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“And now?”

“Ruth Walker. She drives a cream car – I’ve seen it – and she’d bleached her hair blond the second time I saw her. Another drink?”

“Better not,” Annie said. “I’ve got a long drive home. You should be careful, too.”

“You’re going home?”

“Don’t look so disappointed. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“You’re right. But you can’t blame me for showing a little disappointment.”

Annie smiled. “I’d be pissed off if you hadn’t. Anyway, after last night I’m worn out. I’m surprised you’re not tired, too.”

“It’s been a long day. That’s true.” Banks swirled the last quarter of his pint around the bottom of his glass. “Do you think Ruth killed her adoptive parents?”

“Very unlikely. Mind you, I think she was definitely responsible for the cigarette end that started the fire. Her parents didn’t smoke or drink. They were good Methodists. Ruth went a bit wild when she got to university. Maybe she’d had a few drinks and didn’t put it out properly.”

“It doesn’t sound as if she made any attempt to save them.”

“Who knows what happened in there, what she could or couldn’t have done? She hurt herself badly getting out.”

“Yes, but she lived. Were postmortems performed on the parents?”

Annie nodded. “I checked. No cause for suspicion. In both cases death was due to smoke inhalation. Just as with Chief Constable Riddle, there were no signs that they were restrained in any way, or drugged, and no indication that any obstacles had been placed in the way of their getting out. They were old and slow. That’s all there is to it.”

“Makes you wonder, though, doesn’t it?”

“About what?”

“Oh, life, the universe, everything.”

Annie slapped his arm, laughed and stood up. “I’m off before you start getting really philosophical. What about you?”

“One more cigarette, then I’ve got a couple more things to do back at the office.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“See you.”

Annie walked out into the cold night air and paused for a while, listening to the choir singing “Silent Night” through chattering teeth. Then she dropped a few coins in the collection box and hurried off to her car before she changed her mind about Bank’s offer.

18

Ruth Walker arrived with her police escort shortly after lunch the following day. Wearing baggy jeans and a shapeless mauve sweatshirt with sleeves that fell long past her hands, she looked both nervous and defiant as she took her seat in the gloomy interview room. She held her head high, but her eyes were all over the place, everywhere but on the person speaking to her. A sprinkling of acne lay over her pale cheeks, and her skin looked pasty and dry.

Unlike Barry Clough, who was now back at his Little Venice villa, Ruth didn’t have an expensive lawyer in tow. They had offered to bring in a duty solicitor for her, but she said she didn’t need anyone. Banks set the tape recorders going, gave details of the session and began. Annie sat beside him. He had the answers to most of his previous day’s questions – including two calls from Darren’s mobile, only one of which had been to Banks – in a buff folder on the desk in front of him, and he didn’t like the story they told one bit.

“I suppose you know why you’re here, don’t you, Ruth?” Banks began.

Ruth stared at a squashed fly high on the opposite wall.

“We’ve been doing a bit of digging.”

“Not really the season for that, is it?” Ruth said.

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Banks said. “So drop it, Ruth. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Whatever.”

“You’ve told me a lot of lies.”

“Lies? Pork pies. They’re what I’ve been living. What else have I got to tell you?”

“It’s my job to try and sort out a few truths. Let’s start with the fire.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“With what?”

“With why I’m here.”

“I told you, I’m trying to get at some truths.”

“There was a fire. I woke up and my room was full of smoke. I had to jump out of the window. I broke my ankle really badly. You might have noticed I’ve still got a limp.”

“What else can you tell us about the fire?”

“What’s to tell? It was an accident. I couldn’t walk for weeks.”

“What caused the fire?”

“They said it was a cigarette. It can’t have been mine. I put it out. I remember.”

“Whose was it then?”

Ruth shrugged. “Dunno. It wasn’t mine.”

“Ruth, it must have been your cigarette. Your parents died in that fire, and all you can think about is your broken ankle. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“You tell me. And they weren’t my parents. Everyone says I was the lucky one, so I suppose they must be right.”

“Did you feel lucky?”

“‘Do you feel lucky today, punk?’ Sorry. Bad joke again. Blame it on being deprived of humor throughout my childhood and adolescence.”

“Were you deprived of humor?”

“It wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“You know. The one where you’re not supposed to dance, sing, laugh, cry, love, fuck. The religious deal. I sometimes think the reason they had to adopt a child was that they thought it was a sin to do what they had to do to produce one naturally.”

“How did you feel toward your parents?”

“I told you, they weren’t my parents. They were my adoptive parents. Believe me, it does make a difference. Do you know, they never even told me I was adopted?”

“How did you find out?”

“The papers.”

“But surely they must have been destroyed by the fire?”

“They were kept in a safety deposit box at the bank. I only found out after they died and I had to open it. That’s where they kept me. In a box.”

“But they were the only parents who brought you up.”

“Oh, yes. Everyone says they were decent, honest, God-fearing folk. Salt of the earth.”

“What do you say?”

“They were stupid imbeciles, too brainwashed to make their own decisions about anything. They were scared of everything except the chapel. Their bodies. The world beyond the street. Their lives. They inflicted all that on me. And more. They made my life miserable, made me a laughingstock at school. I had no friends. I had no one to talk to. They didn’t like me hanging around with the other kids. They said God ought to be enough of a friend for anyone. What do you expect me to say about them?”

“Were you glad they died?”

“Yes.” Ruth’s left hand shot out of the end of her sleeve and scratched the side of her nose. Her grubby fingernails were bitten to the quick.

“What about your birth mother?”

“Ros? I call her that, you know. It’s a bit late to be calling her ‘Mother,’ don’t you think? And Mrs. Riddle seems just a wee bit too formal.”

“How did you find her?”

The edges of Ruth’s lips curled in an ugly smirk. “You ought to know that, if you’ve done so much digging. My degree’s in information technology. You can find out anything these days if you know where to look. The telephone directory is usually pretty reliable, you know. A good place to start. But there’s the Internet, too. Lots of information out on that superhighway.”

“Where did you begin?”

“With the Registrar General’s office. They’ll let you see your original birth certificate if you ask them nicely. From there it’s pretty easy.”

“What did the birth certificate tell you?”

“That I was born at seventy-three Launceston Terrace, Tiverton, on the twenty-third of February, 1977.”