But first he must find out her date of birth. That shouldn't be difficult. He knew Shirley Coles, the junior clerk in the establishment division. Sometimes he even thought that she liked him. She wouldn't let him see Caroline's personal file but she might be willing to look up a harmless piece of information. He could say that he wanted to give Caroline a birthday present and had a feeling that the date was getting close. Then, with her name and date of birth, surely her parents could be traced. It should be possible to know whether her mother was alive, where she was living, her financial circumstances. There would be a copy of the London yellow pages in the library where private detective firms would be listed. He didn't want to do it by letter, but he could telephone with a preliminary inquiry. If necessary he could take a day's leave and go up to London. He thought: I've got to know. If this is a lie, then everything is a lie; the walk on the cliffs, everything she said to me, even her love.
He heard the two knocks on the door. To his horror he found that he was crying, not noisily but with a silent welling forth of tears which no effort could control. He called out, 'I'm coming. I'm coming.' Then he went over to the washbasin and began bathing his face. Looking up, he saw himself in the mirror. It seemed to him that fear and tiredness and a sickness of spirit which lay too deep for healing had stripped away all his pathetic pretences, that the face which had at least been ordinary, familiar, had become as disgusting to him as it must be to her. He stared at his image and saw it through her eyes; the dull brown hair with the clinging specks of scurf which daily shampooing seemed only to exacerbate, the eyes red-rimmed, a little too close together, the damp pale forehead on which the acne pustules stood out like the stigma of sexual shame.
He thought: She doesn't love me and she has never loved me. She chose me for two reasons; because she knew I loved her and because she thought I was too stupid to discover the truth. But I'm not stupid and I shall discover it. And he would begin with the smallest lie, the one about her mother. And what of his own lies, the lie to his parents, the false alibi to the police? And that greatest lie of all. 'I'm a Christian. You don't expect it always to be easy.' He wasn't a Christian any more and perhaps he never had been. His conversion had been no more than the need to be accepted, taken seriously, befriended by that little coterie of earnest proselytizers who had at least valued him for himself. But it wasn't true. None of it was tiue. In one day he had learned that the two most important things in his life, his religion and his love, were delusions.
The two knocks on the door were more insistent this time. His mother called: 'Jonathan, are you all right? The chops are getting overcooked.'
'It's all right, Mother. I'm coming.'
But it took another minute of vigorous splashing before his face looked normal and it was safe to open the door and join them for supper.
BOOK FIVE. Tuesday 27 September to Thursday 29 September
Jonathan Reeves waited until he saw Mrs Simpson leave her office for coffee before going into the establishment office where the personnel files were kept. All the personnel records had, he knew, been computerized but the original files were still in existence, guarded by Mrs Simpson as if they were repositories of dangerous and actionable information. She was nearing the end of her service and had never come to terms with computer records. For her the only reality was set down in black and white between the manila folders of an official file. Her assistant, Shirley Coles, was a newly appointed junior, a pretty eighteen-year-old who lived in the village. She had early been instructed in the importance of the Director and the heads of departments but hadn't yet assimilated the more subtle law which permeates any organization and which defines those whose wishes are to be taken seriously whatever their grade and those who can be safely ignored. She was a pleasant child, anxious to please and responsive to friendliness.
Jonathan said: 'I'm almost sure that her birthday is early next month. I know that the personnel records are confidential, but it's only her date of birth. If you could have a look and let me know.'
He knew that he sounded gauche and nervous but that helped; she knew what it was to feel gauche and nervous. He added: 'Only the date of birth. Honestly. And I won't tell anyone how I found out. She did tell me but I've forgotten.'
'I'm not supposed to, Mr Reeves.'
'I know, but there isn't any other way that I can find out. She doesn't live at home so I can't ask her mother. I really would hate her to think I'd forgotten.'
'Couldn't you come back when Mrs Simpson is here? I expect she'd tell you. I'm not supposed to open files when she's away.'
'I could ask her, I know, but I'd rather not. You know how she is. I'm afraid she'd laugh at me. About Caroline. I thought you'd understand. Where is she, Mrs Simpson?'
'Having her coffee break. She always takes twenty minutes. But you'd better stand by the door and let me know if anyone's coming.'
But he stood instead at the side of the cabinet and watched while she went over to the security cupboard with its combination lock and began twirling the dial. He said: 'Can the police see these personnel records if they ask?'
'Oh no, Mr Reeves, that wouldn't be right. No one sees them except Dr Mair and Mrs Simpson. They're confidential. The police did see Miss Robarts's file, though. Dr Mair asked for it first thing on Monday morning, even before the police arrived. It was the first thing he rang for as soon as he got into his office. Mrs Simpson took it in to him personally. But that's different. She's dead. There isn't anything private when you're dead.'
'No,' he said. 'Nothing is private once you're dead.' And he had a sudden picture of himself in that small rented house in Romford, helping his mother clear out his grandfather's things after the old man's heart attack; the greasy clothes, the smell, the larder with its store of baked beans on which he chiefly lived, the uncovered saucers of stale and mouldy food, those shameful magazines which he had discovered at the bottom of a drawer and which, scarlet-faced, his mother had snatched from him. No, there wasn't anything left private once you were dead.
She said, her back to him, 'Awful, isn't it, the murder? You can't sort of realize it. Not someone you actually knew. It's made a lot of extra work for us in Estabs. The police wanted a list of all the staff with their addresses. And everyone's had a form asking where they were on Sunday evening and who they were with. Well, you know. You've had one. We all have.'
The combination lock needed precision. Her first effort had been unsuccessful and now she was carefully turning the dial again. Oh God, he thought, why can't she get on with it? But now, at last, the door swung open. He could glimpse the edge of a small metal box. She took from it a bunch of keys and, returning to the filing cabinet, quickly selected one and inserted it in the lock. The tray slid out at a touch of her fingers. Now she seemed infected with his anxiety. She gave one anxious look at the door and quickly rifled through the suspended files.
'Here it is.'
He had to stop himself from snatching it. She opened it and he saw the familiar buff-coloured form which he had himself completed when he first came to the station, her application for her present job. What he wanted was laid out before him in her careful capitals. Caroline Sophia St John Amphlett, date of birth 14 October 1957, place Aldershot, England, nationality British.
Shirley closed the file and quickly replaced it and slid back the drawer. As she locked it she said: 'There you are then. Fourteenth of October. Quite soon really. It's a good thing you checked. What will you do to celebrate? If the weather stays good you could have a picnic on the boat.'