A Traitor to Memory

“Who?”


“James Pitchford. He lived with us when my sister was … when she died. And it's odd because I'd been thinking of him myself recently, although before that he hadn't crossed my mind in years.” Gideon grimaced then, and Libby noticed that the hand not clutching the blanket was pressed into his stomach as if something inside were burning his guts. “Someone ran her down in James Pitchford's street,” he said. “More than once, Libby. And because she was on her way to see James, Dad thinks the police are going to want to track down everyone who was involved … back then.”

“Why?”

“Because of the kind of questions they asked him, I dare say.”

“I don't mean why does he think the cops want to track down everyone. I mean why would they want to track down everyone. Is there a connection between then and now? I mean, obviously if your mom was going to see James Pitchford, there's some sort of connection. But if someone from twenty years ago killed her, why wait till now to do it?”

Gideon bent forward farther, his face contorted with pain. He said, “God. It feels like a coal's burning right through me.”

“Here, then.” Libby lowered him to bed. He curled on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest. She removed his shoes. His feet were sockless and as pale as milk, and he rubbed them together spasmodically, as if the friction could take his mind from the pain.

Libby lowered herself next to him, spooning her body into his beneath the blanket. She insinuated her hand beneath his arm and laid her palm on his stomach. She could feel his spine curved into her, every knob of it like a marble. He'd become so thin that she wondered how he kept his bones from poking through his papery skin.

She said, “I bet you've had a brain lock on this stuff, huh? Well, forget about it. Not for always. Just for now. Lay here with me and just forget.”

“I can't,” he said, and he gave a bitter laugh. “Remembering everything is my assignment.” His feet rubbed. He curled into himself further still. Libby held him closer. He finally said, “She's out of gaol, Libby. Dad knew, but he didn't tell me. That's why the police want to look at twenty years ago. She's out of gaol.”

“Who is? You mean …?”

“Katja Wolff.”

“Do they think she might have run down your mom?”

“I don't know.”

“Why would she? It makes more sense that your mom would want to run down her.”

“In the normal way of things,” Gideon said. “Except nothing about my life has been normal, so there's no reason why my mother's death should be normal either.”

“Your mom must have testified against her,” Libby said. “And she could have spent her time locked up planning to get everyone who put her there. But if she did, how'd she find your mom, Gideon? I mean, you didn't even know where she was. How could this Wolff chick have tracked her down? And if she did track her down, and if she did kill her, why'd she kill her on this Pitchford guy's street?”

Libby thought about her questions and then answered them herself. “To give Pitchford a message?” “Or to give someone else one.”



A phone call relayed to Barbara Havers what Lynley had learned from Richard Davies, including the name she needed to gain access to the Convent of the Immaculate Conception. There, he told her, she should find someone who could give her the whereabouts of a Sister Cecilia Mahoney.