Aftermath

“You say you were there?”

“Yes,” said Keith. “We were in the room with her. We saw her do it.”

“And you’ve said nothing all these years?”

Laura and Keith just looked at her and she understood that they couldn’t have said anything. How could they? They were too used to silence. And why would they? They were all victims of the Godwins and the Murrays. Why should Linda be singled out for more suffering?

“Is that why she was in the cage when the police came?”

“No. Linda was in the cage because it was her period,” Keith said. Laura blushed and turned away. “Tom was in the cage with her because they thought he did it. They never suspected Linda.”

“But why?” asked Jenny.

“Because Kathleen just couldn’t take any more,” said Laura. “She was so weak, her spirit was almost gone. Linda killed her to s-s-save her. She knew what it was like to be in that position, and she knew that Kathleen couldn’t handle it. She killed her to save her further suffering.”

“Are you sure?” Jenny asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you certain that’s why Linda killed her?”

“Why else?”

“Didn’t you think it might have been because she was jealous? Because Kathleen was usurping her place?”

“No!” said Linda, scraping back her chair. “That’s horrible. How could you say something like that? She killed her to save her more suffering. She killed her out of k-k-kindness.”

One or two people in the cafe had noticed Laura’s outburst and were looking over curiously at the table.

“Okay,” Jenny said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Laura looked at her and a note of defiant desperation came into her tone. “She could be kind, you know. Linda could be kind.”

The old house was certainly full of noises, Maggie thought, and she was beginning to jump at almost every one: wood creaking as the temperature dropped after dark, a whistle of wind rattling at the windows, dishes shifting in the rack as they dried. It was Bill’s phone call, of course, she told herself, and she tried the routines she used to calm herself – deep breathing, positive visualization – but the ordinary noises of the house continued to distract her from her work.

She put a CD compilation of Baroque classics in the stereo Ruth had set up in the studio, and that both cut out the disturbing sounds and helped her to relax.

She was working late on some sketches for “Hansel and Gretel” because the following day she had to go to London to meet with her art director and discuss the project so far. She also had an interview at Broadcasting House: a Radio Four program about domestic violence, naturally, but she was beginning to warm to being a spokesperson, and if anything she said could help anyone at all, then all the minor irritations, such as ignorant interviewers and provocative fellow guests, were worthwhile.

Bill already knew where she was, so she had no reason to worry about giving that away now. She wasn’t going to run away. Not again. Despite his call, and the way it had shaken her, she was determined to continue in her new role.

While she was in London, she would also try to get a ticket for a West End play she wanted to see and stay overnight at the modest little hotel her art director had recommended several visits ago. One of the joys of a country with a decent train service, Maggie thought, was that London was only a couple of hours away from Leeds, a couple of hours that could be spent in reasonable comfort reading a book as the landscape sped by. One thing that amused and intrigued Maggie was the way that the English always complained about their train service, no matter how good it seemed to someone from Canada, where trains were regarded as something of a necessary evil, tolerated but not encouraged. Maggie thought complaining about trains was probably a British institution that had begun long before the days of British Rail, let alone Virgin and Railtrack.

Maggie turned back to her sketch. She was trying to capture the expression on the faces of Hansel and Gretel when they realized in the moonlight that the trail of crumbs they had left to lead them from the dangers of the forest to the safety of home had been eaten by birds. She liked the eerie effect she had created with the tree trunks, branches and shadows, which with just a little imagination could take the shapes of wild beasts and demons, but Hansel and Gretel’s expressions still weren’t quite right. They were only children, Maggie reminded herself, not adults, and their fear would be simple and natural, a look of abandonment and eyes on the verge of tears, not as complex as adult fear, which would include components of anger and the determination to find a way out. Very different facial expressions indeed.

In an earlier version of the sketch, Hansel and Gretel had come out looking a bit like younger versions of Terry and Lucy, Maggie thought, just as Rapunzel had resembled Claire, so she scrapped it. Now they were anonymous, faces she had probably once spotted in a crowd which, for whatever mysterious reason, had lodged in her unconscious.

Claire. The poor girl. That afternoon Maggie had talked with both Claire and her mother together, and they had agreed that Claire would try the psychologist Dr. Simms had recommended. That was a start, at least, Maggie thought, though it might take Claire years to work through the psychological disturbance brought on by Terry Payne’s acts, her friend’s murder and her own sense of guilt and responsibility.

Pachelbel’s “Canon” played in the background, and Maggie concentrated on her drawing, adding a little chiaroscuro effect here and a silvering of moonlight there. No need to make it too elaborate, as it would only serve as the model for a painting, but she needed these little notes to herself to show her the way when she came to the final version. That would be different in some ways, of course, but would also retain many of the little visual ideas she was having now.

When she heard the tapping over the music, she thought it was another noise the old house had come up with to scare her.

But when it stopped for a few seconds, then resumed at a slightly higher volume and faster rhythm, she turned off the stereo and listened.

Someone was knocking at the back door.

Nobody ever used the back door. It only led into a mean little latticework of gennels and snickets that connected with the council estate behind The Hill.

Not Bill, surely?

No, Maggie reassured herself. Bill was in Toronto. Besides, the door was deadlocked, bolted and chained. She wondered if she should dial 999 right away, but then realized how silly she would look in the eyes of the police if it was Claire, or Claire’s mother. Or even the police themselves. She couldn’t bear the idea of Banks hearing she had been such a fool.

Instead, she moved very slowly and quietly. Despite the anonymous creaks, the staircase was relatively silent underfoot, partly because of the thick pile carpet. She picked out one of Charles’s golf clubs from the hall cupboard and, brandishing it ready to use, edged toward the kitchen door.

The knocking continued.

It was only when Maggie had got to within a few feet away that she heard the familiar woman’s voice: “Maggie, is that you? Are you there? Please let me in.”

She abandoned the golf club, turned on the kitchen light and fiddled with the various locks. When she finally got the door open, she was confused by what she saw. Appearance and voice didn’t match. The woman had short, spiky blond hair, was wearing a T-shirt under a soft black leather jacket and a pair of close-fitting blue jeans. She was carrying a small holdall. Only the slight bruising by one eye, and the impenetrable darkness of the eyes themselves, told Maggie who it was, though it took several moments to process the information.

“Lucy. My God, it is you!”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Maggie held the door open and Lucy Payne stepped into the kitchen.

“Only I’ve got nowhere to go and I wondered if you could put me up. Just for a couple of days or so, while I think of something.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, still feeling stunned. “Yes, of course. Stay as long as you like. It’s quite a new look. I didn’t