Sumaira pauses before replying. “I think you’re in the right job,” she says, a smile in her voice. “If you were a copper, you’d never to get a conviction. You’d need evidence and forensics and witness statements. But you’re a writer. A journalist. Which means that even if none of it’s true, you can still make it sound as though it might be.”
Rowan licks his dry lips. Hears the squeak as Vicky pushes open the gate and walks up the damp path, carrying what looks like a case for a musical instrument in her left hand, wrapped up against the drizzle in a fluffy green parka.
“If somebody did mistreat those girls in 1991, that person should pay for it,” says Rowan, quietly.
“That’s your prime motivation, is it?” asks Sumaira, not unkindly. “That justice is done? You’re telling me that if it came to it, you’d put justice ahead of your own interests?”
Rowan doesn’t reply. He manages a tight smile for Vicky, who stands a little in front of him, pale-faced, shivering, like a house-cat locked out on a grisly day.
“I’m not trying to be a cow,” says Sumaira. “But look, you said the other night that you were a little concerned for Violet. Have you considered the fact that maybe there’s nothing untoward here at all? That maybe she got drunk and stoned with this busker, had a blast of a weekend, and has chosen not to remember anything more? And yeah, if she’s gotten into this shamanic stuff and gone all New Age, then that’s hardly a surprise, is it? She went to Silver Birch – she had a grounding in alternative lifestyles and medicine. And yes, maybe she did track down Freya. So what? The fact that her Facebook statuses don’t show a picture means nothing at all. Maybe she’s slimming and wants to come back to undiluted applause. There could be so many reasons, Rowan.”
“The busker,” says Rowan, softly. “You can’t tell me you don’t want to know who he was. I mean, he and this Arthur Sixpence could easily have moved in the same circles. How do we know that he didn’t send this busker to finish something he started, eh? Or what if the busker snatched the girls, drugged them and brought them to him for some horrible purpose?”
He hears another sigh from Sumaira. “The busker, as you call him, remains unaccounted for. There’s a statement in the Cold Case Review documents giving a piss-poor description. Twenties, hippy-looking, with baggy trousers, dreadlocks and a floppy hat, which could be just about anybody from the alternative scene at that time. His toenails were painted green, though that doesn’t help a great deal. The description matches an unknown person of interest in so many cases it could make your head spin, but then, so does anybody white with a shaved head and a gold tooth, and we’re not accusing anybody of that description of being a secret serial killer.”
“I never said that,” mutters Rowan. “I don’t know what I think …,”
“I think you know this is bullshit but you’re not going to admit it because it could get you out of a hole,” says Sumaira. “I think since you got hurt you haven’t known who you are or what you’re for and a story like this, however much bullshit it stinks of, however much pain it might cause – I think you’re willing to dismantle anybody who stops you showing the world you’re still this barely-housetrained pittbull.”
“Can I stop you there?” asks Rowan, politely.
“Of cou…,”
Rowan hangs up. Gives Vicky his best smile, and steps back into the clutter and gloom of the Byre. She follows him; a smell of fallen leaves and wet clothes; furniture polish and cheap soap.
“I should have called,” mumbles Vicky, as Rowan prods at the half-dead fire and grabs her a hand-towel from the kitchen. She ruffles her hair, gratefully, exposing a face that looks a lot less vibrant than when they parted.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” he begins, and places his hands upon her forearms, moving her closer to the fire. She manages a tight smile, looking past him towards the muzzy hump of the slumbering fell. “I’m not a thug, I want you to know that. I went too far – I thought he was out of line but not as out of line as me.”
Vicky waves a hand, swatting ineffectually at an invisible fly. “I’ve seen enough fights in the pub to be able to eat popcorn and offer encouragement,” she says, a sudden sparkle in her eyes that looks, to Rowan, like the beginning of tears. “No, look, it’s not that, it’s about what I told you earlier, about Derrick…,” she seems flustered, angry with herself. She pulls a balled-up handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes. Rowan gets the impression she’s more accustomed to giving both nostrils a thorough excavation and clear-out, and admires her restraint.
“Please, sit down,” he says, gesturing at the sofa. “Look, is this a social call? I’m honoured if it is, though as you can imagine I’ve got so much to do …,”
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you something?” he asks, playing the gracious host.
“I thought I should show you something,” says Vicky, taking a deep breath that seems to settle her a little. She gestures for Rowan to pass the small case and she takes it from him with a nod of thanks.
“Trumpet recital?” he asks.
“Hardly,” says Vicky, weakly. She opens the silver clasps on either side of the handle and opens the battered old container. There’s a smell of pipe-smoke and camphor and the distinctive mildewy scent of damp paper dried in an airless room. She opens the lid and looks at Rowan with big eyes: serious now.
“You’re going to write about this whatever I do, I can tell,” says Vicky, sincerely. “I checked you out properly after you left the pub. You’re the real thing, aren’t you? I read some of the quotes people gave you about your book. They said you were tenacious. And I saw what you did when you thought Shipley was mistreating that young girl. I know you’re going to keep at this so I’ve told myself that if I help you, I’m doing a good thing. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Rowan nods and puts his hand upon her forearm, his leather gloves ludicrous: his splayed hand resting on her bare, pale skin like a chimp’s foot. “I don’t think you’re the sort of person to do anything for the wrong reasons, Vicky,” he says, and lowers himself onto the arm of the sofa. “You strike me as one of the decent people.”
She shakes her head. Drops her eyes. “This is Derrick’s,” she says, nodding at the open lid of the box. Rowan wants to peer inside – to see whether this whole act is worth his while.
“You two were close,” he says, warmly. “If you have it then it’s because Derrick would have wanted you to. What is it you’re hanging onto, Vicky?”
Vicky weights an extra couple of beats than is comfortable, looking into his eyes as if trying to style her hair in the reflection on his irises.
“The letter he wrote when he did what he did,” she says, at last. “The one he left for Eve Cater. The one she gave to the coroner before the inquest. It wasn’t all that he left behind.”
“No?”
“The one he left for Eve was in an envelope on the windowsill in his room at the care-home, sealed up tight and with her name written on it in his shaky handwriting. That was none of my business, was it? I would never have touched that. But this – in the wardrobe beneath his good walking boots – the ones he couldn’t wear any more – this was for me. He said so. The letter said so.”
Rowan’s mind is racing ahead. He understands. Vicky never told anybody that her favourite patient had left something for her. Not Eve, not the police, not the coroner. She’d taken it because it was for her, and now she was going to share it with a journalist.
“What was in the letter, Vicky?” asks Rowan. “It was an emotional time, I’m sure any sensible person could forgive you for not wanting all and sundry poring over a private message …,”