging feeling of loss that Lyra wasn’t there with her.

The bell rang to signify the end of the day. She charged out of the building, dragging her pink, puffy coat with a mermaid emblazoned on the back and a fluffy hood that had been white that morning but was now caked in a thin coat of dirt along in her wake.

She stopped at the gate, ignoring the calls from the teachers to come back, and began a fervent search among the featureless profiles of the other parents. A breathlessness grew with every second that elapsed, with every face that wasn’t her mother’s.

Then, an overwhelming sense of relief. Lyra, walking up the path, wearing a beam which broke into tears, in her full-length black coat that smelled of roses and herbs. Savannah felt herself stretch into an uncontrollable grin. The dark cloud of anxiety lifted. Little three-year-old Savannah hurtled at top speed down the path. Lyra ran towards her, all decorum forgotten in the light of reunion with her firstborn.

Savannah reached Lyra and Lyra scooped her up and held her close. Savannah wrapped her tiny toddler arms around Lyra’s neck. She bathed in Lyra’s warmth, taking no notice of anything but the sensation of being in her mother’s embrace again. Lyra spoke something unintelligible. Savannah wanted to grip onto the words, but she couldn’t without letting go of her, so she clutched even tighter, her tiny hands running through Lyra’s hair. Savannah’s coat lay neglected on the floor.

Before she could protest, she was back in the corridor, and the memory flitted away into the darkness. The walls drew in an inch. Her cheeks were moist and sticky. Another memory flew towards her.

She was the same age, this time in her living room. She sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with her toy unicorns and mermaids. Alexis, who could not be more than a year old at this point, wore a petite white dress with pink bows in her hair, and toddled over and began playing with Savannah’s toys. She gabbled away in her own language and Savannah giggled at her.

Savannah looked up at the sofa and there sat her grandmother, Katerina; her kind, wrinkled features - so reminiscent of Lyra’s - smiled down at them. Lyra sat next to her, with a cheerful expression which baby Savannah was blissfully unaware would become a rarity in the future.

Savannah stood on her unsteady legs and made her way over. She placed a hand on Katerina’s knee, but moved to Lyra and allowed herself to be picked up.

Lyra sat Savannah on her lap. Neither talked. Savannah gazed into Lyra’s serene russet-brown eyes, creased at the corners, (even now surrounded by slightly dark circles) and Lyra gazed into hers. The room was filled with the aroma of cooking youvetsi. The only sound was Alexis's continuous stream of gabbling. This was home. This was safety. This was happiness.

And Savannah was back in the corridor, the memory ripped away, quick and cruel, replaced by deep-seated grief that she’d never live it again. She sagged against the wall and gave great, heaving sobs.

She plunged into more memories. She flitted through these, as they faded one by one, faster and faster.

Going to a castle with Lyra and the twins when she was seven, where she told Lyra she should be a queen because she’d make an amazing one and it would mean Savannah could be a princess.

Playing football in the garden with Lyra when she was ten after the princess phase had long passed, and she’d become obsessed with football and rugby; Lyra had played football twice in her life before that, but that hadn’t stopped her spending time playing it with Savannah.

In the nativity play Savannah’s middle school put on when she was 11, where Savannah could not recall her lines in front of the crowd of parents and Lyra, rather than letting the teachers sort it out, came up onto the makeshift stage and helped Savannah herself. Even with the abject embarrassment, she felt safe and unconcerned, because her mother was there.

Outside the headteacher’s office when she was 14 and had skipped a few lessons that week. Lyra listened to the Headteacher’s concerns and assured him she’d get to the bottom of the problem. Straight after they’d left the room, she’d pulled Savannah to the side without any anger whatsoever, asked her what was wrong, and listened to Savannah without interruption as she told Lyra how she was being bullied by her maths class and teacher. Lyra had ensured Savannah was moved class and the teacher was suspended.

After that, the memories ceased. Of all the memories she had of Lyra, exceptionally few were happy in the later years. This made things graver – these memories served as a reminder of what things could have been, but weren’t, and never would be.

If Savannah possessed no happy memories of her time with her mother, that would be easier. As it was, she’d have those memories with her forever, coming unbidden into her mind whenever they felt like it, bringing with them an endemic misery. That, in itself, wasn’t a problem.

That her mother would never accompany those memories in the same way again, was. That she had no chance to make any new ones with her, was.

Savannah returned to the conscious world and the car, her cheeks and neck drenched. They pulled up outside the house. Lauren appeared to have gone to check whether Aaron was inside and left Alexis and Savannah in the car. That suited Savannah. She had no desire to enter that house again - she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not just because of the inevitable memory flood that would occur upon entry, but the photographs. She’d avoided looking at them after Theo had died. Now they’d lost Lyra, too, those photographs were drenched in grief, despite being joyful memories in their own right.

The building didn’t feel like home anymore. Where it previously felt warm, comforting, and safe, a place of love… It now felt freezing, damp, and forsaken.

Not for the first time, Savannah reflected on the injustice of having Jeremy in their lives. Had he left when Theo had been born, that would have been perfect. Lyra could have been happy, they could have been a proper family without the maelstrom of abuse, terror, and pain that followed Jeremy everywhere like an obedient puppy to him, a feral beast to those around him.

Lauren came out of the house and got back into the car. ‘He’s not there.’

A muscle popped in Alexis’s jaw. ‘That little bastard. He’ll be absolutely off his face in a field somewhere, or at one of his pathetic druggy mates’ house, monged on drink and coke.’

Lauren looked at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Where’s he most likely to go?’

Alexis's lip curled. ‘What’s that fucker called, the one that got him into harder drugs in the first place? Jason? Aye, his house. He lives in the east end. Drive down there, I’ll tell you where to go.’

Lauren put the car into gear and drove to Alexis's directions. Within ten minutes, they’d pulled onto Jason’s street.

Lauren’s car was still running when Alexis wrenched the door open with such force she almost yanked it off its hinges. She stalked up to a compact, red-bricked house with a garden growing weeds as tall as she was.

Lauren lunged out of the car. Savannah dragged herself out. By the time she reached the house, the door was open, and a small, toothless, middle-aged woman wearing a threadbare dressing gown ogled them.

‘Who are you?’ she said croakily.

Alexis peered over her into the house, not bothering to make eye contact. ‘Is Aaron here?’ There was an edge to her voice. Her arms were trembling slightly. That muscle pulsed in her jaw.

‘Wha’? Whey aye, lass, ‘e is, bu’ who are you?’

‘I’m his sister. I want to see him, now.’

The woman gaped at her. ‘’scuse me, don’ spe-’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, get out of the fucking way.’ Alexis barged past her into the house. ‘AARON?!’ she yelled from the hallway, checking the downstairs rooms. She shouted his name again, Jason’s mother squashed against the front door.

‘She’s been through a lot tonight,’ Lauren murmured to her.

Aaron appeared at the top of the staircase. His hair was a mess, his eyes were unfocused, and his gait was unsteady. This was not a sober teenager.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ His voice was thick.

Alexis charged up the stairs, grabbed Aaron’s arm, dragged him down the stairs with such force he struggled to stay upright, and out of the house, ignoring his vehement protests. Lauren didn’t intervene. Savannah had no energy to.

‘Thank you for your time,’ Lauren said. Jason’s mother, speechless, closed the door and Lauren walked up the path back to the car at Savannah’s side.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you utter cretin?!’ Alexis pushed – threw - Aaron into the side of Lauren’s car. Aaron accepted the berating with his mouth wide open. ‘What the fuck makes you think it’s acceptable for you to go off and get fucking high all the fucking time without a word to anyone?! Do you care about anyone other than yourself?!’

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

‘Lex, come on-’

‘NO!’ Alexis drew in, an inch from Aaron’s nose. ‘I will not ‘come on’. I’m fucking sick of it! Yeah, sure, you’re struggling. Well, whoopdy-fucking-do! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, we’re all fucking struggling, and none of us feels the need to stick shit up our noses and into our lungs! You’re a selfish prick. When I -we- need you to be there, you never are! You’d rather snort a fucking line than spend time with your bloody twin, who’s struggling just as much as you!’

‘Right, Alexis, he gets the message,’ Lauren said. She stepped in and placed a gentle hand on Alexis's shoulder. Savannah half expected Alexis to lash out at Lauren. Instead, she allowed herself to be guided back, away from Aaron.

Alexis’s anger was depleted, and exhaustion and grief took over. She gave one long exhale and the next moment, she was in floods of tears and collapsed against Lauren, her head buried in her shoulder. Lauren held her and whispered words of comfort.

Savannah walked over to Aaron and, leading him by his hand, guided him to the passenger side and directed him into the seat. He rubbed his arms where Alexis had grabbed him. ‘What’s gotten into her?’

Savannah looked at him, her eyes flitting between open and shut. She had to tell him. Slumping against the side of the car, in a small voice, she said, ‘Aaron… mum’s dead.’

Aaron stared, his mouth opening and closing. ‘No…’

Savannah nodded, her hands going to her stomach. She hadn’t anticipated the weight the words would have. Saying it out loud was akin to being hit by a bus at a hundred miles per hour. ‘She-she’s gone.’

Aaron’s stare persisted until the tears came. But, swiping them away, he got back out of the car and stormed over to Lauren and Alexis, who separated. The twins glared at one another.

Aaron wrapped Alexis in a hug, and they collapsed against each other.

*

Bradshaw strode into the court building, Robertson at his heels. This place was intimidating – every member of legal personnel to cross his path was either in those black, flowing robes, or a top-of-the-range suit. In his shirt and jeans, he stuck out like a clown at a rave. At least he’d managed to polish his shoes. On the flip side, there were the judges who had to wear those daft wigs. Thank god he would never be made to wear one of those.

On their travels, they bumped into who they were looking for – the officer in charge of making sure the defendants were safe, looked after, and didn’t escape while they awaited their trial. He was a stocky gentleman a decade or two older than Bradshaw and dressed in a cheap suit. His face was stern and lined. In his hand, he held a paper cup of coffee. He groaned at the sight of them.

‘You those detectives?’

‘Indeed, sir. We just have a couple of questions regarding a prisoner – well, defendant – that had a bail hearing here last month.’

The officer looked to the heavens. ‘Come along to my office, and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

They let him guide them. Bradshaw and Robertson shared a look that said, ‘this guy’s gonna be a barrel of laughs’. They smirked for a second, before slapping their professional guises back on.

A few moments later, they were in his office: a small room, wherein stood a desk hosting an out-of-date computer, a couple of bookcases bedecked with awards and manuals, and a rack in the corner filled with files.

The officer – called Gladdens, according to the plaque on his desk - gestured at the chairs in front, and Bradshaw and Robertson took them. Bradshaw smiled at him, hoping he’d get the message – they wanted the information and to be out of there as soon as possible. It wasn’t that they were in a rush – Bradshaw would rather get a tooth drilled by a criminal than spend too long in this man’s company, that was all.

‘So, what was the date of the hearing?’ Gladdens asked, firing up his computer.

‘It was the eleventh of November,’ Robertson said after consulting her notes.

Gladdens nodded, typed something into his computer, and scrolled, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth.

‘And the name?’

‘Jeremy Glasco-Mason.’

Gladdens took his gaze away from the computer. ‘Right, I have the details here. What can I help you with?’

Bradshaw shared a look with Robertson. A sense of excitement was building. Whichever way the cookie crumbled, they’d have an answer. They’d be onto something. They’d have a lead.

‘I need you to establish that there’s no way that our Mr Glasco-Mason could have escaped this building without the notice of anyone.’

Gladdens frowned and scoffed at the same time. Then, the frown brightened into a chuckle. Seconds later, it was a full belly laugh.

Bradshaw sighed and Robertson rolled her eyes while they waited for him to calm down.

Chortling, Gladdens said, ‘that’s impossible! You think we’d be that lax? He wouldn’t have been able to move five feet away from an officer without being tackled! CCTV would catch his every single movement! What a ridiculous question! You came all this way to waste my time with such stupidity?!’

A more aggressive person than Bradshaw would’ve allowed their ire to rise at this. As it was, he noticed Robertson shift in her seat, her glare icy. His best bet was to hurry this along before Gladdens ended up being slammed headfirst into his desk.

‘With respect, sir, I am not insinuating that you or your colleagues are neglectful in your duties. We’re only trying to whittle down our options in Glasco-Mason’s case. Some… events, without going into too much detail, have occurred and blown his case wide open. This would help us establish whether he was involved in the crimes he’s linked to.’

Gladdens pressed his lips tight. ‘Wait, wait, wait. I remember this guy. He’s the alcoholic who killed his mother-in-law, correct?’

Bradshaw sighed again. ‘He stands accused of that crime, yes.’

‘And you’re telling me there’s a chance he won’t go behind bars?’

It was Bradshaw’s turn to frown. Why would Gladdens care?

Robertson jumped in, her tone caustic. ‘No, we’re telling you that there’s a high chance he won’t even go to trial. Is that a problem?’

Gladdens looked down at his lap. ‘Yes. See… I heard some tales from the guards responsible for him while he was in our custody, along with similar from the boys that brought him over from prison. I don’t usually engage in idle gossip, but… I know his wife. I know what he is. He’s a vile, odious, abominable person. He belongs behind bars.’

‘On that we’re agreed,’ Robertson said, leaning back. ‘So, can you check the footage and give us what we need? Please?’

Gladdens nodded again and went back to the monitor. With a piercing stare, he watched the footage. When he was done, his head was shaking.

‘Damn it. I’m sorry, detectives.’ Gladdens turned the monitor to them and pressed play. The video demonstrated that Jeremy was never left alone, was never off-camera, and hadn’t moved an inch, aside from his journey to and from the courtroom.

‘Shit. Well, thank you for your time, officer,’ Bradshaw said, standing to shake his hand. Gladdens’s face was downcast. Though Bradshaw still had that thrill that came with closing in on a culprit, he could empathise. He’d have enjoyed the knowledge that Jeremy Glasco-Mason would be convicted, too - if for nothing else than recompense for the pain he’d put Lyra through. Nevertheless, their personal feelings didn’t alter Jeremy’s innocence. At least, when it came to Theo. Katerina was more complex, but there was the definite possibility that the knife was planted.

‘That’s one lead off the list, then,’ Bradshaw said to Robertson when they’d left the room.

‘Fuck. I was hoping we’d get the evidence here and now.’

‘As was I. Still, it’s a lead down. We know where to go next. We’re a step closer to solving this, Robocop.’

Robertson slapped his arm.

*

Bradshaw picked his red whiteboard marker up off his desk and drew a large red question mark beside Jeremy’s picture.

‘So,’ Bradshaw began, returning to his desk, where he reclined in his chair and pulled the takeaway carton towards him. He and Robertson were meant to finish work two hours ago, but wrote it off and decided upon a nice, greasy Chinese at work instead. ‘We can categorically rule out Jeremy’s involvement in Theo’s death.’

Robertson swallowed her mouthful. ‘On the face of it, yes, but while he definitely wasn’t an active participant in the crime, there is still the possibility he was working with whoever did.’

‘Well, yes. But, he had no interactions with anyone aside from the officers and those present in his court appearance on the day of the murder, so he couldn’t have instigated it. There’s always the possibility that he’s had some line of communication with Theo’s actual killer, but I spoke to the prison and they’ve said no one’s contacted him at all. By phone or letter. Which, in a completely separate thought pattern, is actually quite sad, but then you remember he’s a drunken letch, and it’s less of a pity. So, yes, you’re right, but, no, you’re wrong. Which, brings us back to Katerina’s murder. Thoughts?’

Robertson watched the board, hoping the answer would leap out at her. ‘I don’t know, Ryan. My gut is telling me he didn’t do that one, either. He’s got a violent streak, sure, but one – why kill Katerina now? And two – why kill her in the first place? I know his mind doesn’t work like ours, but we all have people that don’t like us. If we all went around killing anyone who didn’t like us, the world would be an empty place. And, the knife being so close and so obvious feels more like a slap than evidence. My gut tells me that it was planted, and my gut’s always right.’

Bradshaw snorted. ‘I’ve seen your ex-boyfriends, it’s definitely not.’

Robertson threw her pen at him. ‘Alright, romance not included – my gut tends to be right.’

‘That’s better,’ he smiled. ‘In that case, our working theory is now that Jeremy is innocent. I don’t like that, but with any luck, if we can prove this he’ll go back to drinking himself senseless and shit out his liver or something. But I never said that.’

Robertson gave him a disapproving look. ‘That’s not a very professional thing to say, Ryan.’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I’m saying it in front of you and I wouldn’t call you professional.’

‘Abuse in the workplace!’ She threw another pen at him, which he caught, and laughed.

‘So was that!’ He threw it back at her.

Bradshaw moved over and sat on the edge of her desk, and the mood became serious. ‘I want him done for what he’s put Lyra through. I’ve a lot of respect for her. She’s like… my guru, y’know? She’s a really good woman. And he’s…’

‘A piece of shit.’

‘Exactly. So, let’s list off those who had contact with the family. There’s the whole of the kids’ school, but there’s nothing there. No one has a personal vendetta against any of the family. None of the teachers have had more than brief conversations with Lyra and their knowledge of Jeremy’s existence comes purely from reputation. They’ve never met the man.’

‘And, obviously, Theo wouldn’t have had any enemies.’

‘No, kids typically don’t… and yet the poor lad’s still ended up dead. The older children, from what I gather – I went up to the school and interviewed the teachers while you were off last week-’ Bradshaw said, noticing Robertson’s quizzical expression. ‘And, beyond Savannah having a cheating ex-boyfriend, Alexis leaving a trail of broken hearts, and Aaron falling in with the wrong crowd – drinkers and bad kids, not murderers – we can cross off the school.’

Robertson leaned back. ‘Did you question the rat? Sorry, ‘cheating ex-boyfriend’?’

He smiled again. ‘I did, he wants Savannah back because he’s bored. Has no motive to kill anyone.’

‘Clued up on the high school gossip, are you? You remind me of those bitchy girls I used to hate when I was growing up,’ she grinned. ‘Aaron’s friends?’

‘If memory serves me correctly, you were one of those bitchy girls. But, nope. Wayward children too keen on booze and other substances. Likely not sober enough most of the time to be anywhere close to capable of committing murder.’

‘Okay, so there’s nothing with the kids. Unsurprising, but important to rule out nonetheless. What about… Lyra?’

Bradshaw twisted his lips down and cocked his head. ‘Ex-cons she put behind bars are always a possibility. I’ve got a file together and I’m keeping tabs on them all, but most of them aren’t even in the county, and the closest ones have solid alibis.’

‘For fuck’s sake, you said we were closer to a breakthrough. All I’m seeing are solid brick walls ten feet thick, never mind closed doors.’

‘I know, but it narrows the net. So, who does that leave us with?’

‘Jeremy’s drinking buddies, I suppose. There’s a high chance he’s pissed one of them off enough they want revenge. But, aside from a drunken brawl in the street, I can’t see them being functional nor motivated enough for violence. Keep a close eye on those ex-cons, mind. I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I can throw them.’

Bradshaw stood and gave a sarcastic salute. ‘Sir, yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for your royal highness?’

Robertson reached over and pushed him. ‘You can fuck off is what you can do for me, cheeky bastard.’

There was a knock on the door and over his laughter, Bradshaw called, ‘come in,’ and the young receptionist, Nicole, entered the room. Her demeanour was dejected, her expression sorrowful.

‘What’s wrong, Nic?’ Bradshaw asked.

‘I’ve just had a call from hospital.’

Bradshaw darted over to Nicole and gripped her shoulder. ‘Oh, god, what’s happened? Is your family okay?’

Nicole nodded, her eyes interested in a spot on the floor. ‘Yeah, they’re fine, it’s not them. It’s… It’s Lyra. She… she committed s-s-suicide last night,’ she burst into tears. ‘P-p-pronounced dead at the scene. It was a z-z-zopiclone overdose and alcohol p-p-poisoning.’

Bradshaw turned away and leaned over his desk. Robertson gasped and joined Nicole in her waterworks.

‘God damn…’ Bradshaw muttered. ‘That poor woman…’

‘At least she’s at peace, I suppose…’ Robertson said.

Bradshaw sank into his chair. ‘I know… there is that… but… I was certain she was due a good turn in fortunes. After all the shit she’s been through… she deserved everything good. Fucksake… I thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse for her.’

At the station, and indeed all over the county, in every law enforcement office, station, court, every hospital… poignant toasts were made. Lyra had been immensely popular, well-known, and respected.

Bradshaw had attended university with her, and there their friendship had blossomed. Before she went on the sick, Lyra was often at the station, gossiping and laughing with Nicole at the desk, stopping to chat with every employee she came across… Lyra had been one of those people that possessed the rare ability to make anyone feel good and had spread that effect everywhere she went, no matter how torn up she’d been inside.

Bradshaw pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his desk drawer and went to the cupboard by the sink. Out of it he retrieved three glasses. He filled each to the brim and handed them around.

‘To Lyra Andrianakis. One of the best lawyers to practise the craft. A kind, loving, and exceptional woman. She touched each of our lives in a unique way that will never leave us. She will be remembered fondly. Her loss is a loss to all of us. A light has gone out and the world is a darker place without her. Wherever she is now, may she finally be at peace. To Lyra. We will never forget you.’

He, Robertson and Nicole drained their glasses in one.