She smiled a shaky smile.
‘Then I’d say we’d better have a full discussion, in which I fill in a few holes. It’s a pretty uncomfortable garment I’m making at the moment. Do you want to see it? I’ve been trying to get to grips with Marianne Shearer’s bosom. I need to do something with my hands.’
He did not understand, but nodded. The aching fatigue had receded. They took the wine down to the dressing room and sat either side of the table. He liked this room as much as the attic kitchen. It was a soothing place, with an atmosphere of calm, contented industry, reminding him of a much-loved library. There was the dummy by the table, the torso dressed in one half of a bodice with half an upstanding collar extending above the headless neck. It looked hopeful and comical rather than sinister. She took the bodice off the dummy and sat with it on her lap. Then she threaded a needle.
‘I’m making one half first, to see what works. It’s a bit like putting together a story, one half is easy, until you get to the next bit and it doesn’t hang together. Should I start by saying I have absolutely no idea why Marianne Shearer would send me clothes from beyond the grave? Oh, I forget, she isn’t buried yet. It’s shattering and disturbing. Why should she want me to have anything of hers? Because I made her feel bad? Because I sent her Angel’s post-mortem report? Because she thought she did us wrong? Because she wanted to be liked?’
She shook her head and stabbed the needle into the cloth.
‘That’s starting with the second half. Let’s go back to Angel and Boyd.’
She got up and dragged out the carpet bag from its new place beneath the suits. She rummaged in it and withdrew a pile of photographs, spreading them on the table in front of him, waiting while he looked, ready to take them away again. Photos of Angel, spreadeagled, masturbating and smiling; a photo of Angel’s lacerated backside; a photo of Angel’s shaven and bloody vagina exposed by her own hands. Pornographic photos of Angel screaming and smiling, and lastly, a photo of her raised hand with the missing fingertip, making a salute in front of her face. Hen took the photos away. His face was ashen.
‘I took his camera, too,’ Hen said, ‘but I think it’s these he wants back. He may think Marianne Shearer had them.’
‘But they should have been exhibited at the trial,’ Peter said. ‘They would have nailed him. They make a nonsense of any idea of consent or cooperation. Why didn’t you hand them over? No woman consents to that.’
‘Not even a woman as sexually curious as my little sister. Or as corrupt, as my mother hinted. I always knew that hunger in her, and that self-destructive kick, but I knew it never went anywhere near enjoying pain. She was terrified of physical pain, but oh, did she want to please. These were taken when she was past caring.’
‘They should have been exhibited,’ Peter repeated. ‘You were withholding evidence.’
‘It wasn’t my evidence to withhold,’ Hen said. ‘Just as it wasn’t in my power to force Angel to have the intimate examinations which would show the extent of the injuries. I was pushing her far enough as it was. She was only ever going to go through with it if the worst of it didn’t come out. She said she would die if Mum and Dad ever knew. She thought it would kill them. Better they didn’t know and disbelieved her, than if they knew and still didn’t believe her. She didn’t want anyone to know. I couldn’t change that. Besides, there seemed plenty of evidence of the abuse without including the pictorial record. No one could deny the missing finger. Then there were the other victims, all that similar fact. We could rely on the others, we thought. There was mountains of other evidence against him in the beginning.’
‘Until it all got whittled away. Until the kidnap charge was slung out. Did she actually want him to be convicted?’
She hesitated. ‘I sometimes wonder about that.’
‘But that means no one in that courtroom knew the extent of it,’ Peter said. ‘Not Judge, Jury, the Prosecution or the Defence. Not me, not even Marianne Shearer.’
‘Not even Marianne Shearer, but Marianne Shearer should have known. She knew Boyd. She knew each and every allegation made against him. She knew his history, his habits, his proclivities. She knew the type of victim, the pattern, she knew more than anyone, and she denied knowing, to herself, at least, all for the sake of winning. She denied what she knew.
‘That’s why I sent her Angel’s post-mortem report. There’s a graphic account of the scars. I wanted her to know what she denied.’
Peter picked up a needle from a colourful pin cushion and attempted to thread it with black cotton. It was a long time since he had done such a thing. He was trying to remember if his mother had ever taught him to sew.
‘I did so many things wrong, right from the beginning,’ Hen said, watching him. ‘Or I did so many wrong things. Sending that post-mortem report was one of them, but earlier than that I cocked up mightily. I should have called the police to the flat, rather than taking her away. There were still traces of blood on the table, there were still the filthy sheets she slept in, but I couldn’t let her stay there another minute. I bundled up evidence like that,’ she gestured towards the carpet bag, ‘all his letters and his camera, and we went. Gave him plenty of chance to sanitise the place before he was arrested. I gave stuff to the police selectively. And I let her get cleaned up; it’s the first stage on the road to recovery, isn’t it? Getting cleaned and dressed.’
‘Wasn’t she dressed?’
‘Scarcely. It was November, bloody cold.’
‘He was arrested in that flat,’ Peter said slowly. ‘He didn’t move on when he came back and found she’d gone. He wasn’t expecting it.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He cleaned up for himself and he took away the axe, but it would never have occurred to him that Angel would send them. None of the others had, they were found later, they didn’t volunteer. More than that, it would never have occurred to him that he’d done anything wrong. She was his. Even if he didn’t want her any more, she was still useful and she was still his. Rick Boyd, you see, was always innocent. I didn’t know him, and there were aspects of Angel I didn’t know and couldn’t predict, either.’
She sewed three small stitches and put the cloth down. Peter remembered Mrs Joyce’s surprising confidences in the absence of Mr Joyce. The tapestries on the walls, which must have taken years to sew, the need of certain women to keep their hands busy.
‘Rick Boyd wanted total exoneration,’ he said, ‘and he didn’t get it. He got a disgraceful half-win and emerges from prison with the mark of Cain still on him, only technically innocent, still personally outraged. The only person who held out against him was Angel, led from behind by you. The only two people who knew the full extent of what he did were you and Marianne Shearer. Marianne Shearer, who was supposed to be going to write a book, and could have got him rearrested. Someone, something, was harassing her before she died. And now there’s only you. You both had something he needed to destroy. Knowledge and evidence. The Lover knew where the evidence was, even if he didn’t know what it was. He’s dead, too. He was… played with, tormented a little before he died. Maybe he came across with more information than he gave me. Doesn’t this suggest Rick Boyd? He’s out there and you need protection. Either you move from here, or I don’t leave you alone until I see the police tomorrow. You can’t stay here by yourself. He wanted what Marianne had; she’s dead. He wanted what the Lover might have had and I don’t know what the Lover might have told him. Now there’s only you and some of Marianne’s possessions. He can’t know where they are.’
His voice tailed off. Hen smiled at him gently. He could see himself as he imagined she might see him. Long and skinny in an ill-fitting suit, playing with a needle he could not thread without spectacles, not exactly the protector of choice.