A Traitor to Memory

“Yes. Yes, I know. But I wanted to see …” He hesitated again, then finally took the plunge. “There's no easy way to ask this, sir. Do you have a computer at home?”


“Randie's got a laptop.”

“Do you have access?”

“When it's here. But she keeps it in Cambridge. Why?”

“I think you probably know why.”

“You suspect that I'm Jete?”

“‘After all this time.’ It's more a matter of crossing Jete off the list if it's you. You can't have killed her—”

“For God's sake.”

“Sorry. I'm sorry. But it's got to be said. You can't have killed her because you were at home with two dozen witnesses celebrating your anniversary. So if you are Jete, sir, I'd like to know so that I don't waste time trying to track him down.”

“Or her, Tommy. ‘After all this time.’ It could be Wolff.”

“It could be Wolff. But it's not you?”

“No.”

“Thanks. That's all I need to know, sir.”

“You got to us quickly. To me and Eugenie.”

“I didn't get to you. Havers did.”

“Havers? How the hell …?”

“Eugenie'd kept your letters. They were all together in a drawer in her bedroom. Barbara found them.”

“Where are they now? Have you given them to Leach?”

“I didn't think they were germane to the case. Are they, sir? Because common sense tells me I shouldn't dismiss the possibility that Eugenie Davies wanted to talk to Ted Wiley about you.”

“If she wanted to talk to Wiley about me, it would have been only to confess past transgressions before getting on with her life.”

“Would that have been like her, Superintendent?”

“Oh yes,” Webberly breathed. “Just exactly like.”

She hadn't been brought up so, but she'd lived as a Catholic, with the Catholic's profound and powerful sense of guilt and remorse. That had coloured the way she'd lived in Henley, and that would have coloured the manner in which she faced the future. He was certain.

At his elbow, Webberly became aware of a gentle pressure. Alf, he saw, had lumbered up from his raggedy nighttime cushion by the stove and had come to join him, pressing the top of his head against his master's arm, perhaps sensing that canine solace was needed. The dog's presence reminded Webberly that he was late in taking the Alsatian for his regular nightly stroll.

He went upstairs first to check on Frances, compelled by the twinge of guilt he felt at having spent the last forty-eight hours dwelling in mind and in spirit, if not in body, with another woman. He found his wife in their double bed, snoring gently, and he stood, looking down at her. Sleep wiped the lines of anxiety from her face. While it did not render her youthful again, it served to provide her with an air of defencelessness that he'd never been able to ignore. How many times over the years had he done just this—stood looking down at his sleeping wife—and wondered how they'd come to this pass? how they'd gone so long just getting through days that turned into weeks that swiftly became months yet never once venturing each to understand what inner yearnings caused them to sing in their chains—faces held to the sky—when they were alone? But he had the answer to that question, at least on his own part, when he glanced at the window with its curtains shut tight, knowing that behind them the glass was locked and a wooden dowel lay on the floor for use as further security on the nights he wasn't at home.

They'd both been afraid from the start. It was just that Fran's fears had taken a form more readily apparent to the casual observer. Her fears had claimed him, making a plea for his constancy that was as eloquent as it was unspoken, and his own fears had bound him to her, terrified that he might have to become more than he'd lived his life as already.

A low whining from the foot of the stairs roused Webberly. He pulled the blankets over his wife's exposed right shoulder, whispered, “Sleep well, Frances,” and left the room.

Below, Alfie had moved to the front door where he sat on his haunches expectantly. He got to his feet as Webberly went back to the kitchen for his jacket and the dog's lead. He was circling round in anticipation when Webberly returned to him and clipped the lead on his collar.

Webberly's intention was to take the Alsatian on a shorter walk this night: just a circuit of the rectangle described by walking to the end of Palgrave Road, up to Stamford Brook Road, and back to Palgrave via Hartswood Road. He was tired; he didn't much feel like trailing Alfie across the green that was Prebend Gardens. He realised that this wasn't giving the Alsatian his due. The dog was nothing if not patience, tolerance, and fidelity incarnate, and all he asked in return for his devotion was food, water, and the chance to run with happy abandon round, through, and across Prebend Gardens twice each day. It was small enough consideration for him, but tonight Webberly didn't feel up to it.