"There were only five other people who claimed to have seen her," I reminded him. "One was Geoffrey Spalding who lived opposite Annie at number 27. He's the man who said at the inquest that he tried to persuade Annie to go home but gave up when she started cursing him. His estimate of the time was between 8 and 8:30. Two were an elderly couple at number 8, Mr. and Mrs. Pardoe, who went up to bed at approximately nine o'clock because they were cold and saw her from their upstairs window, but decided against doing anything because she was clearly drunk and the last time they'd tried to help her she spat at them. And the remaining two were a man and a woman in a car who were using Graham Road as a shortcut and said they had to slam on the brakes when a bulky figure in a dark coat suddenly lurched in front of them, screaming abuse. They decided she was 'an aggressive drunk' and drove on to avoid a confrontation. They couldn't be accurate about the time, but thought it was shortly after nine o'clock."
He looked at the photographs that were still in my lap. "You've just destroyed your own argument," he said. "Why would any of those people lie about seeing her?"
"I don't think they did," I answered slowly, "except possibly Geoffrey Spalding, and he may only have been lying about the time. You see, timing's important. One of the reasons the police estimated that she received her injuries fifteen to thirty minutes before I found her was because the Pardoes and the couple in the car both said she was on her feet at or around nine o'clock. If she was dead by 9:30, then ipso facto something must have hit her during those thirty minutes."
"Then how can you expect anyone to believe she was beaten to death hours earlier?"
"I said she was beaten unconscious, Jock, I didn't say she was dead. There is a difference ... particularly when you're talking about someone as well-built and powerful as Annie." I ran an exploratory finger across her celluloid face as if it could tell me something. "I think she came 'round inside her house and managed to get herself out in search of help. The miracle is she had enough strength left to try to stop a passing car. A doctor would probably say it was impossible because her skull was so badly fractured, but it's the only explanation for why she was in the road and why she appeared drunk."
"Or the police were right all the time," suggested Jock. "I remember reading the inquest report. It said there was a high level of alcohol in her blood."
I shook my head. "It was ninety-five milligrams per hundred millilitres of blood-or fifteen milligrams above the legal driving limit. That's the equivalent of four or five shots of rum ... a drop in the ocean for someone who drank as much as Annie. Sam and I can manage that with no trouble at weekends ... you, too, I expect ... but it doesn't make us stagger about like zombies." I gave a weary shake of my head. "She was labeled a road-traffic accident, so the pathologist routinely recorded her as 'unfit to drive,' which the police and the coroner then interpreted as a 'high concentration of alcohol.' In fairness they had witness statements that described her as 'paralytic' and the police found cases of empty vodka bottles in her house, but if the pathologist had done his job properly he would have questioned whether ninety-five milligrams was enough to cause staggering in a fourteen-stone woman with a known alcohol habit."
"You really have done your homework, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"What do the police say?"
"Nothing yet. I want my evidence so watertight that they'll be forced to reopen the case whether they like it or not." I paused. "I'll need you and Sharon to admit you were the couple I followed into Graham Road that night," I told him.
He shrugged. "That won't worry me. It might worry her, though."
"Why?"
"She lied at the inquest. She didn't get to the William of Orange till 9:15. We usually met up about half-eight, had a quick drink, then cut down the alleyway at the back of her house, but she was dropped off by a taxi that night, high as a kite, and totally uninterested in making any more money. So I walked her along the A316 and split away from her when we turned into Graham Road." He went on before I could ask the obvious question. "She said she'd been at a hotel with another client. I assume it was true because she was dressed up like a dog's dinner and stank of fags." He gave a small shake of his head as he recalled the memory. "She certainly didn't give the impression that she'd come from her house. Rather the reverse, in fact. Kept saying she wanted to get back to it because she was sick as a dog from all the champagne she'd drunk."
"But if Tuesday was your day, why would she go with somebody else?"
"She was a pro," he'said sarcastically. "Someone else offered her more money."
"Did she say who it was?"
"She didn't give me a name ... just said it was another regular whom she couldn't afford to disappoint."
"Geoffrey Spalding was one of her clients," I said slowly. "His wife was dying of breast cancer and he didn't want her or his daughters to know he was paying for sex. He took Sharon to a hotel once a month." I laughed at his expression. "No, it wasn't Libby who told me. It was Sharon's son, Michael. I've been writing to him in prison."
"Jesus! Rather you than me then," he said dryly. "He was a right little sadist when I knew him ... used to pluck the whiskers out of Annie's cats just for the fun of it. Do you know why he's in prison?" I nodded. "Then you ought to be careful. His mother was shit-scared of him. And with reason. He had a real temper when he was roused."
I watched the cat lick itself drowsily in the afternoon sun. "You know the one thing that's always puzzled me, Jock ... why neither you nor Sharon stopped to find out if Annie was alive. You must have seen her. Sharon virtually had to step over her to cross the road."
"We truly didn't," he said. "I asked Sharon about it afterward and she went white as a sheet ... kept begging me to keep my mouth shut in case we got accused of being involved in some way."
There seemed little else to say, but I couldn't find the energy to rise from the chair. The journey home held few attractions and, like the cat, I wanted nothing better than to curl into a ball and forget that life was complicated. Perhaps Jock felt the same because the shadows lengthened noticeably before he spoke again.
"You've changed," he said finally.
"Yes," I agreed.
He smiled. "Aren't you going to ask me how?"
"There's no point." I leaned my head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "I know what you're going to say."
"What?"
"I'm more relaxed than I used to be."
"How did you know?"
"It's what Sam always says."
"You used to get pretty hyped-up in the old days," he said. "I remember going into your house one day and having to duck a flying saucepan."
I turned my head to look at him, laughing at the memory. "Only because you and Sam came home plastered at some god-awful hour in the morning and got me out of bed with the row you were making downstairs. The minute you saw me you started demanding food, so I tossed the saucepan in your direction and told you to cook it yourselves. You were supposed to catch it, not duck it."
"Is that right?" he asked dryly. "Then how come most of the crockery ended up on the floor as well?"
I thought back. "I was hopping mad, particularly as we had a school inspection the next day. In any case, I never liked those plates. Sam's mother gave them to us."
He grinned at me. "We were so damn legless we probably thought you'd be thrilled to see us. And at least we never did it again. As Sam said, you'd probably start hurling knives the next time."
We exchanged smiles. "I never did find out where you'd been," I murmured lazily. "You swore it was the pub, but it can't have been because pubs closed at 11."