He showed me the headline: 23-year-old woman killed with a box cutter. The article was short and didn’t give much information. Clearly, the police in Bristol had no leads on the culprit.
“I couldn’t ignore it,” Dermot said. “Though I was already retired, I delved back into the case. My old police contacts were gone. The new boys regarded me as old and crazy, desperate to get back into the thick of things. They refused to help me until I came to them with proof. That’s when I found Moore’s knife. The news never covered it because the police asked them not to. They didn’t want to be embarrassed, so all the people who lost someone to Moore’s violence were never informed of his involvement. That included you, and I’m very sorry you had to go through that.”
I didn’t realize I’d been crying until I noticed the napkin between my palms was dotted with tears. I crumpled it up and blotted my face. “What are these other photos?”
“I brought them just in case, but I don’t recommend you look at them,” he answered. “They’re pictures from the crime scenes and autopsies. Some people find they need to see what happened to their loved one before they can move on. Personally, I think it only triggers more trauma, but it’s up to you.”
A lump formed in my throat. Somewhere in that stack, my mother lay on the riverside, vacant-eyed and unmoving. “I’ll pass. My imagination manages well enough on its own.”
Dermot nodded and put the pictures back in the document folder. “Good decision. Can I answer any more questions for you?”
I swallowed the lump, but it returned at once. “Did she suffer?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “I examined the nature of that scene myself. It was a quick kill. Unplanned. Your mother was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He attacked her swiftly and abandoned the scene just as fast. She most likely died in under a minute, and the shock of blood loss would have stopped her from feeling any pain.” He patted my hand briefly. “I have one more thing for you. You can keep it if you like.”
From the inside pocket of his coat, he drew another photograph. This one was fuzzy at the edges and corners, worn from years of travel. “It must have fallen out of your mother’s things at the police station. I found it on the floor, and forgive me for keeping it, but it served as a reminder to keep trying. To do right by the people who suffered at the Box Cutter Killer’s hands.”
He turned the picture for me to see, and what little composure I had left crumpled. The small photograph featured my mother on the steps of Oxford’s Radcliffe Camera. She was mid-laugh, as if the photographer—my father—had just said something hilarious. A six-year-old version of myself stood between her legs, beaming up at my mother. The focus was blurry, but it didn’t matter. It captured the sheer joy Mum and I shared in that moment.
“You can see now why I agreed to meet you so quickly,” Dermot said, wiping a tear from his own eye. “I’ve known the little girl in that photo for ten years. I’m happy to finally meet the woman she became. I’m so sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry I didn’t identify Moore soon enough to save your mother. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”
Over the top of his scattered notes, I reached for his hands. We clasped our fingers together and bowed our heads, unaware of anyone else around us. In the silence, I understood several things at once. My mother’s death was not Dermot’s fault. It was not my father’s fault. It was not my fault. The only person to blame had already faced his fate. There was nothing left to mourn or rage against. It was over.
“How did it go?”
Evelyn, both arms free, stood at the stove of our new flat. When I’d decided to stay in London indefinitely, Evelyn had asked the Wagner Company to upgrade her living conditions. We remained in the same building, but we were now on the top floor and had our own bedrooms, each with that stunning view of the city.
“It was good. I got what I needed. Are you cooking?” I added, incredulous. I hung my coat in the closet and went to inspect the pot on the stove. “Is that curry? All right, who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
I narrowly dodged a wooden spoon smothered in bright-yellow korma as Evelyn attempted to swat me. The sauce splattered across the floor instead, and Evelyn plunked the spoon back in the pot to prevent further destruction.
“I’ll have you know I’ve taken a leaf out of your book,” she said. She tossed a paper towel on the floor and used her foot to wipe up the spill. “I’m learning to cook. Do we have garam masala? I couldn’t find it.”
“Of course we do.” I tugged the spice jar out of the cabinet and handed it to her. “You burned the rice.”
“Oh, bollocks!” She yanked a second pot off the stove and threw it into the sink. “This is impossible. How do you keep watch over so many things at once?”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I scraped the dried rice into the rubbish bin and filled the pot with new water. “It’s all about practice. How’s your shoulder? What did the doctor say?”
She swung her arm in a wide circle without wincing or grimacing. “He said it looks good and moves well. The occasional stiffness
