A Traitor to Memory

Gideon led her to the place she'd accompanied him previously: to a building that was part brick and part stone, sitting on the edge of a little park. He went in through the same narrow doorway, where black wooden slats on the wall were painted in white with the names of the lawyers who had offices inside.

They had to cool their heels in reception before Cresswell-White had a break in his schedule. They sat in silence on the black leather sofas, both of them staring alternately at the Persian carpet and the brass chandelier. Around them, telephones rang constantly and quietly as a group working in an office directly opposite the sofas fielded calls.

After forty minutes of pondering the crucial issue of whether the oak chest in reception had been built to store chamber pots, Libby heard someone say, “Gideon,” and roused herself to see that Bertram Cresswell-White had himself come out to take them back to his corner office. Unlike their previous visit—which had been scheduled in advance—no coffee was on offer this time, although the fireplace was lit and it was doing at least something to cut the chill that pervaded the room.

The lawyer had been working hard at some task or another, for a computer's monitor was still glowing with a page of typescript and half a dozen books were open on his desk along with what looked like pretty ancient files. Among these, a black-and-white photograph of a woman lay. She was blonde with close-cropped hair, a bad complexion, and an expression saying “Don't mess with me.”

Gideon saw the picture and said, “Are you trying to get her out?”

Cresswell-White closed the file, gestured them to the leather chairs near the fireplace, and said, “She would have been hanged if I'd had my way and the law were different. She's a monster. And I've made the study of monsters my avocation.”

“What'd she do?” Libby asked.

“Killed children and buried their bodies on the moors. She liked to make audiotapes as she tortured them, she and her boyfriend.” Libby swallowed. Cresswell-White glanced at his watch with some meaning but tempered this action with, “I heard about your mother, Gideon. On Radio Four News, I'm terribly sorry. I expect that's something to do with why you've come. How can I help you?”

“With her address.” Gideon spoke as if he'd thought of nothing else since first getting into his car in Chalcot Square.

“Whose?”

“You have to know where she is. You were the one who put her away, so you would've been told when they let her out. That's why I've come. I need her address.”

Libby thought, Hold on here, Gid.

Cresswell-White gave his version of that same reaction. He knotted his eyebrows, saying, “Are you asking me for Katja Wolff 's address?”

“You have it, don't you? You have to have it. I don't expect they'd let her out without telling you where she went.”

“Why do you want it? I'm not saying I do have it, by the way.”

“She's owed.”

Libby thought, This is really the limit. She said quietly but with what she hoped was gentle urgency, “Gideon. Gosh. The police're handling this, aren't they?”

“She's out now,” Gideon said to Cresswell-White as if Libby hadn't spoken. “She's out and she's owed. Where is she?”

“I can't tell you that.” Cresswell-White leaned forward, his body if not his hands reaching for Gideon. “I know you've had a very bad shock. Your life has probably been one long effort to recover from what she put you through. God knows the time that she spent in prison doesn't mitigate your suffering one iota.”

“I've got to find her,” Gideon said. “It's the only way.”

“No. Listen to me. It's the wrong way. Oh, it feels right and I know that feeling: You'd climb back into the past if you could and you'd tear her limb from limb before the fact, just to prevent her from doing the harm she eventually did your family. But you'd gain as little as I gain, Gideon, when I hear the jury's verdict and I know that I've won but all the time I've lost because nothing can bring a dead child back to life. A woman who takes the life of a child is the worst kind of demon because she can give life if she chooses. And to take a life when you can give life is a crime that's compounded and one for which no sentence will ever be long enough and no punishment—even death—ever good enough.”

“There's got to be reparation,” Gideon said. He didn't sound so much stubborn as desperate. “My mother's dead, don't you see? There's got to be reparation, and this is the only way. I don't have a choice.”