“Ignore that, I don’t know why I said it.”
People, places and things, thought Strike, taking out his notebook and opening it.
“Other than Jimmy and the little girl who died,” said Strike, “what can you remember about the group of people who went to the horse that night? How many of them would you say were there?”
Billy thought hard.
“I don’t know. Maybe… maybe eight, ten people?”
“All men?”
“No. There were women, too.”
Over Billy’s shoulder, Strike saw the female psychiatrist raise her eyebrows.
“Can you remember anything else about the group? I know you were young,” Strike said, anticipating Billy’s objection, “and I know you might have been given something that disoriented you, but can you remember anything you haven’t told me? Anything they did? Anything they were wearing? Can you remember anyone’s hair or skin color? Anything at all?”
There was a long pause, then Billy closed his eyes briefly and shook his head once, as though disagreeing firmly with a suggestion only he could hear.
“She was dark. The little girl. Like…”
By a tiny turn of his head, he indicated the female doctor behind him.
“Asian?” said Strike.
“Maybe,” said Billy, “yeah. Black hair.”
“Who carried you up the hill?”
“Jimmy and one of the other men took turns.”
“Nobody talked about why they were going up there in the dark?”
“I think they wanted to get to the eye,” said Billy.
“The eye of the horse?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Billy, and he ran his hands nervously over his shaven head. “There are stories about the eye, you know. He strangled her in the eye, I know that. I can remember that, all right. She pissed herself as she died. I saw it spattering on the white.”
“And you can’t remember anything about the man who did it?”
But Billy’s face had crumpled. Hunched over, he heaved with dry sobs, shaking his head. The male doctor half rose from his seat. Billy seemed to sense the movement, because he steadied himself and shook his head.
“I’m all right,” he said, “I want to tell him. I’ve got to know if it’s real. All my life, I can’t stand it anymore, I’ve got to know. Let him ask me, I know he’s got to. Let him ask me,” said Billy, “I can take it.”
The psychiatrist sat slowly back down.
“Don’t forget your tea, Billy.”
“Yeah,” said Billy, blinking away the tears in his eyes and wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “All right.”
He took the mug between his bandaged hand and his good one, and took a sip.
“OK to continue?” Strike asked him.
“Yeah,” said Billy quietly. “Go on.”
“Can you remember anyone ever mentioning a girl called Suki Lewis, Billy?”
Strike had expected a “no.” He had already turned the page to the list of questions written under the heading “Places” when Billy said: “Yeah.”
“What?” said Strike.
“The Butcher brothers knew her,” said Billy. “Mates of Jimmy’s from home. They did a bit of work round the Chiswells’ place sometimes, with Dad. Bit of gardening and help with the horses.”
“They knew Suki Lewis?”
“Yeah. She ran away, didn’t she?” said Billy. “She was on the local news. The Butchers were excited because they seen her picture on the telly and they knew her family. Her mum was a headcase. Yeah, she was in care and she ran away to Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen?”
“Yeah. That’s what the Butchers said.”
“She was twelve.”
“She had family up there. They let her stay.”
“Is that right?” said Strike.
He wondered whether Aberdeen had seemed unfathomably remote to the teenage Butchers of Oxfordshire, and whether they had been more inclined to believe this story because it was, to them, uncheckable and so, strangely, more believable.
“We’re talking about Tegan’s brothers, right?” asked Strike.
“You can see he’s good,” Billy said naively over his shoulder, to the male psychiatrist, “can’t you? See how much he knows? Yeah,” he said, turning back to Strike. “She’s their little sister. They were like us, working for the Chiswells. There used to be a lot to do in the old days, but they sold off a lot of the land. They don’t need so many people anymore.”
He drank some more tea, the mug in both hands.
“Billy,” said Strike, “d’you know where you’ve been since you came to my office?”
At once, the tic reappeared. Billy’s right hand released the warm mug and touched his nose and chest in quick, nervous succession.
“I was… Jimmy doesn’t want me to talk about that,” he said, setting the mug clumsily back on the desk. “He told me not to.”
“I think it’s more important you answer Mr. Strike’s questions than worry about what your brother thinks,” said the male doctor, from behind Strike. “You know, you don’t have to see Jimmy if you don’t want to, Billy. We can ask him to give you some time here, to get better in peace.”
“Did Jimmy visit you where you’ve been staying?” Strike asked.
Billy chewed his lip.
“Yeah,” he said at last, “and he said I had to stay there or I’d cock everything up for him again. I thought the door had explosives round it,” he said, with a nervy laugh. “Thought if I tried to go out the door I’d explode. Probably not right, is it?” he said, appearing to search Strike’s expression for a clue. “I get ideas about stuff sometimes, when I’m bad.”
“Can you remember how you got away from the place you were being kept?”
“I thought they switched off the explosives,” said Billy. “The guy told me to run for it and I did.”
“What guy was this?”
“The one who was in charge of keeping me there.”
“Can you remember anything you did while you were being kept captive?” Strike asked. “How you spent your time?”
The other shook his head.
“Can you remember,” said Strike, “carving anything, into wood?”
Billy’s gaze was full of fear and wonder. Then he laughed.
“You know it all,” he said, and held up his bandaged left hand. “Knife slipped. Went right in me.”
The male psychiatrist added helpfully:
“Billy had tetanus when he came in. There was a very nasty infected gash on that hand.”
“What did you carve into the door, Billy?”
“I really did that, then, did I? Carved the white horse on the door? Because afterwards I didn’t know if I really did that or not.”
“Yeah, you did it,” said Strike. “I’ve seen the door. It was a good carving.”
“Yeah,” said Billy, “well, I used to—do some of that. Carving. For my dad.”
“What did you carve the horse onto?”
“Pendants,” said Billy, surprisingly. “On little circles of wood with leather through ’em. For tourists. Sold them in a shop over in Wantage.”
“Billy,” said Strike, “can you remember how you ended up in that bathroom? Did you go there to see someone, or did somebody take you there?”
Billy’s eyes roamed around the pink walls again, a deep furrow between his eyes as he thought.
“I was looking for a man called Winner… no…”
“Winn? Geraint Winn?”
“Yeah,” said Billy, again surveying Strike with astonishment. “You know everything. How do you know all this?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Strike. “What made you want to find Winn?”
“Heard Jimmy talking about him,” said Billy, gnawing at his nail again. “Jimmy said Winn was going to help find out all about the kid who was killed.”
“Winn was going to help find out about the child who was strangled?”
“Yeah,” said Billy, nervously. “See, I thought you were one of the people trying to catch me and lock me up, after I saw you. Thought you were trying to trap me and—I get like that, when I’m bad,” he said hopelessly. “So I went to Winner—Winn—instead. Jimmy had a phone number and address for him written down, so I went to find Winn and then I got caught.”