‘My guess is as good as yours, love. It was like it was on one day and off the next. If you ask me he got too serious, maybe told her he loved her or something. That would have been just like Gavin. Whatever it was, he seemed to pull himself together pretty soon, after a couple of weeks of Leonard Cohen records, and then he hooked up with Nancy.’
‘Do you know where Nancy is now?’
‘No idea, love. We weren’t that close.’
‘No matter,’ said Gerry. They had a name; they could always find her if they wanted to. ‘When was all this? When Gavin and Veronica split up?’
‘Not long after New Year, I think. Maybe late January, early February. 1972. You won’t remember, you weren’t born then, but it seemed like everyone was on strike. The miners were doing those flying pickets, you know, when a whole group of extra picketers can turn up almost anywhere at short notice. During the strike, the whole country had revolving power cuts, and I used to love it on an evening when the electricity went off. As long as you had a shilling for the gas meter, you could keep warm, and we all used to congregate in Brian Kelly’s or Sue Harper’s flat and smoke dope. You couldn’t play records, of course, because the electricity was off, but someone always had a guitar, and a tambourine, maybe even a flute or a recorder, and we had some good old sing-songs.’
Gerry made notes. ‘So there was a marked change in Gavin’s behaviour around that time? Early February, 1972, right?’
‘Yes. About then.’
‘And Ronnie’s?’
‘No. She carried on much as ever. In her element. Prom queen of the Marxist Society. For a while longer at least. Like I said, I think it was a one-sided relationship, such as it was. A bit of fun for her, and a bit too serious for him. Come April or thereabouts, she seemed to fade into the background a bit more.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Not as far as I know. I mean, we weren’t close enough that we’d discuss such things. Just got tired of épatering la bourgeoisie, I suppose. And there were exams to think about. I mean, when it came right down to it, she was pretty bourgeois herself, underneath all that party-line rubbish. Another cuppa?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Gerry, putting away her notebook and looking at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I’d better be getting back to the station, or they’ll be wondering what happened to me.’
‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you,’ said Judy. ‘It’s funny, opening the floodgates like that. I’ll probably start remembering all kinds of things after you’ve gone.’ She sounded rather sad that Gerry was leaving.
Gerry gave her a card. ‘This is my mobile,’ she said. ‘Ring me whenever you like if you remember something, even if it doesn’t seem important to you.’
‘Will do.’
‘There is just one thing you might be able to help me with,’ Gerry said, stopping with her hand on the door handle.
‘If I can.’
‘I could probably track down a list of Marxist Society members from back then, but is there anyone you remember who you think I could get in touch with. Someone who might be helpful?’
‘Well, there’s Mandy Parsons, I suppose. She only comes to mind because I’ve seen her on telly recently. She teaches Political Science or something like that in Leeds.’
‘The uni?’
‘I think so. Anyway, she was sounding off about the abuse of female asylum seekers and the horrors of female circumcision in the Guardian women’s section and on the local TV news not more than a month or so ago, and I remembered her from back then. She was no prom queen, but she had her ideology sorted, did Mandy. Gone feminist now, of course, but there’s probably still a bit of the old lefty in her. Marxist Feminist, perhaps.’
Gerry thanked Judy Sallis and walked towards her car, confused in political ideology and lost in thought.
For the second time that day, Winsome approached the house where Lisa Gray had her flat. She had been doing a lot of thinking since her earlier visit with Annie, and she had come to one or two conclusions she wanted to test out. She intended to find out once and for all what part Eastvale College played in Gavin Miller’s murder, if any, and to get the truth out of Lisa, whatever the cost. She thought she could do it with kindness, that Lisa might be ready to unburden herself, but if she had to take her down to the station and put her in a cell for twenty-four hours, browbeat her the way Annie had, then she would do it.
It was early evening, dark, the wet leaves muffling her footsteps as she approached the tall, narrow house, and when she first rang the bell, Winsome thought that Lisa was probably out. Then a small weary voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’
‘Lisa, it’s me. Winsome. DS Jackman.’
There was a long pause, and Winsome could almost feel Lisa thinking, hear the cogs turning. She knew what the visit was about. Finally, she said, ‘You’d better come up,’ and the intercom buzzed.
Once she was in the flat, Winsome accepted the offer of camomile tea and found its warmth and scent a great comfort as she settled into the armchair.
‘I suppose you’ve come back because you want me to tell you everything, haven’t you?’
‘It would help.’
‘What makes you think I haven’t?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Winsome. ‘Too many gaps in the story, maybe? Too many bits and pieces that don’t add up. I started thinking there might be good reasons for your erratic and self-destructive behaviour, for Lomax thinking you were so completely unreliable, for your withdrawal from college life.’ There was also something Annie had passed on about Banks’s interview with Kyle McClusky. Kyle had said that someone must have complained to Gavin Miller about his selling drugs, and that it was probably a woman who had been a victim of roofies and rape.
‘I’m glad you came by yourself this time. I didn’t like your friend. Sorry.’
‘Annie’s an acquired taste.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. I didn’t do anything wrong, you know. Where do you want me to begin?’
‘Where do you think it all began?’
The flames cast shadows in the hollows of Lisa’s pale elfin features, glimmered orange and red in her big eyes. She took out a pouch of Drum tobacco and rolled a cigarette. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Only tobacco.’
‘What’s all right about tobacco?’
‘You don’t...? Oh, bloody hell. Do you want me to...?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Winsome. ‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop someone from doing what they want in their own home.’
The firelight caught the shape of a smile on Lisa’s face. ‘As long as it’s not illegal.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good. Because this is about the only place I can do it these days.’ Lisa lit the cigarette, pulled a shred of tobacco from her lower lip and settled down cross-legged by the hearth. ‘Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’
Winsome nodded and leaned back in her chair, cradling her mug of tea. She knew that she ought to be taking notes, but thought if she took out her notebook it would ruin the mood, the rapport. If anything of value came up, she was sure that she would be able to get Lisa to make an official statement later. But this was delicate, fragile, she suspected, if even half of what she had suspected were true. It might not even be directly relevant to the case.
‘It was over four years ago. February. Not too cold or wet. Not like Februaries these days. A mild night. I was nineteen. I thought I was a sophisticated Goth, really I did. I had the black gear, black lipstick and kohl, the chunky crosses, rings and amulets, the music. Bauhaus, PJ Harvey, Sisters of Mercy, The Cure, Joy Division.’
Of these, Winsome had heard only of Joy Division, and even then she couldn’t remember where she had heard of them. Banks, perhaps? Though she didn’t think he was into Goth music. One of them had died, she thought.