‘Are you going to be taking fingerprints?’ I asked.
They exchanged glances.
‘We’ll take a statement,’ one of them said, extracting a small notebook from his bulky jacket. I told him that I had found our cat cut up in our bath. That our door had been forced open. That we had received anonymous phone calls and notes, which we hadn’t bothered to report or keep, but then they seemed to have stopped. He wrote it down laboriously. Half-way his pen ran out and I gave him one from my pocket.
‘It’s kids,’ he said, when I had finished.
On the way out, the two of them looked critically at the door.
‘You want something more solid,’ one of them said reflectively. ‘My three-year-old could kick this open.’ And they were gone.
Two days later Adam received a letter from the police. ‘Dear Mr Tallis’ was handwritten at the top but the text was a blurry photocopy. It continued: ‘You have reported a crime. No arrest has been made, but we will keep the case on file. If you have any further information, please contact the duty officer at Wingate Road Police Station. If you require assistance from a Victim Support Group, contact the duty officer at Wingate Road Police Station. Yours sincerely.’ The signature was a squiggle. A photocopied squiggle.
Twenty-eight
Lying gets easier. This is partly a matter of practice. I became an actress secure in her role as Sylvie Bushnell, the journalist or the concerned friend. I had discovered also that other people generally assume that what you are saying to them is true, especially if you are not trying to sell them insurance or an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner.
So, three days after rummaging through the bin of a murdered woman I had never met, I was sitting in a house in a village in the middle of middle England drinking tea made for me by her mother. It had been so easy to phone up, to say that I had known Tara, that I was in the area, that I wanted to pay my respects. Tara’s mother had been eager, almost effusive.
‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Blanchard,’ I said.
‘Jean,’ the woman said.
Jean Blanchard was a woman in her late fifties, about the age of my own mother, dressed in slacks and a cardigan. Her medium-length hair was streaked with grey, there were deep wrinkles in her face that looked as if they had been chiselled in hard wood and I wondered what her nights were like. She held out a plate of biscuits to me. I took a small thin one and nibbled the end of it, trying to stow into a dark corner of my mind the thought that I was stealing it from her.
‘How did you know Tara?’
I took a deep breath. But I had it all planned out. ‘I didn’t know her that well,’ I said. ‘I met her through a group of mutual friends in London.’
Jean Blanchard nodded. ‘We worried about her, when she went down to London. She was the first of the family to move away from the area. I knew that she was grown-up, though, and able to take care of herself. How did she seem?’
‘London is a big place.’
‘That’s exactly what I felt,’ Mrs Blanchard said. ‘I’ve never been able to bear it. Christopher and I went to see her and, to be frank, we didn’t enjoy being there, with the noise and the traffic and the people. We didn’t much care for the flat she was renting. We had plans to help her find somewhere, but then this…’ She faltered.
‘What did Adele think?’ I asked.
Mrs Blanchard looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand.’
I had gone wrong somewhere. I felt a lurch, almost of vertigo, as if I had been near a cliff edge and had stumbled. I tried desperately to think of what I might have misunderstood. Had I somehow got the wrong family? Could Adele and Tara be the same person? No, I’d mentioned her to the woman in the flat. Say something noncommittal.
‘Tara used to talk about Adele.’
Mrs Blanchard nodded, unable to speak. I waited, not daring to say anything further. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes then blew her nose. ‘Of course, that was why she moved to London. She never got over Adele… And then Tom’s death.’
I leaned over and put one hand on Mrs Blanchard’s. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘It must have been so terrible for you. One thing after another.’ I needed more information. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Tom?’
‘Adele.’
Mrs Blanchard gave a sad smile. ‘I suppose it’s a long time ago to other people. January nineteen ninety. I used to count the days.’
‘I never knew Adele,’ I said, which was almost the first true sentence I had uttered in Mrs Blanchard’s presence. ‘But I think I know,
‘Tallis?’
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘It’s a long time.’
‘Yes, Tom used to climb with him. But we knew him when he was a boy. We were friends of his parents, long ago.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s become rather famous. He saved some people’s lives on a mountain and he’s been written about in the newspapers.’
‘Really? I didn’t see that.’
‘He’ll be able to tell you about it himself. He’s coming here this afternoon for tea.’
I was almost scientifically interested in the way that I was able to continue leaning forward with a concerned expression on my face, even as it seemed that the polished wooden floor was moving towards me and would strike me in the face. I had seconds to think of something. Or should I just relax and let myself go, allow disaster to take its course? A vestigial part of my mind, somewhere deep inside, survived, was still fighting for survival.
‘That would have been lovely,’ I heard myself say. ‘Unfortunately I’ve got to get back. I’m afraid I’ve really got to go. Thank you so much for the tea.’
‘But you’ve only just arrived,’ Mrs Blanchard protested anxiously. ‘Before you go I must show you something. I’ve been going through Tara’s things and I thought you might be interested to see her photograph album.’
I looked at her sad face. ‘Of course, Jean, I would love to,’ I said. I looked at my watch quickly. It was twenty-five to three. The trains arrived in Corrick on the hour and it had taken me ten minutes to walk from the station, so Adam couldn’t be coming on the last train. Could he be driving? It seemed unlikely. ‘Do you know when the train goes back to Birmingham?’ I asked Mrs Blanchard, who was returning with the photograph album clutched under her arm.
‘Yes, it goes at four minutes past…’ She looked at her watch. ‘Four minutes past three would be the next one.’
‘So I’ve got plenty of time,’ I said to her, with a forced smile.
‘More tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘But I would love to see the photographs. If you can bear it.’
‘Of course, my dear.’
