I could buzz reception and try the same approach, but I decide it’s too risky. Instead, I wait patiently for the next student, and the next. Finally, three well-built young men, clearly athletes, approach.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and begin my deception once again.
‘Alistair!’ says one of the lads, after I finish. ‘Canadian chap. Nice. Arrived last week. Third floor by the fire escape.’ The other two nod in agreement. They smell of fresh air and beer. ‘If you want to surprise him, we’ll have to sneak you past reception,’ he says with a grin.
This is working out better than I had expected.
I make it to the third floor, grateful that my accomplices got off the lift on the second, then make my way to flat 3F, the one next to the fire escape. I take a breath and knock on the door. From inside I hear a deep voice call, ‘What do you dickheads want now?’ and then the door is pulled open and I am staring into the eyes of Alistair March, the one and only person who may be able to prove my suspicions about Desra McKinley.
‘Yes?’ he says. Now that I am closer, I can see that this is definitely the same person in the photograph with Desra. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The outline of his muscular torso is clearly visible through the thin, white cotton.
‘Alistair?’ My voice sounds small. ‘Alistair March?’
His eyes narrow in distrust. ‘Who wants to know?’
I attempt a smile. ‘My name is Kate Hardy. My son Michael was a swimmer like you.’ I take the photograph of Michael, Lisa and Desra and push it towards him. ‘Six years ago, to be precise.’
I watch as he scans the image, his expression changing from suspicion to shock when he spots Desra. His face goes very pale.
‘May I speak with you, please?’
‘I, ah, don’t—’
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Something happened to Michael six years ago.’ I tap my finger on the image of Desra McKinley. ‘Something she did. I need to find out what.’
I can see his struggle; his fear. Finally, his expression softens. ‘You’d better come in.’
He steps back, allowing me to pass through the doorway and into the room beyond.
I wait for him to place the cup of coffee on the desk next to me before speaking.
‘Thank you for seeing me.’ I take a small sip from a mug that reads Life is for the Living! ‘I realise it must be a bit odd, my showing up like this.’
Alistair regards me with a mixture of caution and curiosity. ‘What exactly do you want from me, Mrs Hardy?’
‘Just to ask you a few questions.’
He points to the photograph I’ve put on the desk in front of him. ‘About her?’ I nod. He runs his hand across his freckled jawline. ‘You said something about your son?’
‘Michael,’ I reply. I indicate to the photo. ‘That’s him sitting next to her.’
‘Any good?’ he asks.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said he’s a swimmer. Any good?’
‘Decent,’ I smile. ‘But not up to your standard.’ He knows why I’m here, I’m sure of it; but I have to proceed very cautiously. I don’t want to scare him off.
‘The thing is,’ I clear my throat. My mouth is so dry. ‘Michael kept a diary.’ Alistair looks at me in surprise, but I carry on. ‘And in this diary, he indicates that he had a relationship with Desra McKinley. A sexual relationship.’
‘Woah!’ Alistair jumps up as if stung, knocking against the coffee table, and sloshing half the contents of my coffee mug onto the carpet. ‘Shit!’ he cries. ‘I’ll lose my damage deposit.’
‘Get some loo roll,’ I say, cupping my hands at the end of the table to stop more coffee dripping on the carpet, ‘and wet wipes if you’ve got them.’ Alistair escapes to the en suite, returning seconds later with a loo roll and a packet of wipes. ‘Let me,’ I say, kneeling on the floor. ‘The trick is to dab, not rub.’
‘Thank you,’ Alistair mutters after I’ve cleaned up. ‘I’ve only just moved in and I’m already trashing the place.’
‘I didn’t mean to shock you,’ I say, suddenly aware of his vulnerability. He’s standing by the window, his broad torso partially blocking out the light, ‘but there’s something I need to show you.’
Overcome by curiosity, he steps forward. I show him the photo of him and Desra at the swimming competition. There is a pause: time stills like a dying helium balloon, suspended between floor and ceiling.
‘Shit!’ Alistair cries. ‘Shit!’
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I whisper. ‘The last thing I wanted is for anyone else to go through what Michael did.’
‘So why are you?’ he whimpers. ‘Making me go through it!’
‘She’s still around,’ I say, forcing myself to stay calm. ‘Desra McKinley is still around, and still teaching. In fact she’s a teacher at Lennoxton Academy less than fifty miles from here.’
Alistair seems embarrassed, ashamed, and for a moment the six-foot-two athlete looks like the fifteen-year-old schoolboy who was taken advantage of all those years before.
‘You knew,’ I whisper.
Alistair lifts his chin, and his expression hardens. ‘What if I did?’
‘People like her don’t stop, Alistair. They just find fresh prey.’
‘You don’t know anything about her!’ he yells, and stomps his way past me to the en suite, where he splashes cold water on his face, before returning to face me.
I know just about everything about her.
‘Not only did Desra have a sexual relationship with Michael,’ – my voice has a cool assurance that surprises me – ‘which is an illegal act in this country by the way; she was also with him the night that he died.’
‘What?’ Alistair’s face takes on the pale countenance of a death mask. ‘He’s dead?’
‘He drowned, six years ago.’ I bite back the tears. ‘He was only fifteen.’ Alistair shakes his head, seemingly unable to comprehend. I hold up the picture. ‘Look at him!’ I watch his gaze shift to the image, then away.
‘I – I don’t …’ His eyes are shiny,
