The man heading the police investigation, Det. Supt. Jack Skelton, said there was no apparent connection with a recent murder of another young woman, found strangled in her home. A man is still believed to be helping police with their investigations into this earlier crime.
“Careful, careful. Oh, please God, be careful!”
Rachel lifted her firmly, one arm bracing the spine, the other beneath the thighs, the hardness of bone through too little flesh. The bathroom was narrow, too narrow of course to admit the wheelchair, and the toilet at the far end, beyond the bath. On her own, Vera Barnett traced a careful progress, steadying herself with towel rail and wall, turning only once, one arm leant against the cistern, lowering herself painfully down. Once seated, she stayed there, waiting for her breath to steady, steeling herself for the same process in reverse. Often, it seemed to take all the strength from her and this evening she had no strength to give.
Rachel ignored the wincing and muttering and scooped skirt and petticoat back at the last moment, helped to ease knickers towards the knees.
How weak she was, that she should permit these intimacies to Rachel, a person that she scarcely knew and trusted less.
“All right, you can leave me now.”
“Let me know when you’re through, I’ll give you a hand.”
“I shall be able to manage. I shall have to when you’re not here. However else d’you think I get on?”
“Call me,” said Rachel, closing the door. “If you want.”
She went and looked in on the children. Sarah lay curled into a ball, facing the wrong way in the bed; the covers were a tangle leaving her mostly uncovered. Her thumb was in her mouth way past the middle joint. Luke had pressed himself up against the wall, mouth open, breathing through his nose. Maybe it wouldn’t work, letting them stay here with their grandmother; maybe her condition had deteriorated too far to allow it. If they could be certain of enough support, she would recommend giving it a few days, a week. Once she realized what there was to be gained from coping, her strength of will might be enough. Despite everything, Rachel thought, she was a resolute woman, Vera Barnett.
Rachel bent carefully down and rearranged the clothing over the little girl. Close, she allowed herself for a moment to touch the child’s cheek, the back of her hand against the smooth warmth of her skin. Sarah stirred, the rhythm of her breathing changed but she did not wake.
When she went out of the room, Rachel left the door unclosed by some inches. In the bathroom, Vera Barnett was on her feet, forcing one foot in front of the other as she leaned sideways against the wall.
“You needn’t bother,” she said, when Rachel went to take her arm, but she did nothing to resist her.
She was seated in the living room with the television on and Rachel was mashing tea when the doorbell rang.
“Whoever can that be?” called Vera Barnett. “Don’t let anybody in. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I won’t.”
“I think it might be the police,” Rachel said.
“How’s it going?” Resnick asked, shuffling off his damp coat.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Could be worse.”
“Kids?”
“Sleeping now.”
“You told them?”
Rachel nodded towards the open living-room door. “She beat me to it.”
“How’s she standing up?”
Rachel smiled. “Sitting down.”
They were keeping their voices low, whispering really, close in someone else’s house, strange sort of intimacy.
“How are you?” Resnick asked. He was having to stop himself from reaching out a hand, touching her.
“We’d better go through,” Rachel said.
“Is she up to a few questions?” he asked to Rachel’s back.
“I think so. If you must.”
Vera had propped herself more upright in the chair; her hands were loosely linked over the straightened rug on her lap.
“This is Detective Inspector Resnick,” Rachel said, biting back a sudden, irrational desire to call him Charlie.
Charlie, Rachel was thinking. His name is Charlie.
She left them and went to the kitchen.
They were drinking tea. A half-dozen plain biscuits had been fanned out on a plate and ignored. They had listened to Vera Barnett on the subject of her son-in-law, her ironic surprise that he had found the time to visit the registrar, contact the undertakers; they had tiptoed around the subject of the funeral itself, the necessity of a “proper” service.
“You told the woman officer that your daughter had been seeing a man,” Resnick said.
Cup rattled against saucer. “I did no such thing.”
Resnick glanced down at his notebook. “She was with a man,” he quoted.
“Of course she was. Who else did that to her?”
“But you knew…”
“No.”
“You said…”
“Where else would she be?”
Resnick took another mouthful of tea. He knew that Rachel was trying hard not to look at him while he questioned Vera Barnett; somehow he’d felt good about the fact that she’d be watching him at work, but that had been before it began.
“Obviously, Mrs. Barnett, the sooner we can trace whoever Mary saw yesterday evening the better. So if you have any idea, any idea at all, who she might have been with…”
“My daughter and I didn’t discuss such matters.”
“Never?”
“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.” The line of her mouth tightened until the lips had altogether disappeared. “She was free to do as she pleased. Whatever I might have said would have made precious little difference.”
“You haven’t any idea who she might have been seeing earlier, in the last six months or so? No name she might have mentioned, even in passing?”
“No.”
“And you don’t know if she had been seeing somebody regularly?”
A small, tight shake of the head.
“If there had been anyone, serious, I mean…”
“We were never close, not…not after the divorce. She seemed to think I blamed her for it in some way. Blamed her instead of him, running off after the first woman who gave him a second look, no better than an animal in heat. He ought to be ashamed of himself, leaving her and those two beautiful children, and now I hope he is. If he’d been there, this would never…”
She was crying again and Rachel went over and took the cup and saucer from her hands. Her eyes told Resnick what he already knew-go easy, don’t push too hard.
He waited until she had dabbed at her face with a tissue and Rachel had rearranged the rug about her knees. “We found some letters…”
“What letters?”
“From men. It looks as though Mary might have, um, put an ad in the local paper.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To meet somebody.”
“To meet…?”
“The personal columns, Lonely Hearts they call it, if there’s no other way of meeting someone to go out with…” Resnick felt himself faltering under the woman’s barely comprehending stare. “Somebody else who’s looking for a relationship.”
“In the newspaper? The daily…you’re talking about the newspaper?”
Resnick nodded. “Yes. It’s quite normal. A lot of people…”
“Mary did this?”
“Yes. At least, we think so.”
“Mary…?”
The rain had diminished to a slow drizzle that fell like a blur across the street lights. Search in vain for a star in the sky.
“I could do with a drink after that,” Resnick said.
“I’m sorry. I must get back.”
“I can’t even give you a lift?”
Rachel shook her head. “I’ve got my car.” Nevertheless, she continued to stand there; they both did. When Resnick unlocked his car she slid into the passenger seat alongside him.
“I suppose you had to tell her that.”
“I think so.”
“She won’t understand. She won’t begin to.”
“The names, once we’ve checked the letters out, we’ll have to see if any of them mean anything to her.”
“But she’s told you…”