The woman’s lips twitched as she said the name to herself. ‘Rachel. Yes. Yes.’ I shot a look at Tibbot, keeping my excitement under control. ‘Would you like to come in?’
‘Yes, we would. Thank you very much.’ She shuffled to a draughty front parlour and asked us to sit on a pair of upright wooden chairs that barely took our weight. ‘How did you know her?’ Tibbot asked.
‘Oh. Oh, yes,’ she said, staring at us, before going slowly to the kitchen. ‘I would like some tea,’ she mumbled.
‘How did you meet her?’ Tibbot called through the open doorway, gently pressing her. We waited, listening to the kettle whistle. She didn’t reply until she returned with three cups of weak tea. ‘How did you know Rachel?’
‘This is my husband.’ She touched a framed fading photograph of a man in clothes from the beginning of the century, on the crumb-laden table beside her.
‘Your husband?’
She lifted his photograph. ‘This is him. Lionel.’ Her mouth quivered. ‘The War, you see.’ She meant the first War, the Great War. The carousel of battles had just kept spinning.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Tibbot waited until she replaced the photograph. ‘And he introduced you to Rachel?’ She looked away and dabbed the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Was it him who introduced you to Rachel?’
‘Rachel?’
‘Yes.’
She looked at me and squinted. ‘Are you Rachel?’
‘No,’ I said.
She waited for us to say something more. ‘Do you remember Rachel? Rachel Burton?’ Tibbot asked again.
‘Who?’
‘Rachel Burton?’
She stared blankly at us. Tibbot smiled at her and we stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ I repeated unhappily.
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid we have to go now.’
‘Oh. Well, please come again.’
‘We’ll be sure to,’ I replied.
On our way out, Tibbot slipped a pound note under the cushion on the chair. She would find it later. ‘She shouldn’t live like this,’ he said, as we felt the cold air outside.
‘I know. Awful, isn’t it?’
He rubbed his hands together against the cold. ‘Streets like this, they used to leave their doors open. Everyone’s gran.’
‘I grew up on a street like this.’
We picked our way over rubble. ‘I had a case last month,’ he said. ‘Postman found an old boy locked in a flat. The poor bloke was shivering – no heat in the place, hardly any clothes, covered in bruises. He wouldn’t say a word, but it turned out it was his daughters knocking him about. Never let him out. Kept him for his war pension. Extra few quid. Never used to be like that. Never.’
I looked back at the woman’s battered door. Age was something we couldn’t help, but our families – they were supposed to stay with us. It was so unnatural to be cut off.
We tried more doors, but people had moved around so much – first when the Germans landed at Portsmouth after D-Day, and later when the Soviets had followed and started reassigning homes. Those old communities where people knew everyone in their street had been splintered and no one could help us. ‘Well, that puts the kibosh on that,’ Tibbot sighed.
‘What about the doctor who was given Rachel’s car?’
‘Richard Larren. No address for him, and Kenneth couldn’t find any more details in the records – he even tried the Medical Board, but they’re closed today. I can call them tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow could be too late.’
‘I know, but I can’t see how else to go about it.’
‘Perhaps Nick knew him,’ I said, grasping at straws. ‘Let’s find out.’
At the end of the road there was a pub. It had a wooden telephone booth covered with messages scratched in ink – swear words, names and dates, a childish joke. I called a familiar number and the line was answered immediately.
‘The consulting rooms of Nicholas Cawson. Charles O’Shea speaking.’
‘Charles, it’s Jane Cawson. I have a question. Does my husband ever have any dealings with a Dr Richard Larren?’
‘Richard Larren? Not that I know of.’
‘Can you check?’
‘I’m looking through the addresses file now. There is no Richard Larren listed.’
‘Oh.’ I was disappointed.
‘Who is he?’
I kept it vague so as not to arouse any curiosity. ‘I thought he might be someone who could help get Nick released.’
‘How?’
The truth was that I didn’t even know the answer myself. But if I said nothing, it would only make him more suspicious. ‘I think he can say that Lorelei’s death was an accident.’
Charles paused. ‘He will be in the medical certification directory.’
‘What?’
‘It’s an annual requirement.’
I dared to see a glimmer of hope. ‘Do you have it?’ There was another pause, and I wondered if he was having second thoughts about becoming involved – with his family’s history of supporting the Royal Family, he could easily end up without a job or home if he made it into NatSec’s files. ‘Oh, Charles, I promise you I’ll make sure that nothing bad will come of it. In fact, if Nick gets out and the case is closed, it really makes us all safer. They won’t be breathing down our necks.’ There was a hiss on the line.
‘Wait.’ It went quiet for a minute, broken by the sound of movement in the background, as if things were being shifted around. Time ticked away. And finally there was a clunking sound as he lifted the receiver from his desk. ‘Richard Larren’s address is Willoughby Hospital, Willoughby, Kent. There are no more details.’
‘Oh, thank you, Charles, that’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I have to go now, but I’ll see you soon.’
‘Goodbye.’
I hung up. ‘Shall we call him?’ I asked Tibbot.
‘Better to turn up in person. If he knows something, he’s more likely to tell us face to face. Otherwise, he can just put the phone down.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ I was lucky he was there, or I would have blundered my way into dead ends.
‘Let’s try that other number, though.’ We tried the number from the book again, but it wasn’t answered. Still, Richard Larren’s address held out a prospect of success. Tibbot checked a train timetable he had picked up when we arrived. ‘Willoughby’s just two stops back up towards London,’ he said. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes before the next one. Willoughby Hospital. Wonder what exactly he does there.’
We set off along the road, which had become gloomy in the twilight. As we walked, I pondered what we would find – something that exonerated Nick? Or something that proved him guilty of a plan I didn’t yet understand?
I was distracted from those thoughts, however, by a commotion – children running, adults hurrying, all in the same direction. I looked to Tibbot. ‘Nothing to do with us,’ he said.
‘But what if it is?’ There was such urgency that I thought somehow it might be connected to our search for Rachel. ‘It’s possible. We should see.’
He glanced in the direction of the station, then back at the clutch of running people. ‘All right,’ he relented.
We followed them to the fence along the waterfront, to find all eyes fixed on a small launch, barely bigger than a rowing boat, battering at speed through the waves. Steered by a young man, it shot eastwards towards the open sea. These attempts never happened in London because the Thames was too well defended there, but outside the capital people tried from time to time to escape by water. I had heard of night-time bids to slip from Herne Bay around the coast, although I had no idea if they were ever successful.