{"id":71,"date":"2025-06-13T10:47:52","date_gmt":"2025-06-13T10:47:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.conmaguire.com\/?page_id=71"},"modified":"2025-06-25T11:59:21","modified_gmt":"2025-06-25T10:59:21","slug":"the-injured-party","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.conmaguire.com\/?page_id=71","title":{"rendered":"The Injured Party"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Lydia dozed in the threadbare armchair. She spent most afternoons like this, slipping in and out of consciousness, since her retirement. A shrill knock at the door woke her. Who could that be?<\/em> Visitors were rare, these days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Padding down the hallway almost on tip toe, the diminutive old lady fastened the chain and meekly opened the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMrs Evans ?\u201d She didn\u2019t recognise the man standing before her, but noted an ill-fitting suit and a strong smell of cigarettes. \u201cI\u2019m Terry McFarlane, from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation at Ferne Rise. Are you Mrs Lydia Evans?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, officer\u201d. She seemed taken aback. \u201cHow can I help?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s about Colin Dermott Evans.\u201d Her husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without hesitation she replied, \u201cyes, officer, please come in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lydia led him into the parlour. Seated, she asked \u201cWhat do you want with Colin? We split up, you know, some time ago now.” She added for good measure, “so I’m not sure how much I can help you\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a strange one, Mrs Evans. It comes via New South Wales State Police, a Mr Terence Evans is worried about the whereabouts of his brother, Mr Colin Evans.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTerry?\u201d She replied, aghast. \u201cBut Terry\u2019s been over there, it must have been thirty years since. But Terry? They hadn\u2019t seen each other for god-knows-how-long, and even when he was<\/em> here, there was no love lost between them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cApparently, Terence has been trying to contact Colin for the last six months. He\u2019s been unable to trace him and contacted his local police, who in turn got in touch with us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, how can I help?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, we wondered if you might have any idea of your husband\u2019s whereabouts?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, officer. I threw him out for the last time, five years ago.\u201d With some acidity, she added, \u201che always had a string of women \u2013 you could try finding one of them\u2026\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, can you tell us anything that might help us?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I bumped into one of his betting shop ‘friends’ about three years ago, he said Colin had flown out to Thailand at the start of that winter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The detective noted this down. \u201cAnd can you tell me the name of this friend? And the shop?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within a few minutes, Lydia had exhausted her helpfullness. McFarlane proffered his thanks, and departed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Returning, Lydia walked to the sideboard and gently patted the skull, which formed the centrepiece. She pondered her next move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think you need to lie low for a while, Colin, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n

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Lydia dozed in the threadbare armchair. She spent most afternoons like this, slipping in and out of consciousness, since her retirement. A shrill knock at the door woke her. Who could that be? Visitors were rare, these days. Padding down the hallway almost on tip toe, the diminutive old lady fastened the chain and meekly … <\/p>\n

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