in was months out of date. I'd rented a small cottage. There was a coal fire. I used newspaper to light it and during the summer the papers just piled up. I'd missed the item when it first appeared, last summer. But one cold January morning this year I was making spills of paper to use as kindling, and there it was. Pure chance? I didn't think so.
'I was better at detective work this time. I thought about it for a week or two. All I had was one paragraph. Agricultural Show. So I came up to Yorkshire and started a search via the press. It was very easy. There were more details in the Yorkshire Post. I got the town and the name of the Garden Centre. Linden. That made me almost certain. But I had a look through back numbers of the local evening paper when I got here, and there was a photograph. Dinwoodie. I should have felt triumphant but I didn't. Sick almost. I nearly headed back south there and then. But I'd come this far… this far…
'That night I went out to the Garden Centre.
'Mary was alone. She was surprised to see me, but not too surprised. We sat and talked. I told her about myself, put her at her ease, told her I bore no grudges. It got late. Alison wasn't home. Mary said perhaps I should come back the next day, but I was getting a bit concerned. She was barely seventeen, a child still. I didn't like the idea that she was being kept out till all hours. Then we heard a car. I looked out of the window. I could see her in the passenger seat. She and the driver were in a pretty tight clinch you know, hands everywhere. I wanted to go out, but Mary wouldn't let me. A bit later Alison came in. God, what a change! I mean, all right, it was six years since I'd seen her, but she was still my girl, still just a child. But the clothes she had on, the hair-do, the make-up! And on her hand, on her left hand, a ring. She didn't notice me at first, she was so excited, waving this ring at her mother, saying she was engaged.
'I had to say something. I didn't want to spoil our reunion, but I had to say something. She was quiet at first, much more surprised than Mary. Pleased to see me, I thought, but also accusing. As if it had all been my fault. And wilful. Like her mother. She said she wanted to get married soon. Married? What did she know of life? A child. She said this boy was down here doing some kind of agricultural course. They'd met at the show where Dinwoodie had been killed. Irony. Even dying, he did me a bad turn. Soon he'd be finished, going back up to the Borders somewhere, and he wanted Alison to go with him. I said it was absurd. Legally she was still my daughter. I had my rights still. They let them choose for themselves when they're eighteen now. Stupid, isn't it? But there was still a year to go. And there was no way she was going to get my permission!'
But she didn't need it, thought Pascoe. One parent's agreement was enough now. Christ, why didn't people check what the latest state of the law was?
'Well, there was a row, of course,' resumed Greenall. 'Alison flew out of the room. Mary, however, seemed to be much more sensible about the situation. We talked and in the end I went away, satisfied that an understanding had been reached. It was far too early to talk about a reconciliation, but at least I felt we understood each other. How wrong can you be?'
Pascoe's pen was flying over the sheets of his notebook, yet he was making a great effort to keep it legible. This was an iron to strike while hot. This was not going to be a statement which would easily bear the delays of careful typing. Greenall's signature at the bottom of each handwritten page was going to be the first consideration.
‘I couldn't get back for nearly a fortnight, and then just an overnight stay. Alison wasn't there. Staying with friends, said Mary. A long-standing commitment. I accepted it. Why not? We all had our own lives, we weren't a family again. Not yet. But I had hopes. I'd seen an advert in one of the journals. They wanted a secretary/instructor at the local Aero Club. It wasn't – isn't – a patch on the place I was at in Surrey and the job was much more of a general dogsbody from the sound of it, but I thought it might be worth a look. I said nothing to Mary, but I sent off for details.
'Then next time I came, there was no one at the house. There'd been heavy snow, you recall. It was a foot deep or more. The Garden Centre was closed, of course. And the house was empty. I went back to Surrey, not knowing what to do. I was worried sick. I'd not told a soul anything about this, so I couldn't even talk things over with anyone. I was in a dream for a couple of days. Then the phone rang. I'd given Mary my number and it was her. I knew it was her before I picked it up, and I knew it was bad news. Well, she was almost matter of fact about it. Against my will, against my rights, she'd encouraged Alison to run off with this boy.
They'd been married in Scotland. And now they were dead.
'I don't know what I said. I don't know how long she listened. She was to blame, I knew that. Yet I could understand how utterly her life must have been destroyed. And Alison's death was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Yet in a way it might be a sort of blessing, it seemed, for when I thought of all the agony and disillusion being married so young must have piled up for her, or being married at all for that matter, in a way this quick, sudden death…'
He took a deep breath.
'I thought of Hamlet again, suddenly, the first time in six years. What women could be, what they let themselves be, what they make of us… I tried to get in touch with Mary again. I wanted to explain, reprove, convince, I wanted to show her what she was, make her recognize – well, I wanted all kinds of things. But she wasn't there. And when I came up again, the Centre was still piled high with snow and she still wasn't there.
'So I applied for the job here. Don't ask me why. Just to be close, I suppose. To be ready. I got it, of course. In March I started. I kept away from Shafton. I guessed that Mary might be frightened of seeing me. If she came back and found there'd been someone around asking after her, she might take off again. But once or twice a week I'd ring the house in the evening, just to see if there was an answer. There never was. Meanwhile I got down to the job of putting this place on its feet. It was hard work, but I enjoy hard work. And I get on with people. I like people, Mr Pascoe. I like them a lot. That's why it's been so… hard.'
He passed his hand over his face.
Pascoe said gently, 'And did your wife answer the phone, Mr Greenall? Did you see her again before…’
'Before the Cheshire Cheese, you mean? No, I didn't. She had been back a couple of weeks, I gather. But either she wasn't in, or didn't answer when I rang. So it was quite unexpected. I like to keep fit, Mr Pascoe. A stroll last thing at night and a run first thing in the morning, that's my regime. I don't need more than five hours' sleep. I'd have been good in the Battle of Britain. God, what days those must have been!
'It was quiet here that night, I recall. So I went for my walk a bit earlier than usual and it wasn't quite closing time as I passed the Cheese. I suddenly had a fancy for a half of beer so I went in. I looked through the lounge-bar door to see how crowded it was, and there she was, Mary. A bit pale, a bit thinner, but with a glass in her hand, laughing, with a gang of people.
'I didn't go in. I went out to the edge of the car park and waited. People started to come out. Cars revved up and took off. Soon there was only a handful left. Then Mary came out with some people. They all shouted goodnight. The others all got into one car and drove off. Mary came over to a mini parked quite close to where I was standing. For a moment the car park was empty of people. I called her name as she reached the car. She said Who's that? puzzled, not frightened. It's me, Austin, I said. She came towards me, into the shadows under the trees just off the edge of the car park. She asked me what I wanted. To talk, I said. Someone else came out of the pub. I took her hand and drew her a little further away beneath the trees. She didn't resist. I said, I want to talk about us. And about Alison. And she said, so quiet I could hardly hear her, I've been so frightened and so unhappy, and she leaned against me. Somehow all the things I intended to say seemed irrelevant. Somehow there was nothing to be said at all.'
He paused again. The flow had been constant, thought Pascoe, with none of the anticipated disjointed incoherence as the crisis moment was reached.
He said, 'So you killed her.'
'Yes,' he said in a voice faintly surprised, as though at a quite unnecessary question. 'There was nothing else for her, you see. It's quick. I studied the manuals during my combat training. Then I carried her out of the way a bit and laid her down and made her look as peaceful as I could. I didn't want anyone to think that she'd been savagely attacked and molested, you know what I mean.'
‘And then?'
‘And then I walked home. It was a fine night, very clear, very still. Perfect for night flying, I remember thinking. I saw some navigation lights moving very high. Something big and fast. I envied the pilot a little. But I felt very much at peace. I thought it was all over, of course.'
'But it wasn't?'
