Resnick nodded; made no reply.
“You’ve got kids of your own, I dare say.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She looked at him. “Not married, then?”
“Not any more.”
It hung there, like motes of dust, still in the afternoon light.
“At the door,” Lorraine said, “you said there wasn’t any news about Michael.”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve still no idea …”
“Not really, no.”
It was quiet: the ticking of a clock from the dining room, the faint whirr of someone’s mower away up the street, the dull residue of traffic.
“I expect this is ready by now,” Lorraine said, pointing at the cafetiére. Reaching forward, she eased the plunger slowly down toward the bottom of the jar.
Used to being offered coffee which bore little resemblance to the real thing, pale watery cups of bland brown liquid made from instant coffee granules, worse still, powder, Resnick was pleasantly surprised that this looked dark and strong.
“Milk?”
“No, thanks. This is fine.”
“When the other officer was here yesterday, I got the impression-he didn’t say anything, mind-but I got this sense that he-you-knew where Michael might be. Hiding, or whatever.”
Resnick shook his head. “I only wish we did.”
Lorraine sipped at her coffee, put in sugar, half a teaspoon, enough to take off the edge. “I expect you’re watching this place, aren’t you?” she said.
The slightest of hesitations before Resnick said, “Yes.”
“He’d be a fool to come here, then, wouldn’t he? I mean, he’d know. He’s not stupid.”
“He might consider it worth taking the risk.”
Lorraine staring at him now, trying to figure out how much he was guessing, how much, if anything, he really knew. “That’s not too strong for you?”
“Just right. How I like it.”
“Good. Good.”
Out in the hallway, where Resnick had noted it attached by a bracket to the wall, a small table close by, pad and pen for noting down calls, the telephone began to ring. Eyes fixed on Resnick, Lorraine made no attempt to move. After six rings, it stopped.
“The officer yesterday … Carl, I think you said … he asked me about Michael at Mum’s funeral … if, when we were talking, he’d said anything, you know, about escaping.”
Resnick looked at her encouragingly.
“I told him, no. Nothing. He didn’t even mention it. Nothing at all.”
“And that was the truth?”
“Of course. What do you think? I was as surprised as anyone.” She leaned back a fraction on the settee. “If he had asked me, I’d have said, no, don’t be so stupid. You’ll only make things worse for yourself, that’s all.”
“But you didn’t …”
“What?”
“Say that. Tell him …”
“No, of course not. How could I?”
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
Her eyes held Resnick’s for a moment longer before she lowered her cup and saucer back on to the tray.
“And the blade? The razor blade?”
“What about it?”
He smiled at her with his eyes. “It came from your bathroom, I imagine.”
It was difficult not to smile back. “I imagine it did.”
“You told the officer …”
“I said I didn’t use them. Didn’t use a razor. I don’t, not any more. But I used to. My legs, you know.” She did smile then, almost a grin. “I think there were some spare blades. Left over.”
“You think?”
“All right. There were.”
“And Michael took one.”
“Like I said, I suppose so.”
“And like you said, you don’t know for sure?”
Lorraine shook her head.
“And that’s the truth?”
“Yes.”
Resnick nodded. He thought he believed her; about that, at least. He drank some more coffee; it was good. Not bitter. “I was wondering,” he said, “if there was anybody special your brother was seeing before he went to prison? Someone he might have kept in touch with, perhaps?”
“Special? You mean, like a girlfriend?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
She thought for several moments, or pretended to. “I don’t think so.”
“Nobody at all?”
“Nobody who meant anything special, no.”
“He wasn’t a monk.”
Lorraine laughed with her eyes. “Michael?”
“So tell me.”
“Look, Michael had women. Had them trailing round after him from the time he was sixteen, seventeen. He went to bed with them, of course he did, fooled around. But none of them were important, that’s what I’m saying. None of them meant anything. Not really. Not ever.”
“And you’d have known.”
Head down for that moment, she glanced back up at him, sharp. “Of course I would.”
Resnick reached toward the album: one photograph showing the pair of them, Lorraine and Michael, cross-legged on a patch of bleached grass; Michael, hair cut in a pudding-basin fringe and wearing a plaid short-sleeved shirt, watching Lorraine as she balances plastic skittles, four of them, unsteady on the palm of one hand; another, perhaps a year or two later, early teens, standing with arms around each other’s shoulders, heads together, staring out, smiling.
“You were close.”
“As kids, yes.”
“Not since?”
“You know what happened.”
“To your father, yes.”
“I haven’t spoken to Michael since before the trial, haven’t seen him. Not once.”
“Until yesterday.”
“Of course.”
“You blame him?”
For a moment, doubt crossed her eyes. “For killing my father? He did it; he was the one. Who else is there to blame?”
Resnick was looking at the photographs again, side by side where he’d placed them. “At first I wasn’t sure, but you’re the older.”
“A year, that’s all.”
“He looked up to you, admired you.”
“Not especially.”
“Wanted to protect you.”
“Against what?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“Do you want some more of this coffee,” Lorraine said, “before it gets cold?”
Resnick shook his head. “No, thanks.”
She bundled the cups and saucers back on to the tray and took it to the kitchen. When she returned, Resnick was standing at the French windows, gazing out. Near the foot of the garden, where it met the cluster of trees, a robin was hopping around on a patch of recently disturbed earth, hopeful for grubs and perhaps the occasional worm.
He turned his head as Lorraine came to stand beside him. “You’re lucky. Having all that open space. So close.”
“I suppose so. There’s a family up the street, keeps a couple of horses in the field. They let our Sandra ride one sometimes, but, of course, she wants one of her own.”
“You’re not so keen.”
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of trouble and expense.”
They were facing one another now, Lorraine quite tall, her head level with his shoulder. “It’s a nice place,” Resnick said. “You’ve done well. Your mum would have been pleased.”
“You knew her?”
“A little. On account of your dad, mainly. We crossed paths a few times when he was alive. Professional reasons, I suppose you might say. I met Deirdre then. She seemed a nice woman. I liked her. Somehow she’d hung on to her sense of humor.”
Lorraine smiled.
“No picnic, living with your dad, I imagine.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Too used to getting his own way.”
“He’d a mind of his own, yes.”
“Michael, too, I dare say.”
She shook her head and took a step away. “All that’s over now. Dead and buried.” Catching herself, she laughed. “Those things we say, all the time, no thought to what they mean. And then one day they’re not just stupid little sayings any more, they’re true.”
For a moment, he touched her arm at the fold of her cuff and was surprised by the coldness of her skin. “I was sorry to hear about your mum.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
In the hallway he hesitated beside the phone, almost willing it to ring again.