She replaced the bag on the table.
âAnd here you are,â said OâReilly, who was well used to the solidarity shown by Ulster country folk when one of their own was threatened. âAnd youâre going to tell me about Sonny.â
She swallowed. âHeâs not well and Iâm dead afeared.â
âDonât be scared, Maggie. Youâve done the right thing, coming to us,â OâReilly said. âNow, what do you thinkâs wrong with him?â He immediately regretted his phrasing. Maggie Houston folded her arms across her chest and snapped, âIf I knew that Iâd be a doctor myself now, wouldnât I? Finding outâs your job, so it is.â
OâReilly smiled. Heâd not made that elementary mistake with the literal-minded Ulster folks for years. âTrue. Letâs put it this way. What seems to be troubling him?â
âItâs hard to say.â She frowned. âYouâd need for til ask him. But he wonât see a doctor. Says he doesnât need one.â
Which, OâReilly thought, could make things tricky. He hid a smile. Good history-taking was supposed to avoid asking leading questions, but so far heâd learned nothing of use beyond the well-known fact that Sonny Houston was a stubborn man. âIs he in pain?â
She shook her head.
OâReilly waited. He guessed if Sonny had been bleeding, Maggie would have asked for a home visit at once or dialled 999 for emergency services, so that probably wasnât the cause.
She stared at the carpet.
âMaggie, I really want to help you, but you have to try to help me.â Just about what heâd said to Andy Jackson last Saturday.
âI donât know what ails him. Heâs just, just, och dear, heâs just not at himself, so heâs not.â
âCan you describe in what way?â OâReilly knew the sixty-one-year-old Sonny suffered from arthritis of his hands and mild congestive heart failure that was usually controlled by low doses of digitalis and a hydrochlorothiazide diuretic.
âHe gets awful tired, short of breath andâ¦â She started to wring her hands.
Typical of heart failure, OâReilly thought. Sounds pretty straightforward. Perhaps he needs an increase in dosage.
âIâm ashamed, so I am, til tell yiz the rest.â She stared at her boots.
âCome on, Maggie,â OâReilly said, speaking softly, but feeling the rising impatience in his shoulders and neck. âYou can do it.â
She sniffed, pursed her lips, and screwed up her eyes. âExcept for til discipline his dogs,â she looked down accusingly at Jasper, now sound asleep and snoring gently, âSonny Houstonâs never raised his voice in anger til a living soul. Except maybe that great glipe Bertie Bishop over the roof business.â She looked down at her hands, which were gripped tightly together in her lap, then looked OâReilly in the eye. The words came out in a rush. âThis morning I spilled milk when I was putting it on his cornflakes. HeâHeââ She shook her head. Silence.
OâReilly leant forward, put a hand on her arm. âCome on, Maggie,â he said, âyou can spit it out if you try.â
She inhaled, paused, and said, âHe shouted at me. Called me a clumsy oaf. A stupid old woman. He was fit to be tied. Yelling at me. Spittle flying.â She lowered her voice to a whisper. âHe put the fear of God intil me, so he did, and thatâs not the first time lately, neither. Thatâs why I come here. Heâs not my old Sonny.â
OâReilly sat back. âThat doesnât sound like Sonny,â he said, while trying to recall what, if anything, he knew about the significance of sudden and completely out-of-character changes in behaviour. They sounded more like some psychiatric disorder. Whatever it was, it needed sorting out, and soon. âI know thatâs
Needa Warrant, Miranda Rights