Harris was staring at the photos, puzzled by the sum.
"The photos"-Williams spoke as if he were sharing a confidence, as if he were on Harris's side-"how could they be in your house if Ann hadn't been back?"
Harris looked up. "But they came through the door," he whispered. "I thought – a girl I know – she put them through the door."
Williams shook his head. Harris's eyes glazed over and he looked up. The game was up. He was going to confess.
"They were put through my door," he whispered. "I never seen her."
"You never saw her," said Williams, correcting his grammar without meaning to. "Like you never hit her?"
"I wouldn't hit her," said Harris, squirming on his chair, panicking, losing what little composure he had. "I wouldn't ever, never hit her. I wouldn't."
"Wouldn't you hit her if she was hurting the kids?"
But Harris was crying, staring at the ashtray, baring his yellow teeth and sobbing. The kids were the problem. He'd confess if he thought the kids were safe. He wanted to confess or he wouldn't have kept the photos.
Williams gave her the nod and Bunyan slipped out to the hall and phoned ahead. The receptionist at Carlisle police station told her to come anytime this afternoon. He said there was no need for them to book an interview room, they were usually quiet on Friday evenings. Getting through to the social worker was much harder. Bunyan got through to an answering-machine message, which gave her the number of another answering machine, which gave her the number of a mobile that rang out for thirty-odd rings. She slipped back into the room and muttered to Williams that she couldn't get through.
"Jimmy," said Williams, "we're going to take you to Carlisle police station for a formal interview now. Before we phone the emergency social-work department and get them to send someone over is there no one who could sit with the kids?"
"Auntie Isa?"
"She's still not in, Jimmy. Your kids'll be fine with the social worker."
"I'm worried about them."
"Why are you so worried?"
Bunyan shifted against the wall. Williams didn't have kids. If he had kids he wouldn't have asked that question. Williams seemed to think there was something sinister about Harris's fear of the social work but Bunyan understood. She provided a clean house for her family, cupboards full of food, central heating on all the time, judging by the bills, and she still wouldn't want her parenting assessed by a government official.
"Don't phone," said Harris, crying and trying to talk through his gaping mouth. "Please… for fuck's sake."
Williams stepped forward. "Who don't you want us to phone, Jimmy?"
Harris was sobbing now and they were ashamed for him. He could hardly catch his breath to speak. "Please don't."
"Who, Jimmy? Who don't you want us to phone?"
"Social work," he said. "Don't phone the social work."
Williams glanced at Bunyan and crouched by the chair. "Why don't you want us to phone them, Jimmy? Do they know you? Have they been here before?"
"Jimmy," interrupted Bunyan, "is there someone else we could phone? Someone else who could sit with the boys and set your mind at rest?"
Harris sat up. "Leslie," he said, "Isa's daughter, but I don't know her address. She'll live in the Drum."
Bunyan nodded encouragingly. "Is Leslie married?"
Harris looked even more bewildered.
"Has she married and changed her name?" asked Bunyan.
"Oh, no. I don't think so."
"So, her surname's Findlay too?"
Jimmy Harris nodded eagerly. "She'll live in Drumchapel. All the Findlays live there."
Bunyan slipped out into the hall again. She was trying directory inquiries when it occurred to her that the name was familiar. She'd heard it recently, in connection with the dead woman's sister in Streatham, but she couldn't recall the context. The operator gave her the number and as she called the house she repeated the name over and over to herself. "Hello, Leslie Findlay?"
"No," said Cammy, "Leslie isn't in just now."
"My name is DC Bunyan from the Metropolitan Police. I'm trying to contact Ms. Findlay in relation to her cousin James Harris. Could you tell me how I could get hold of her?"
"Ye could phone her work."
"Where is that?"
"Place of Safety Shelters. If ye can't get her they'll take a message."
Sarah was very tired. Her crisp blouse was flaccid, her hair looked dull and she had changed her shoes into a pair of badly burst men's leather slippers. She couldn't even get excited by the fresh Chelsea buns Maureen had bought in the village and they used to be her favorite. She showed Maureen upstairs to her bedroom. "This should do you," she said.
The cornicing on the ceiling was a continuous run of delicate leaves and grapes. The bed was large and soft. At the foot of it, balanced on a stool, stood a white plastic television with a rotation knob. A little door at the side of the room led up a step into a black marble en suite bathroom with blistered mirrors on the wall and verdigris stain dribbling from the taps. "Perhaps you'd like a wash before dinner?"
"I don't think I can stay awake for dinner," said Maureen, and Sarah looked relieved.
"Well, feel free to go straight to bed," she said. "Make yourself at home. There's hot water and plenty of towels."
"If I ever go into labor in anyone's house, I want it to be yours."
Sarah didn't understand the joke but she saw Maureen smiling and mirrored her. She must have had a rotten day.
"Thanks for letting me stay," said Maureen.
"You are most welcome," said Sarah.
Maureen took a bath but the water was so hard she could barely muster a head of foam from the soap and an oily husk formed on the surface of the water. She dried herself with a towel and her skin felt scaly, squeaking like a glass fresh from a dishwasher.
When she came out of the bathroom she found a silver galley tray on the little table by the bed. Sarah had brought her a big mug of tea and a lukewarm plate of strong kedgeree. As Maureen ate, her eye fell on the bedside table and a crumbling black leather Bible held together with elastic bands, set at an angle, pointing at her bed. Sarah must have a hundred family Bibles. Maureen climbed across the bed, turning on the black and white telly before lifting the cold linen sheets and sliding in. She fell asleep listening to a television consumer program warning her to be very, very careful which dealer she bought her Land Rover from.
Leslie knocked at the door softly and stepped back. The sharp wind whirled down the veranda, gathering the litter and dust into rustling bundles in the far corner. If it wasn't to save Isa she wouldn't have promised to come over after work. She knocked again and the door was opened by a small blonde in a severe suit.
"Hello, Leslie?"
"Yeah, are you Bunyan?"
"Come in." She opened the door wide and Leslie saw Jimmy sitting in his armchair, looking knackered and terrified. He raised his hand in a limp greeting and she nodded back. His eyes were very red. The babies were sitting on the floor in front of him, and Alan, the boy she had met the night before, was standing behind him holding on to the top of Jimmy's arm as if he were huckling him. A fat bald guy with gold specs stood in the middle of the living room, holding a bunch of photographs and watching her. The wee boy from the Polaroid looked around the door at her. "Hiya," he said, and looked at her crash helmet. 'Are you a polis?"
"No." Leslie stepped into the hall. It was freezing in the flat and she wished to fuck she'd brought a jumper. She looked at the woman. "Why do ye have to go all the way to Carlisle?"
"Oh"-the woman rolled her eyes-"we want to tape the interview and because we're an English force it has to be in England."
"That's a bit mad, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Leslie," said Jimmy, "thanks for coming over."
"No bother, Jimmy," said Leslie. "Are ye just off, then?"
The woman in the suit looked at the fat guy and he looked at Leslie. "Actually, Ms. Findlay, we wanted to talk to you as well." His accent was tempered Glaswegian and he breathed in as he spoke, swallowing his words.