‘Yes?’ he inquired.
He didn’t recognise her. Why should he, when he had only seen her once, really, in the witness box at Exeter, and her evidence had not even been important to his case.
‘Hello. I’m Jennifer Stone,’ she said.
The name obviously meant nothing either. He gazed at her inquiringly.
‘I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute,’ she said.
‘Yes?’ he said again in the same questioning tone.
‘I... I... found the body,’ she began hesitantly.
Realisation spread across his face. The joyful happiness of a moment ago with his young child was instant history. The haunted look returned, and with it the greyness and the emptiness in his eyes.
‘And you married Mark Piddle,’ he said, using the old, never-to-be-mentioned, name.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. Her eyes spoke a legend more.
He half smiled. He had always seen humour in so much of it.
‘You’d best sit down,’ he said.
At first he was not forthcoming. She was aware that she was using her interviewing technique on him to get him going. But he was not a stupid man.
‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Was,’ she said firmly.
‘I’ve already had the vultures here, several of them are up the road in the pub, waiting,’ he said. ‘A long wait they’re going to have.’
He passed her a scribbled note. It offered Johnny a great deal of money if he would exclusively sell his story to a certain mass-circulation Sunday newspaper.
She raised her eyebrows. He knew exactly what her look was asking. Strange that there seemed this easy understanding between them under such strained circumstances, especially as he was clearly quite aware of her involvement with Mark.
‘No way,’ he said. ‘It looks like everything I have could be some kind of blood money. I want no more of it.’
He paused, as if deciding whether to trust her or not. ‘Is that what you are here for?’
‘No,’ she said.
His expression did not change. His eyes were boring into her head.
‘I promise you.’
He nodded, satisfied. ‘They found a will. Apparently the old bastard has left me everything. Millions maybe. How’s that for blood money?’
He got up from the desk, walked round and stood looking straight down at her.
‘Mark Piddle’s missus, eh?’ he said. To himself really.
‘Ex-missus,’ she repeated.
‘Oh, aye. I never understood it you know. Never understood why he lied.’
‘I know,’ she said.
He didn’t really hear, just went on talking.
‘I said I killed her because I felt I hadn’t looked after her properly. He knew what I meant, the bugger.’
He paused, realising at last what she had said.
‘And you knew too?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
Her shame was out in the open now.
‘You always knew?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She was being absolutely truthful. ‘For years I allowed myself to believe that I had misunderstood him. I suppose it was the only way I could live with myself and with Mark. But now, I know. Yes.’
‘So that’s why you are here.’ The eyes were boring into her skull again. ‘Guilty conscience, aye?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Definitely that.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘I want to find out the truth. I can’t deal with suspicions; and I have so many.’
He made her a mug of tea and sat down next to her and began to talk. He said this would be the one and only time he would discuss it with her; whatever happened next he wanted to get on with his own life.
‘Nobody can give me back the lost years, but I’m damned if I’m going to lose any more,’ he told Jennifer.
Again and again she went over with him both their memories of that night when he had visited Mark after he learned that Marjorie Benson was dead. His memory of it was still hazy in places; that was partly what had sunk him all those years ago. He had been so vague and frightened and unsure of himself, and Mark so confident and articulate and correctly sorrowful.
Johnny was talking about Marjorie Benson now. She glanced at him. There was no self-pity in the man when he talked about his own plight. He had accepted the years lost in jail, and he could take honest joy in his new happiness. He seemed to have so little bitterness. But when he spoke of Marjorie his voice had a catch in it. Even after all these years he looked as if he was about to break down when he talked about his devastation at her death. He had loved her so much he had just gone to pieces. He had been unable to think straight and his complete emotional collapse had not helped his case. In a way he hadn’t cared about himself until it was too late. He had been so much in love with her. He paused and put his head in his hands. He was quite a man, this Johnny Cooke, Jennifer thought to herself.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ she said, and felt what an inadequate, pathetic phrase that must sound coming from her lips, to this man who had suffered so much. She thanked him for his time and rose to leave.
When she reached the door he stopped her.
‘Are you sure you really want to know the truth?’
She nodded. ‘Don’t you?’ she asked.
‘No. It is over for me. Already it’s all coming back. I don’t even know why I talked to you. Maybe I thought it would help.
‘All that would really help me is for this to end now.’ He paused. ‘What I dread is another court case.’
She didn’t speak.
‘Don’t take this personal, like.’ He paused again. ‘But I never want to see you again as long as I live.’
She opened her mouth to speak, but there were no more words. She was standing in the doorway holding the handle of the glass door. Quickly she shut the door behind her and half ran through the amusement arcade. The tears were pouring down her face. A group of youngsters playing video games looked at her curiously. Outside she made straight for the beach and found herself one of those holes dug in the pebble ridge and she curled up in it and cried her heart out. For a half-lost life, for all that sadness, for two young women who died violently long before their time, and for herself. Oh yes, for herself.
When the tears stopped she made for the public lavatory to splash cold water on her face and repair the damage as much as possible with make-up. Eventually she felt suitably recovered to carry on to the next stage. She walked quickly back to the Porsche and drove to Durraton where she sought out Irene Nichols’s parents’ home. They still lived in the same house on that council estate in the roughest part of town, and they were not difficult to find. Several reporters had set up camp outside. She did not feel able to knock on the door with its peeling white paint. Instead, while being vague about her own identity, she engaged the reporters in conversation and learned that a family friend had indicated that Mr and Mrs Nichols did wish to make a statement and would be coming outside soon. They knew now that the body found in Bill Turpin’s garden was their daughter.
A regional TV team had just arrived and was busily setting up its equipment. After a wait of less than half an hour the Nichols came out of the house. They were drawn-looking, faces gaunt and tear-stained. They spoke of their great sorrow and also their relief that their daughter’s remains had at last been found. At least they could give her a Christian burial now and mourn her properly.
They were halting and inarticulate and incredibly moving. They went back indoors and the reporters and photographers disappeared swiftly to file their stories and wire their pictures and catch the next TV news bulletin.