‘No need to stay too late, Mrs Lee, there isn’t anything urgent.’
‘I just want to deal with the notes about Mr Barker’s will and file it all. I didn’t get chance to finish everything earlier.’
He filled the doorway of her office. The building was old, the doorways small, the ceilings low. The firm had been here in Cathedral Close for seventy years. No one would contemplate removal to somewhere more modern and convenient, and the sixteenth-century walls and roof did not prevent their being fully up to date. Too up to date, she sometimes thought but never said. She was fifty-nine but often felt that she should have lived in the 1900s.
‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Dodsworth.’
She would work until six thirty, and then walk through the Close, up via the Lanes, to Silver Street. The restaurant they always met in, Primrose’s, was a good place for them because the food was straightforward, the portions not stingy, and because it was comfortable and, above all, quiet, even when it was full. They tried to get the same table, to one side, not in the window but near enough to have a view onto the street, with the cathedral in the background. In the daytime it lacked the atmosphere of the more recently established bars and bistros but after six, they put candles in small glass bowls with lids which had a red tinge, making the whole room feel safe and cosy. There were cushions on the backs of the chairs, and in winter, a wood-burning stove was lit. They had tried a couple of other places but they hadn’t been suitable because of the noise. They needed to hear themselves speak without having to shout and then be overheard and draw attention to themselves.
Marion had to talk. It was her life, talking about it, but so few people could bear to listen any more. Her son Tim, living in Newcastle, her brother, neighbours – they were worn down, burned out with listening. They had to protect themselves against it now. It upset them, distressed and troubled and irritated and bored them by turns.
So she clung on to Brenda, who felt it was her duty to allow that. In fact, if it were not for the subject of her daughter, Marion would have been an ideal friend. They got on well, they had plenty in common, everyday tastes and background too. They had even been on holiday together once, to a beautiful bay in Cornwall, and a hotel that looked right over the sea. They liked walking, reading, visiting heritage sites and churches – the weather had been very good apart from a couple of sea-misty mornings but it had cleared by noon each time. But everything led back to Kimberley.
Her daughter-in-law had told her it would make her ill, drive her demented, if she didn’t loosen her ties with Marion. But she couldn’t just abandon her. She wanted to help. If Brenda could do anything to give her peace of mind, she would, but there was nothing. Only listening. She had managed to create a bigger gap between their meetings, by having this or that prior engagement or family commitment, or pleading the need to work late, so it was almost a fortnight since the last time they had had supper together. Her conscience wouldn’t let her leave it any longer.
And it must be terrible. Brenda had imagined it enough times, put herself in Marion’s place. No one had the right to criticise her for dwelling on it, having it at the front of her mind every morning when she woke up. It was just – wearying for everyone else.
Marion was waiting for her, as always, their glasses of Chablis already ordered. It was quiet at this time – just two other tables occupied. She took a few moments to get out of her jacket, put her bag at her feet, pick up the menu, raise her glass to Marion and take a drink, because she needed to settle, and because she wanted to put off just for a few minutes the inevitable launch into the same subject. Same old. Marion was looking pent-up, as if she had the first sentences ready formed in her mouth and was breathless with the need to let them out. It was never very relaxing.
To give herself five minutes Brenda started on a story of her own, not a very interesting story, about an incident at work when Lauren had slipped and fallen down the steep stairs and lain at the bottom in a heap for several minutes while everyone rushed around, and Mr Dodsworth was showing a client out and didn’t know whether to carry on, go back, rush down to Lauren and …
‘And then she got up and laughed and she hadn’t even ricked an ankle. She will wear those stupid wedge shoes. Can you see the specials board, Marion? It’s a bit out of focus from here.’
She wanted to keep the subject of Kimberley at bay for as long as she could, so after the menu question, she embarked on last night’s Master Chef and why the person sent home first should never have left, not in a million years.
In this way, things were moved along until they had their smoked mackerel and country-style pâté in front of them.
‘It was five years ago to the day,’ Marion said. ‘When I went back to the police station.’
The anniversary of the day Kimberley disappeared, though she thought she was the only person who remembered. Brenda clearly had not. As she spoke the words, Marion saw a look flash across her friend’s face, a look of – what? Weariness? ‘Here we go again’? Embarrassment? She didn’t know or care.
‘Five years,’ she said again. Brenda stared down at her plate.
‘It isn’t just a day, a date. It’s more than that. It was a big shove in the back, you know? I can’t let it go. I have to nag and nag and nag until they start again, Brenda. The other day, I read about some murder in the North that had been solved after forty-two years. FORTY-TWO! The man who did it is long dead, but they went on, until they pinned it on him. Well, this is only five years. What’s five? Why have they put it away in a drawer and closed it?’
Brenda’s eyes remained on her plate.
‘I’ve decided I’m going to see him.’
‘I can’t bear his name in my mouth. You know who I mean.’
Brenda laid down her knife. ‘If it’s who I think you mean, Marion, you can’t. You just can’t.’
‘Yes I can. I know which prison he’s in.’
‘No, that’s not the point.’
‘He murdered my daughter. We know that.’
‘Well …’
‘I thought you were my friend. I thought you were on my side.’
‘I am. But this is different. Listen, yes, the police think he killed Kimberley, and yes, we all know that he probably did, but they didn’t have the evidence. That’s a fact, Marion, and you can’t deny it. There is the probability, if you like, but there’s no proof. Besides, what good do you think it would do, going in there and confronting him? What do you think you’d achieve?’
‘Get him to confess.’
‘He never would. He never has and he never will.’
‘I could make him.’
Brenda reached out a hand and put it on Marion’s, which was holding a fork and shaking so that she could neither use it nor put it down.
‘No,’ she said, ‘put that out of your mind. It’s going to eat away at you and you don’t need it.’
‘I didn’t need my daughter murdered, I didn’t need him to get off scot-free.’
‘Hardly. He’s in prison for life.’
‘Only not for Kimberley.’
‘I don’t understand what difference that makes. If he confessed tomorrow, what difference would it make? It wouldn’t –’
Marion’s eyes were full of tears but they were angry tears and her voice was angry, bitter anger suffusing every word, though she spoke quietly.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t bring Kimberley back – do you think I don’t know that? But it would be a resolution. I could die knowing it was settled.’
Brenda sighed and looked down at her plate again, at broken bits of toast and small smears of pâté. At a tomato and a sprig of parsley and a slice of lemon. The restaurant was filling up now. The pink-shaded lamps on the table, the smell of wine and grilled meat, the murmur of conversations, the air of comfort, of people enjoying themselves, the general sense of well-being seemed to shrivel and sour as Brenda sat silent, and Marion’s tears continued. How could they carry on for the rest of the evening? What would they talk about now this impossible thing stood between them?
‘There’s another thing,’ Brenda said, because it had just occurred to her and, in occurring, had come to her rescue. ‘You wouldn’t be able to see him because you don’t just turn up at any prison for visiting hour, you have to apply, and it isn’t the prison authorities who have to grant the application, it’s the prisoner. They can choose to see you or not. It’s their decision, Marion, not yours, not anyone else’s.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘Well, it is right. I happen to know it.’
‘I’ll apply then.’
‘And you honestly think he’d agree to a visit from you? Come on.’
‘He ought to. He ought to be made to.’
‘Nevertheless. I know he’s a prisoner but he does have a few choices left and this is one.’
Marion started to cry in earnest now, ugly, unchecked tears that made her gulp and catch her breath, her nose ran and her face flushed, and still she went on crying. Brenda saw that the waitress was standing a few yards away, about to take their empty plates and not knowing whether to move forward or step back. Frozen with confusion and embarrassment.