They'd been married in Scotland. And now they were dead.
'I don't know what I said. I don't know how long she listened. She was to blame, I knew that. Yet I could understand how utterly her life must have been destroyed. And Alison's death was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Yet in a way it might be a sort of blessing, it seemed, for when I thought of all the agony and disillusion being married so young must have piled up for her, or being married at all for that matter, in a way this quick, sudden death…'
He took a deep breath.
'I thought of Hamlet again, suddenly, the first time in six years. What women could be, what they let themselves be, what they make of us… I tried to get in touch with Mary again. I wanted to explain, reprove, convince, I wanted to show her what she was, make her recognize – well, I wanted all kinds of things. But she wasn't there. And when I came up again, the Centre was still piled high with snow and she still wasn't there.
'So I applied for the job here. Don't ask me why. Just to be close, I suppose. To be ready. I got it, of course. In March I started. I kept away from Shafton. I guessed that Mary might be frightened of seeing me. If she came back and found there'd been someone around asking after her, she might take off again. But once or twice a week I'd ring the house in the evening, just to see if there was an answer. There never was. Meanwhile I got down to the job of putting this place on its feet. It was hard work, but I enjoy hard work. And I get on with people. I like people, Mr Pascoe. I like them a lot. That's why it's been so… hard.'
He passed his hand over his face.
Pascoe said gently, 'And did your wife answer the phone, Mr Greenall? Did you see her again before…’
'Before the Cheshire Cheese, you mean? No, I didn't. She had been back a couple of weeks, I gather. But either she wasn't in, or didn't answer when I rang. So it was quite unexpected. I like to keep fit, Mr Pascoe. A stroll last thing at night and a run first thing in the morning, that's my regime. I don't need more than five hours' sleep. I'd have been good in the Battle of Britain. God, what days those must have been!
'It was quiet here that night, I recall. So I went for my walk a bit earlier than usual and it wasn't quite closing time as I passed the Cheese. I suddenly had a fancy for a half of beer so I went in. I looked through the lounge-bar door to see how crowded it was, and there she was, Mary. A bit pale, a bit thinner, but with a glass in her hand, laughing, with a gang of people.
'I didn't go in. I went out to the edge of the car park and waited. People started to come out. Cars revved up and took off. Soon there was only a handful left. Then Mary came out with some people. They all shouted goodnight. The others all got into one car and drove off. Mary came over to a mini parked quite close to where I was standing. For a moment the car park was empty of people. I called her name as she reached the car. She said Who's that? puzzled, not frightened. It's me, Austin, I said. She came towards me, into the shadows under the trees just off the edge of the car park. She asked me what I wanted. To talk, I said. Someone else came out of the pub. I took her hand and drew her a little further away beneath the trees. She didn't resist. I said, I want to talk about us. And about Alison. And she said, so quiet I could hardly hear her, I've been so frightened and so unhappy, and she leaned against me. Somehow all the things I intended to say seemed irrelevant. Somehow there was nothing to be said at all.'
He paused again. The flow had been constant, thought Pascoe, with none of the anticipated disjointed incoherence as the crisis moment was reached.
He said, 'So you killed her.'
'Yes,' he said in a voice faintly surprised, as though at a quite unnecessary question. 'There was nothing else for her, you see. It's quick. I studied the manuals during my combat training. Then I carried her out of the way a bit and laid her down and made her look as peaceful as I could. I didn't want anyone to think that she'd been savagely attacked and molested, you know what I mean.'
‘And then?'
‘And then I walked home. It was a fine night, very clear, very still. Perfect for night flying, I remember thinking. I saw some navigation lights moving very high. Something big and fast. I envied the pilot a little. But I felt very much at peace. I thought it was all over, of course.'
'But it wasn't?'
'Oh no. You don't get experiences like I'd been through out of your system overnight. Ever since Alison's death, I'd been noticing girls. Kids, I mean. Standing at bus stops on wet mornings, going to work in some steamy office with loud-mouthed men. So young, so forlorn. You know what I mean. It really broke my heart to see them. We don't let them be kids long enough. We force them to grow up, and there's nothing there when they get there, and they have to change and turn into… well, that's how I felt. I'd started the disco nights at the Club. We had them in Surrey and I remembered how the kids used to enjoy them, just being kids if you follow me. There was no harm in it, despite what the fuddy-duddies like Middlefield said. And they brought in a bit of cash. We needed all the cash we could get if we were to make something decent out of this place. Oh I've got plans, Inspector, such plans… I had plans…
'Anyway, there was this youngster at the discos. I'd seen her a couple of times, I didn't know her name but she was so full of life and fun. Then suddenly she was there one Friday night, flashing an engagement ring. Her boy-friend was a soldier, serving in Belfast. They were to be married on his next leave. I thought of married life in the services. I thought of me and Mary. I thought of Alison. And I felt sick.'
'This was June McCarthy?' interposed Pascoe.
'Yes. I found out later. She wasn't there the next night. She had to go to work.'
'You knew this?' said Pascoe. 'You planned what happened?'
'Oh no,' said Greenall, shocked. 'No plan. It was fate. I hadn't been able to get her out of my mind, but I knew nothing about her. On the Sunday morning I went out for my usual run. Just after five. It's the best time of the day in summer. I felt so strong, I went further than usual. I usually stick to the airport and to the river, but on a Sunday the streets are so quiet, it's pleasant just to run along the pavement for a change. I ended up in Pump Street. To tell the truth I was a bit lost. And as I jogged past the allotments, I saw a girl there, kneeling down. She looked familiar. I went up to her. She gave quite a start when I spoke. What she was doing, I found out, was "borrowing" some sprigs of mint for the roast lamb she'd be cooking for her dad later in the day. She got quite chatty when she realized who I was, told me how busy they were at the canning plant in the fruit season, shifts every night, but she didn't mind as she was saving hard to get married. I'd recognized her by then, of course. The soldier's fiancee. She looked about thirteen, kneeling there with the mint. I couldn't bear the thought of it. Being spoilt so young. So I put her to rest.'
'You killed her? You strangled her?'
Greenall didn't reply. It was not an uneasy or guilty silence, rather a contemplative one, as though he were carefully examining the proposition.
'Yes,' he said just as Pascoe opened his mouth to prod again. 'Killed her. Strangled her. Saved her.'
'From what?'
'Disappointment. Disillusionment. Dismay. I felt nothing but love and pity. The girl in the bank was the same. I saw her that afternoon. She'd often served me since I took this job on. Only this time, I saw the ring. She saw me looking at it and smiled. You know, proudly. A child. I felt sick but I said "Congratulations". She said, "Thank you, Mr Greenall," and I left. But I knew I'd see her again.'