‘But he’s outside.’
‘I see.’ The policeman folded an arm across his chest, and sighed into his other hand.
‘You have someone on that list.’ I prodded my finger at the desk. ‘Called Ronnie Butler.’ I watched the policeman scroll with his pen down the names of the residents. ‘But you won’t find him.’
He looked up. ‘I won’t?’
‘No, you won’t. Because he’s not listed as Ronnie Butler, he’s listed as Gabriel Price.’
He didn’t reply, although his mouth opened very slightly.
‘He’s masquerading as someone else, Inspector,’ I said, ‘and he’s exceptionally dangerous. He always has been.’
The policeman sat back. ‘That’s a very serious allegation, Miss Claybourne.’
‘Oh, it’s not an allegation, it’s a well-known fact. He drowned, in 1953, and he’s come back from the dead pretending to be someone else. If that isn’t dangerous, I don’t know what is.’
‘It’s certainly quite an achievement.’
‘But he’s still got the scar.’ I pointed to the corner of my mouth. ‘So it’s definitely him.’
‘I see.’ The policeman tried to lean back a little more, but he’d run out of space to do it in. ‘So what exactly does this gentleman have to do with Mrs Honeyman?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘He’s done away with her.’
The policeman looked as though he was going to speak, but nothing came out.
‘He broke into my flat, did you hear about it?’ I said. ‘Several times.’
The policeman began to say something, but changed his mind and shook his head instead.
‘He’s been moving things around. He bought all that cake. No one believes me. Even Miss Ambrose doesn’t believe me.’
‘Shall I get Miss Ambrose?’ the policeman said.
‘As a witness?’ I gripped the edge of the desk.
‘No, I just—’
‘He killed Beryl, but none of you could prove it. You’ll write it down, won’t you, the name? Ronnie Butler,’ I said. ‘You’ll make sure he’s arrested?’
The policeman stood, and we copied him. It was the same with doctors and solicitors. The strangest reflex. ‘I’ll make sure the right people know all about it,’ he said.
I held on to the sleeve of his uniform. ‘You’re the first person who’s listened to me,’ I said.
I waited for his reply, but there was nothing.
It was much later. When Elsie came out of the bathroom, I was leaning against the windowsill and looking out on to the crescent. The interviews took a lot longer than anyone anticipated, and it had grown very dark. It was quite amazing how much everyone had to say about Mrs Honeyman, considering we knew so little about her. The hotel put a light buffet on in the dining room, but no one had much of an appetite. I saw Ronnie Butler eat more than his fair share, and Jack forced down a couple of vol-au-vents, but most of it was returned to the kitchens untouched. Gail with an i sniffed very loudly as she took all the plates back, and said a lot of things about third-world countries which no one could really hear properly, because of all the sniffing.
Elsie joined me at the window. She stood there in her nightdress, silhouetted against a coastal sky, scoops of white hair and frail, worn shoulders, all floodlit by a Yorkshire moon.
‘Are you still not hungry?’ she said.
‘I might be able to manage an Ovaltine.’ I didn’t turn. ‘Except I can’t stop thinking about her being out there somewhere. On her own. It doesn’t make any sense, Elsie. Does it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t.’
‘She wasn’t confused. She wouldn’t just wander off.’
‘It might have been seeing Whitby again after all these years. Perhaps she got muddled. Perhaps she fell into the past and couldn’t find her way back.’
In the distance there were lights on the water. Ships, perhaps, sleeping somewhere far across the ocean, and even through the glass, I could hear the tides. The never-ending waves, pulling against the earth, shaping the landscape.
We watched a woman walk by with her dog.
‘It never stops, Whitby, does it?’ I said. ‘No matter what the time is. Most places settle down, but Whitby just keeps moving.’
‘I expect it’s the sea. A wave travels thousands of miles and finds its way here to make its mark. It must be difficult to sleep when something so amazing is happening.’
I was going to draw the curtains, but something stopped me, and I took one last look through the glass and out towards the ocean.
‘I hope she’s all right,’ I said. ‘I hope she can find her way back.’
I held the material in my hand. Never before had it felt so difficult to close a curtain.
10.01 p.m.
I don’t know when I first started sleeping in that chair.
I only remember staying up one night, because I couldn’t stomach the thought of going to bed, and it just happened. I didn’t mean it to. I borrowed two pillows from the bedroom and I used the little blanket on the back of the settee. It was quite comfortable, when you got used to it, and if you tucked yourself in, it wasn’t that cold. I didn’t dare leave the fire on, of course. Not after everything that happened. I kept it plugged in, though, for company, and I watched a red light dance through the imaginary coal and pretend to be a flame.
I would never have been found out, either, if Miss Ambrose hadn’t dropped in without any kind of forewarning. I always put the pillows back on the bed, and ruffle up the eiderdown, just for appearances’ sake, but she caught me out before I’d had a chance to do it.
‘Florence,’ she said. ‘Have you been sleeping in the chair?’
I chose something to look at.
‘Because if you have, I’m going to have to put you on night-time visits.’
I turned to her. ‘I don’t want someone coming in and putting me to bed, like a toddler.’
‘Then can you please go back to sleeping where everyone else sleeps?’
I wanted to tell her I felt better sleeping in the chair, that when I went to bed, all I did was lie there and listen for Ronnie walking around in the flat, that I could never find my sleep, because my mind was too busy trying to think of a reason for all the noises. But how can you talk to somebody when even their eyes aren’t listening to you?
‘So that’s settled then?’ she said.
I folded my arms as a reply, and after a few seconds, I heard the front door close to. I did think about carrying on with it, but Miss Bissell has a knack of knowing what you’re up to, even if Miss Ambrose rarely has the first clue.
I’d give anything to be in that chair right now.
I can just about see it from where I am, if I turn my head, but it’s getting more and more difficult because the longer I lie here, the less my body wants to do what I’m telling it to. It’s easier just to look at the nonsense under the sideboard, although I can’t make that out at all now. It’s so dark.
I keep thinking about Mabel and those little children. I’ve never really had much of an opinion about children. You don’t, really, if you have none of your own. It’s not that I ever set out not to have them, life just seems to pick up speed all by itself, and before I knew it, I was having a little retirement party at the factory. Drinks in white plastic cups. People you’ve never even said hello to before, waving their goodbyes. And you get home, and it’s only then you realise you forgot to make a family. It makes you think, though, when you see children close up like that, how they’re like tiny versions of yourself, carrying on where you left off.
Mabel said she’d pop in and visit. She hasn’t sent word, but people just drop in on you sometimes, don’t they? Look at Miss Ambrose. Mabel will be in such a state when she finds me.