Her mouth was full of toast so she couldn’t answer.
‘Still feeling a bit shy, are you?’ Luke said. ‘Well, you’ll get used to us.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and the pressure of his fingertips remained long afterwards, like little bruises. She was the sixth child they had fostered over the years.
She wanted to go home but home didn’t exist any more. There might even be new people living there. She hoped someone had cleaned up the mess. At the thought of that she saw her mother again, lying curled round the syringe on the floor beside her bed, the lavender-coloured sheet pulled askew. She could hear the sounds she was making, the uneven rasp of her breath, the gurgle of vomit in the back of her throat. Katya jerked herself free of the images and got down from the table. She asked if she could go and clean her teeth, and Luke quirked his eyebrows at her polite formality.
That evening she unpacked and put her clothes in the chest of drawers, folding them neatly. She took her battered copy of The Blue Fairy Book and got into bed. It was the only possession apart from her clothes and toothbrush that she had brought with her from the flat.
She read Snow-White and Rose-Red before she went to sleep. It was her favourite now because it reminded her of her and Emily Parrish. The two children loved each other so dearly that they always walked about hand in hand whenever they went out together, and when Snow-White said, ‘We will never desert each other,’ Rose-Red answered, ‘No, not as long as we live.’ That was what it must be like to have a sister or a best friend, and that was what Katya wanted more than anything in the whole world. She felt that she knew Emily, even though they had never met. It was a very strong feeling, deep down inside her, as strong as hate and love, and it was what made her put up with all the horrible things she had to put up with: the knowledge that one day they would meet and they would be like two halves of a circle fitting together. It would be like a fairy tale.
9
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
GRAYLING SHAKES MY hand and grumbles pleasantly about the traffic. I make tea while he sets up his laptop on the kitchen table, running the wire across the floor like Tom does. He pulls a chair round so that we can sit next to each other.
‘Lovely garden,’ he says, looking over the top of his screen.
‘Do you like gardening?’
‘I love it. It’s how I wind down after a week of thwarting criminal masterminds.’
He’s funny. ‘What’s your success rate?’
‘Oh, about ninety-three per cent.’
That silences me. I listen to his fingers tapping the keyboard.
‘Do you usually do this?’ I sound nervous even to myself; I only hope I don’t sound guilty as well.
‘Sometimes. Depends how busy I am.’ He picks up his mug and puts it down again. ‘This isn’t something you pass or fail, Mrs Seagrave. I want you to be relaxed; try and remember what you saw, what kind of impression he gave you. Have you remembered anything since we last spoke?’
‘Not really. Bits and pieces.’
On the screen are nine boxes, each containing a basic face shape. I don’t have much imagination and the thought of conjuring someone up out of thin air is daunting. In my head I scroll through people I’ve met over the course of my life; old boyfriends of mum’s, teachers from school and professors from university. I want someone they would never think to look for. My hand goes to my face but I bring it down to my lap and pin it between my thighs.
‘That one,’ I say as Grayling clicks through the images.
A face pops into my head, very different from the man who broke into my house, but it’s one I can describe. I’m not even sure why I remember him, except that my mind connects him to unpleasantness and to that chaotic move. Maybe he was one of Mum’s more fleeting liaisons.
Grayling guides me through a dizzying range of possibilities: noses, mouth, eyes, ears, chin and hair. ‘How’re we doing?’
‘Hair a little thicker,’ I say. ‘And the mouth should be thinner, nose longer.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Grayling says, making the adjustments. ‘How’s he looking?’
I narrow my eyes. I remember his insinuating smile and the moment when his veneer slipped. I chew at my bottom lip, bringing back that feeling of second-hand fear, knowing I wasn’t the one in trouble, that I was safe; that my mother would turn the car round and drive us home.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I can’t remember.’
Grayling sits back and surveys his handiwork. ‘Well, it’s something, I suppose.’
He gets up and wanders over to the glass doors, stretching his arms behind his head. He’s disappointed in me. He turns and catches me watching him.
‘So, what happens next?’ I ask.
‘I’ll put him on the system and we’ll see if it jogs anyone’s memory. With the baby angle, it might even be a good fit for Crimewatch and with a picture as detailed as that, I’ll be extremely surprised if no one recognizes him.’
I imagine Grayling in his car, key poised in the ignition, scratching his head in confusion, like you do when you come out of the cinema after seeing an over-complicated thriller in which plot holes abound. I know he’ll think about what I’ve said and what I’ve shown him. He’s trained to know when people are lying or hiding something, or merely being economical with the truth. It can’t be as simple as me touching my ear or my lips. Everyone knows about that. There must be other things, more subtle signals.
‘I hope so.’
He looks at me for a long moment and then takes his mug to the sink and starts to wash it out.
‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘The wife has me well trained.’
My doorbell rings. I hover uncertainly, extremely averse to anyone knowing who I have with me, but then I see how ridiculous that is and go and answer it. It’s Amber.
‘Do you have time for a coffee?’ she asks, and then grimaces when Grayling comes out of the kitchen into the hall. ‘Oops. Sorry, Vicky. I didn’t know you had a visitor. I’ll come back later.’
‘I’m on my way out,’ he says. ‘Don’t mind me.’
She cocks her head so that she can see him more clearly. ‘Oh, DS Grayling. I thought it was you.’
He reaches past me and shakes her hand, and she moves aside to let him out.
He hesitates. ‘Although, while I’m here, would it be a lot of trouble to ask you to have a look at the E-FIT Vicky’s done? I know you only had a back view, but it might jog a memory.’
‘Of course I will. Happy to help.’
Her tone is verging on flirtatious and I raise my eyebrows, inclined to giggle. As we all traipse back to the kitchen I nudge her hard.
‘Well, he’s very attractive,’ she mutters into my ear as Grayling sets the laptop up beside my computer.
He leans over the chair, resting one hand on the table, one covering the mouse. The screen fills, and there he is. Amber, standing beside me, says nothing.