we'd met before.'
'I never thought of that,' Sophie told me. 'I suppose we could call to see you first, on Saturday on our way home.'
'That would help,' I agreed, 'but I'll still skip lunch, if you don't mind.'
'I was hoping for some moral support.'
'You'll be fine.'
Rosie was offering more tea. I nodded and pushed my cup and saucer across the table. 'Nice cake,' I said. 'My favourite.'
'I should have invited you for a meal,' she said. 'It was thoughtless of me.'
'Nonsense. Chocolate cake is a treat-and-a-half.'
'Have another piece.'
'Well, just a small one.'
Rosie told me about her day. She'd spent it stripping varnish from a pine bookcase she'd bought, and preparing visual aids for when school started again.
'Geography or geology?' I asked.
'Geog. The changing face of Eastern Europe. What with all the asylum seekers and upstart countries that nobody had heard of five years ago, suddenly everybody wants to know what's where. Good old boring geography is flavour of the month. Well, not quite, but mild interest has been aroused.'
I smiled at her words. 'Have you travelled much?' I asked.
'Not for a while, but I used to, when I could afford it. I had a couple of nasty experiences and it put me off. It can be difficult for an unaccompanied woman. You attract unwelcome attention.'
'I can imagine. Where's your favourite place?'
'Florence,' she replied, dreamily. 'No doubt about it. I spent a month there one summer, and I was in heaven.'
'What? No unwelcome attention?'
'It's not always unwelcome,' she replied with a laugh. 'Have you been to Florence?'
'Long time ago, when I was a student. Otherwise, I haven't done much travelling. It's something I regret.'
I sipped my tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. 'I went to see a man called Henry Ratcliffe today,'-I began, when happy thoughts about times spent in sunnier climes had subsided. 'He was the investigating officer.'
'Where was this?' Rosie asked, suddenly concerned.
'Chester. He's in a nursing home in Chester, has some wasting disease. Motor neurone or something like that. I doubt if he has much longer to live, but he's quite lucid.'
'The poor man.'
'Mmm. I asked him what he remembered about the case, and… about… your father.'
'Was he any help?'
'Not in the way he meant, Rosie. Even allowing for the huge chip on his shoulder brought about by his condition, he didn't come across as a very nice man. Your father's politics were anathema to him, and I wouldn't be surprised if that didn't cloud his judgement.'
'You mean… he may have tampered with the statement?'
'I certainly wouldn't put it past him. He belonged to that school, and no mistake.' But before her hopes were raised too far I went on: 'However, this morning I received a copy of the statement. I haven't brought it because I thought it might upset you. It was written by Ratcliffe and allegedly signed by your father. It looks OK to me but we could try to check the signature. It's a long name and your dad signed it in full, so it would be difficult to forge. It doesn't look good, I'm afraid, Rosie.'
She bit her lip and stayed silent, holding a long-cold cup against the crook of her shoulder. The nail polish on her toenails was chipped through walking about bare-footed, and as if reading my mind she drew her feet under her, out of sight. Outside, the streetlights came on up the hillside, although it was still early. Big clouds were building up and the tops were lost in them. Rosie rose from her chair and switched on a standard lamp to give the room some illumination.
When she was seated again she said: 'So we'll have to wait for the DNA tests?'
'It looks like it.'
I wanted to cross over to her and swamp her in an embrace, tell her that everything was just fine, that we could see things through together, but I couldn't. It wouldn't be true. Life is for the living, I wanted to say, and we owe it to ourselves to make the most of it. God knows, it's short enough. But she was locked in the past, with a dead father who she loved. Would I have been as determined to clear my father's name under similar circumstances? I had no idea.
'Last night,' I said, 'I talked to Mary Dunphy on the telephone.'
Rosie came back from wherever. 'Mary Dunphy?' she repeated.
'You knew her as Mary Evans.'
'Mary Evans? You've spoken to Mary Evans?'
'Yes. She said you were the prettiest girl in the village, and the cleverest.'
'Oh, I was, I was! So where is Mary living?'
'Still in the village. Presumably she married someone called Dunphy and stayed there.'
'That would be Barry Dunphy. He was a few years older than us but I remember him because he played for the school rugby team. He was expected to go on to great things in rugby, but I never heard of him again.'
'That happens to lots of promising young sportsmen,' I said, shaking my head wistfully. 'Good at school, but never making it in the big, wide, outside world. Did I ever tell you about my goal-keeping exploits?'
'I can hardly wait,' she replied, a smile briefly lightening her expression.
'I'll save them for another time. Mary spoke quite affectionately about your father. Said he was the last person she would have thought of to have… you know. Until she heard about the confession.'»
Talk of the rugby team had reminded rrfe of the last piece of news I had for her. 'There's just one other thing,' I said. 'According to Mrs Dunphy, Glynis was what she described as 'an immoral person'.'
'An immoral person? In what way?'
'Apparently she wasn't averse to going up the hillside with a gang of boys and giving them sexual favours. It happens in most villages, or so I'm led to believe.'
'I didn't know that.'
'There was no talk of it at the time?'
'No, but why should there have been?'
'No reason, except that if the case had gone to trial it could have made the difference between a charge of murder or one of manslaughter.'
She sat silently, pondering on my words. I drained the dregs from my cup and stood up to leave. 'I'll be on my way,' I said. 'I take it you haven't heard anything.'
'No, nothing.'
'Let me know if you do. Thanks for the tea and the cake.'
'Thanks for coming, Charlie. I do appreciate it.'
She walked to the door with me. As I stood with my hand on the handle I said:
'When this is over, Rosie, do you think we might spend some time together, get to know each other?'
She looked up at me and nodded. 'Yes, I'd like that.'
'Win or lose?'
'Mmm, win or lose.'
'Good. And perhaps then we could catch up on all that travelling.'
'That's something to look forward to.'
'Secret of happiness,' I said, 'is having something to look forward to.' I held her slim shoulders in my hands and gave her a kiss on the forehead. 'And I've a lot to catch up on.'
Rosie walked me to the gate and I admired her flowers. She grew roses but I failed to associate them with her name for a few seconds and made some fatuous comment. 'I'm just a dumb detective,' I said, giving myself a blow to the head.
