In the morning he found he had overslept. Deliciously fogged by sleep. And when the fog cleared he found that Clover hogged the bathroom. A wafting air of talc and scented soap. The sound of her singing. A song from her Beatles record. The one about there being a place to go when she’s down, inside her own head. He tried patience, but soon ran out. All the same he could not bring himself to hammer on the door, stopher singing – tuneful singing, ‘playayayace’, ‘miyiyiyind’ – and tell her to get a move on. He skipped shaving, pissed in the sink, made a mental note to buy a second toothbrush to keepin the kitchen cabinet, and set off for the Old Bailey. He arrived in time to see Tara stepdown and the court adjourn for lunch. He had missed Cocket cross-examining her.
He took lunch with Dame Rebecca. The same walk to Carter Lane. The same caff. He bought two portions of pie and mash, while she read quickly from one of those large yellow pads made for the legal profession in America.
‘You can talk while I write. You don’t mind, do you? I must get this in.’
She took out a sheet of white foolscap and began turning her yellow jottings into publishable prose.
‘Dame Rebecca . . . ’ he began, meaning to ask her to elaborate on what she had said two days ago about the Ffitch sisters, only this time to see how it fitted Clover, now that he was stuck with Clover.
‘Call me Cissie,’ the old woman said. ‘Your father always did. It is so nice to be reminded of him again. Your nephew looks just like him, of course, but then he doesn’t seem to have time for anybody.’
Troy hesitated. He could not call her, or any woman, ‘Cissie’. It was his pig’s name. The dilemma so confused him he completely forgot what it was he wanted to ask her.
‘Did I miss much?’ he asked at last.
‘This morning? No. Young Cocket could not budge Miss Ffitch. Odd, when you come to think about it. When have you ever seen a young woman quite so willing to brand herself with the scarlet letter?’