kitchen drinking it. Time passes slowly but with a lot of willpower I manage to hang on until eleven and then I leave, putting on the alarm as I go. As I drive through Browbury I remember the last time I was here, the day I bumped into John, and work out that it must have been about five weeks ago. When I remember how scared I’d been that day because I’d thought that the murderer was in the garden, I feel real anger that someone could instil such fear in me. And where had those five weeks gone? Where had the summer gone?
I arrive in Heston, leave my car in the same road and cross over to the park. There’s no sign of Jane’s husband or the children but I didn’t expect it to be that easy. I don’t want to think about the possibility that he might not come to the park at all, or what I’ll do if he refuses to listen to me so I sit for a while on an empty bench, enjoying the feel of the late September sun on my face.
At around twelve-thirty I make my way to the pub,
stopping off at the village shop to buy a newspaper. I order a coffee at the bar and carry it through to the garden. There are a surprising number of people already having lunch there and I feel suddenly conspicuous, not only because I’m alone but also because everyone seems to know each other, or at least be regular customers.
I find a small table under a tree, a little away from everyone, and open the paper. The headlines aren’t very interesting so I turn to the next page. An article with the
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title ‘Why has nobody been arrested?’ jumps out at me.
I don’t have to read it to know it’s about Jane’s murder.
Alongside the article is a photograph of a young
woman, a friend of Jane’s, who seems as frustrated as I am by the slowness of the police investigation. ‘ Somebody must know who the murderer is,’ she is quoted as saying, a sentiment picked up and chewed over by the reporter.
‘ Two months ago, a young woman was brutal y murdered,’ the article finishes. ‘ Somebody somewhere must know something. ’
I close the paper, my stomach churning. As far as I know, the police had stopped appealing for the person who saw Jane alive in her car that night to re-contact them but this latest article might stir things up again.
I’m too wound up to sit, so I leave the pub and start walking down the street in search of Jane’s husband because now, more than ever, I don’t want to go away empty-handed. I have no idea where he lives, if he lives in the village itself or in the new estate that has been built on its outskirts but as I pass a row of stone cottages I see two identical tricycles parked in one of the front gardens. Without giving myself the chance to hesitate I walk up the path and knock on the front door.
I see him checking me out through the window but
he takes so long coming to the door that I think he’s not going to open it.
He looks down at me from the doorstep.
‘The tissue lady,’ he says, his voice neither friendly nor unfriendly.
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‘Yes,’ I say, gratified that he’s remembered. ‘I’m sorry
to disturb you but could I talk to you for a couple of minutes?’
‘Not if you’re a journalist, no.’
I shake my head quickly. ‘I’m not a journalist.’
‘If you’re a medium of some kind, I’m not interested either.’
I smile a little, almost wishing it was the reason I was there. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Let me guess – you and Jane go way back and you
want to tell me how bad you feel that you lost contact with her.’
I shake my head. ‘Not exactly.’
‘So why do you want to talk to me?’
‘I’m Cass.’
‘Cass?’
‘Yes. I wrote to you a few weeks’ ago. Jane and I had lunch together just before…’ I tail off, not knowing what else to say.
‘Of course!’ A frown crosses his face. ‘Why didn’t
you tell me who you were when we bumped into each
other in the park?’
‘I don’t know. Probably because I didn’t want you to think I was intruding. I was driving through Heston that day and remembered Jane mentioning the park so I decided to stop. It didn’t occur to me that I might bump in to you.’
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‘I seem to spend most of my life there,’ he says,
grimacing. ‘The girls never tire of it. They ask to go every day, even when it’s raining.’
‘How are they?’
‘They’re doing really well.’ He opens the door wider.
‘Come in. The girls are asleep so I have a few minutes.’
I follow him through to the sitting room, where toys litter the floor and Jane gazes at me from myriad family photos. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ I say, suddenly nervous.
‘You said you wanted to talk to me?’
‘Yes.’ Sudden tears fill my eyes and I grope in my bag for a tissue, angry at myself.
‘Please, sit down. You’ve obviously got something
on your mind.’
‘Yes,’ I say again, taking a seat on the sofa.
He pulls up a chair and sits down opposite me. ‘Take your time.’
‘I saw Jane that night,’ I say, twisting the tissue around my fingers.
‘Yes, I know, at a party. I remember Jane telling me.’
‘No, not that night. The night she was…’ The word
‘murdered’ sticks in my throat. ‘The night she was
killed. I was in Blackwater Lane and I drove past her car in the lay-by.’
He doesn’t say anything for so long that I think he’s gone into some kind of shock.
‘Have you told the police?’ he asks eventually.
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‘Yes. I’m the person who phoned in to say that she