A shrill scream pierces the late-afternoon sky and Lydia tenses as a pair of children no older than four or five thunder past her through powdery snow, almost trampling her feet in the process, and make for the tyre swings on one side of the large, square playpark. She mutters a curse under her breath, holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the sinking sun, and peers around. At the far side of the park, an elderly woman sits alone on a bench, watching the kids play. She looks so at home that Lydia decides this must be a routine for her, a way of mitigating the loneliness that haunts so many people in their waning years.
Being especially careful to take the widest possible berth around any more children, Lydia crosses the concrete square to join her. “Mrs Eagle?”
“What gave me away?” the old woman replies, without looking at her. Close up, Lydia notes her hooked nose, thick eyebrows and lank, white hair that sticks to her head and neck. You look like an eagle, she thinks, but resists the urge to say it out loud.
“You look like a teacher,” she offers instead.
“Not that I’m twice as old as anyone else here?”
“Sure, that too.”
Mrs Eagle turns her head, with some effort Lydia thinks, and gives her an appraising look. “So, you’re a journalist, are you?”
“An author,” Lydia replies, sitting down on the bench, crossing her legs and slipping her phone from her bag.
Dorothy Eagle takes Lydia in, from stiletto heels to tumbling blonde locks. “Mills and Boon?”
“Psychology and criminology. Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“Goodness me, why?” The old woman eyes the phone suspiciously.
“So that I can transcribe it later on.”
“Don’t you have a life?”
“Not to speak of, no.”
“Or perhaps not in daylight hours.” Mrs Eagle’s eyes linger disapprovingly on Lydia’s slender, black-stockinged legs.
Lydia blinks. Did she just call me a prostitute?
“Very well,” the teacher waves a hand weakly at the phone, “if you must.”
“Thank you.” Lydia taps the screen and sets the phone down on the bench between them. Dorothy continues to watch it, warily. “So, like I said on the phone, I’d like to talk about—”
“Jason, yes I remember. It was only a few hours ago. My brains are not mush, I’ll have you know.” She pulls her coat and scarf tighter around her to protect against the winter chill. “Not yet.”
“Right,” says Lydia, “because I was talking to his doctor and—”
“Doctor!” Dorothy snorts, huffily. “Is that what they call the maniacs in that place?”
“Mortem?”
“That is where he is, isn’t it?” The teacher looks down her crooked nose at Lydia, who is suddenly and powerfully reminded of her own school days, a precocious child feeling condescended to, frustrated and powerless.
“Yes, I saw him there this morning.”
“Oh you did?” Dorothy sniffs. “Then what on earth are you talking to me for?”
“Well, as I was saying,” Lydia is too tired to bother disguising her impatience, “his doctor told me that he often talks about his childhood, and that he mentioned you in particular.” The old woman’s dull eyes widen a little, but she says nothing, so Lydia continues. “So I was wondering what you might remember about him.”
“Oh, it was so long ago.” The teacher lifts a withered hand and flicks it dismissively, “I’ve taught so many children. After a while they all just sort of blend into each other.”
“I’m sure.” Lydia eyes a little boy kicking a ball nearby.
“You don’t have children, do you?” says Dorothy. It’s more a statement than a question, and Lydia glances at her to see that the teacher is reading her expression. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
“No.”
“Yes, you don’t look the type.”
Lydia opens her mouth to enquire just what it is about her that screams ‘childless whore’, but thinks better of it. Not the time to open up that particular can of worms. “Do you?” she asks instead.
“A son,” Dorothy replies, “and two grandchildren.” Lydia notes that the old woman’s face doesn’t show any sign of joy when talking about her family.
“How old are they?”
“Oh, they’re teenagers now.”
“Do you see much of them?”
“No, but I’m not sad about that. They’re both fairly ugly and not very bright. I get more stimulation from the weather forecast.” Lydia’s eyebrows rise slightly. “But you have to love them, don’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“Of course you wouldn’t know. How could you?”
“Well,” Lydia says, “I don’t necessarily think you need first-hand experience of something in order to understand it.”
Dorothy Eagle looks at her with unmistakable pity. “And you’re a psychologist, are you?”
“That’s what my degree says,” Lydia replies, coolly.
“Did you learn about hubris?” Dorothy cracks a smile for the first time. Lydia can’t tell if the emotion behind it is deliberately unkind or not, but either way she doesn’t like it. Turning her head away for a moment, she feels a light draft on the back of her neck as a man in a long, grey overcoat passes behind the bench. He’s walking a large German Shepherd on a leash, and by the time Lydia’s gaze drifts from dog to man, he’s ten feet away with his back turned. Her mind idly begins to profile him, but there isn’t much to go on and as he reaches the playground gate, she loses interest.
“So, do you remember Jason?” she asks, turning back to Dorothy. “You must have thought about him, you know, when all of this happened?”
“I didn’t hear much about it, to be honest.”
“Really?” Lydia sounds surprised. “This story was everywhere for months.”
“I don’t watch the news,” the old woman replies, dismissively. “There’s so much horror in the world, what good does knowing about it do anybody?”
“But this was someone you knew.”
“When he was a little boy, I knew him,” Dorothy snaps, “and that little boy wasn’t a murderer, was he?”
“What was he like?” Lydia seizes on the thread.
“He was a good boy,” the teacher replies, defensively, “far as I remember anyway. Quiet. Not many friends, you know. Apart from that one.”
“What one?”
“Funny-looking child.” Her old face crinkles further as she tries to remember. “Like a little turtle. Turtle… water… Sprinkler! That’s it. Cecil Sprinkler.” She slumps back on the bench, as though the effort it took to remember has sapped all of her strength. “Another one with no friends, that’s probably what they bonded over.”
“Do you remember anything else about him?”
“His mother looked like a turtle too. Met her at parent-teacher night.”
Lydia frowns, momentarily confused. “No, Jason.”
“Oh, not really.”
Lydia lets out an exasperated sigh. Why did you agree to meet me if you’ve nothing to say? “Well, thanks anyway.” She picks up her phone, taps the screen and slips it back into her bag.
“Is that what your book is about?” Dorothy asks. “Jason Devere?”
“Depends,” Lydia mutters, standing up. “There won’t be a book at all if I don’t get to the bottom of it.”
“The bottom of what?” The old woman’s face is placid; she seems either unaware or completely unconcerned about how irritating Lydia finds her.
“Of why Jason did what he did. Of how anyone can bring themselves to do those kinds of things.” She swings her bag over her shoulder.
“Be careful.” The teacher’s voice sounds different somehow, with a wavering quality like a low note from a bass clarinet, and her eyes look suddenly brighter.
“Of what?”
“It’s dangerous to go looking for something, when you don’t fully understand what it is that you’re looking for.”
Lydia stares at her. “I will,” she says finally.
“No, you won’t.” Dorothy looks back towards the playing children.
I understand how someone could strangle you, Lydia thinks. But again, she resists the urge to say it out loud. “Well, thanks for your time.”
The old woman doesn’t respond, so Lydia walks away, her mind already turning to the only useful piece of information the teacher had given her. The next piece of the puzzle.
Off to catch herself a turtle.