Twelve

The doctor saw her again at nine.

By that time Robert Wilde was in the station. While the doctor examined the girl again, Wilde spoke to the custody sergeant.

‘Her knees were cut too,’ the man said. ‘From kneeling on the floor.’

Wilde ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘And still nothing—no word, no kind of explanation?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘We went in, we helped her up. She didn’t resist. She sat on the edge of the bed.’

‘What was she doing when you checked at six?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘And at seven?’

‘She looked as if she was praying.’ The sergeant demonstrated the hands raised in the air.

Robert Wilde looked at him closely. ‘But no words, not even a whisper, like a prayer?

‘No, sir.’

‘Anything else?’ he asked. ‘Anything else at all?’

The man gave a slight shrug. ‘When I went in, when we picked her up … she let herself be touched. And she looked up at me.’ He pursed his mouth as if embarrassed. ‘She gave me this look …’

‘What kind of look?’

‘Grateful. Pathetic.’ The sergeant pulled a face, as if he knew that what he was about to say might well be misinterpreted. ‘It was a sweet look,’ he said. ‘Kindness in it. Kindness, sadness.’

‘But nothing actually said.’

‘She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something. Then she just squeezed my arm. We brought her a cup of tea.’

‘Did she drink it?’

‘Yes.’ The man sighed. ‘If she’s guilty of murder, I don’t know …’

Wilde considered him. ‘What do you make of her?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know what to make of her,’ the other man replied honestly. ‘She looks like a decent girl. But …’

‘But what?’

The sergeant gave a rueful smile. ‘Something strange. When I touched her.’

‘What?’

The other man turned his face away and dropped his voice, so self-conscious was he of what he was about to say. ‘Gave me an electric shock,’ he said. ‘A real ripple of shock.’

‘Static?’

‘On a concrete floor?’

Wilde went up to the incident room, a part of the station that had been the old cells, and was now a shell. Two days ago, builders had been in here converting the place to a new suite of offices. Behind thick plastic tarpaulin held together with miles of masking tape, junction boxes hung on cables. The cleared space, still with the distinct odour of brick and plaster dust, was now full of desks, phones, and VDUs.

At a large table in the corner, two officers sat side by side reviewing video tapes. Every closed circuit TV tape from every petrol station on the likeliest route between Alisha Graham’s house and Anna Miles’ cottage had been brought in. Now the painstaking job of watching every tape through a thirty-six-hour cycle had fallen to the two men sitting in front of the TVs.

Wilde went over to them. ‘How’s it going?’

He looked at the nearest screen. Grainy night light filled the picture. ‘Where is this?’

The detective picked up the box and read from the side. ‘Place called High Park Ash. Just outside Bristol.’

It was a little garage. Empty wire racks showed where newspapers and flowers were displayed during the day. An ice cream sign, no doubt inadvertently left out overnight, spun lazily in a slight breeze. The clock on the bottom of the screen read two-forty a.m. They watched it through another five minutes on fast-forward, the scene never altering.

‘How many have you done?’ Wilde asked.

‘Eighteen.’

He put his hand on the detective’s shoulder. ‘Keep at it.’

By the time that he went back upstairs, the girl had finished with the doctor. She was shown into another interview room, and Wilde sat down opposite her with Sandys. The doctor had put a dressing on both knees and on one arm. She wore a shift dress and a sweatshirt that had been provided for her. Her clothes were evidence.

If I have a case, Wilde thought wryly.

He made no attempt, this time, at prevarication.

‘We want to help you,’ he said. ‘And you must help us.’

She looked down at her hands.

‘How did Alisha Graham die?’

Sandys sighed heavily.

‘You were found this morning,’ Wilde said. ‘Kneeling on the floor. You were praying …’

A flicker went over her face, like a shadow.

‘You were praying,’ he repeated.

The faintest, the slightest inclination of her head. It might have been a nod.

‘You were praying for help, perhaps?’

Nothing.

‘We pray to ask God for something, to tell him something.’

Nothing.

‘Do you believe in God?’ he asked.

She stiffened a little in her seat.

‘Do you believe in God?’ he repeated.

The effect was extraordinary. Wilde had been through a lot of interviews in his time, seen what he had in more cynical moments thought of as a constant and unvarying pattern of petty criminals, heard the same story a hundred times with only minor variations—the deprived childhood, the lack of a job, the addiction to drugs or drink, the temptation unresisted. Seen guilt and perversity. Shame. Wry embarrassment. Frantic anxiety. Blithe good humour. All the ranges of human reaction.

But he had not seen this.

The angel-faced girl put a hand to her neck as if she were being choked. She scrambled from the chair, and went back to her knees on the floor, her hands now covering her head. She kneeled down so that her forehead touched the floor. And her whole body shook.

Wilde resisted his gut response, which was to rush around the side of the desk and lift her up. Sandys stood up immediately, apparently with this same intention, but Wilde put a restraining hand on his arm. He strode quickly around the desk himself, kneeled down at the girl’s side, and put his face close to her ear.

‘What is it?’ he said.

The breath came from her in ragged gasps.

‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘I can help you find a way through this. Find an answer. Tell me.’

She looked up at him, stricken. Then her gaze trailed past him, to the window, to the light. She stared up so intently that he, too, turned his head. He saw only cloudless sky, the sky of a spring morning, another warm day.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She trembled.

‘Is it God?’ he asked, a realization suddenly dawning on him. ‘Is God looking at you?’

To his intense relief, because it meant some kind of communication, something more, if only a little more than yesterday, the girl began to nod distractedly.

‘God is looking at you, watching you?’

She tore her eyes from the bland blue sky and stared into his face.

‘And you’re afraid … of what? That he’s angry with you?’

There was no confirmation. Her expression told him that he had missed the point. He felt like a useless player in a game of charades.

‘God is up there …’ he murmured. ‘Watching, waiting?’

She put her arms around his neck.

He felt her sweet breath, warm against his skin.