The physiotherapist at the Musgrave had advised her about exercise.
‘You’ve got to keep it up but don’t overdo it. Nothing too strenuous. No running on hard surfaces because it might jar your spine. Something steady. Power-walking, that’s the thing. You see women out doing it all the time.’
And, to her surprise, she had.
At first she had thought they looked ridiculous. They were in twos or threes, mostly, all shapes and sizes, striding red-faced up and down the Lisburn and Malone Roads, those well-trodden middle-class fitness paths. But then she got used to the sight and she saw that nobody else thought it was in any way unusual.
So, kitted out in leggings and sturdy trainers, a sweatshirt tied round her slim waist, Meg joined the parade, just once or twice a week to begin with, walking during the day at busy times when she would not be on an empty street alone.
She did not stray far, nor did she walk for long, an hour at the most. She was still in the habit of resting when possible in the afternoons and she always went to bed early at night. Every now and then her body reminded her of how short a time it was since she had been a hospital patient.
A couple of days after her London trip, she went out for some exercise and when she came back, perspiring and looking forward to a shower, the phone was ringing.
It was Detective Inspector Florence Gilmour, wondering if Meg remembered her and asking if she could drop by.
She called the following morning. Meg made tea.
‘So how are you getting on?’ Gilmour said, looking round the living room, admiring it. ‘Your house is nice. Did you always have it like this?’
Meg handed her a mug and noticed that her hair was even shorter than the first time. ‘No, my father did all this while I was . . .’ she thought of a word, ‘. . . absent.’
‘It’s very nice,’ she said again.
Meg sat and cradled her own mug. ‘I’m getting used to it. It’s not quite as cosy as I remember it.’
‘Remember?’ Gilmour queried.
‘It’s just a word.’
Gilmour smiled. ‘I just wondered.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Are you living here on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not lonely?’
‘A bit, at first,’ Meg confided. ‘I missed the nurses and the other hospital staff, the routine. But I’ve got used to it now. It’s not a lonely place to live. The Lisburn Road’s so lively. And I’ve got my parents. Then there’s my friend Elizabeth. I see something of her.’
As she heard herself say it, it did not sound like much of a life.
‘You should get a cat,’ Gilmour said. ‘I’ve got a cat. I like cats.’
‘Do you live by yourself?’ Meg asked, surprised.
‘Oh good gracious, no such luck. I’ve got a husband and two boys. One’s eleven and the other’s nine. Believe me, there are times when the thought of living alone is very attractive indeed.’
‘How’s your tea?’ Meg asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said then changed the subject. ‘Why I’m here – we saw you on television. I – well – our boss, the Chief Superintendent, wasn’t too pleased. I volunteered to come and see you. He doesn’t like unwelcome publicity about ongoing cases, especially when the case isn’t actually going anywhere. The local papers have been back on to our press office as a result of the interview. The TV people have apparently let them have an up-to-date picture of you and they’ve been looking for your address. They didn’t know you were out of hospital. They might try to find you, you know.’
Meg felt something sink inside her.
Gilmour said: ‘We told them the case is still under investigation and that there’s nothing to add to what’s already been said. Frankly, the whole thing’s a bit of an embarrassment because it’s been lying unsolved for so long.’
‘You mean I’m a bit of an embarrassment because I’ve brought it back to life,’ Meg said. ‘If I hadn’t recovered, it might have been forgotten about.’
Gilmour laughed. ‘I suppose that’s the height of it, yes.’
Meg looked at her. She had an easy manner, a personality that drew you in. Meg found herself liking her. ‘So, are you here to tick me off for going on TV?’
‘If you like,’ the other woman reflected. ‘Mostly though, I’m here to tick you off for going to see Mr Jackson.’
Meg stared. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘We went to see him ourselves, just to go over his statement of four years ago, to see if there was the slightest chance of his remembering anything else about that night. He said you’d turned up at his door and tricked your way in under false pretences.’
‘Did he, indeed? Not quite the way I remember it.’ Then she told her what had happened.
Gilmour arched her eyebrows. ‘Well, now, massages, eh? Girls in taxis? I think our vice team would be just a bit interested in that. You didn’t notice the name of the taxi company? Was there a sign on its roof?’
‘I think there was, yes, but I don’t remember what it said. I was only interested in trying to get away from there as quickly as possible.’
Gilmour nodded. ‘Look, Meg, this is an active case.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Let us do the investigating. Don’t muddy the waters.’
‘I’m not trying to get in your way. But you’ve no idea how desperate I feel about all of this. I’m just trying anything I can to see if it will help my memory.’
‘I know,’ Gilmour said. ‘It must be very frustrating for you. The interview that you did, who knows? Maybe it will yield something.’ She leaned forward and looked into Meg’s eyes. ‘But have you thought that it might put you in danger?’
‘So you think I’m at risk? If I remember rightly you didn’t seem to think so before.’
‘Of course there’s the possibility of risk. We can’t rule anything out. But we’ve had no reason to think of you as being in immediate danger. Until . . .’ She stopped.
‘Until I went on television. Is that what you mean?’
Gilmour shrugged. ‘There are a lot of funny people about. Your friend Jackson, for example. You must be careful, look after yourself. We can’t be with you all the time. But if anything unusual does happen, a letter, a phone call, someone in the street, will you let me know?’
Meg felt cold. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will.’
The detective took a card from an inside pocket and handed it to her. ‘This is my direct line and my mobile number. You can call me any time you like.’
Meg looked at the card. It had the crest and the red, black and green stripes of the Royal Ulster Constabulary proudly emblazoned down one side. When Gilmour had gone, she stuck it on the fridge door under the magnet where she kept notes and phone numbers.
Someone in the street.
If someone wanted to harm her, there was nothing the police could do about it. They could not watch her night and day. Gilmour had said as much.
Someone in the street.
She did not want people recognising her.
There was a hairdresser’s that she passed regularly on her exercise route. She liked its stylish look and the appearance of the women she saw going in and out.
Seeing Florence Gilmour – that and what had happened in the bar of the hotel – made her mind up.