We are to be interviewed by the police today. They have come to our cottage. Mrs Paterson told us at breakfast they would be coming and before we had finished eating there was a knock. Shortly after, one of the officers put his head round the kitchen door to get a look at us. As soon as he did we all went silent. When he pulled his head back we all started talking again.
There are four policemen in all. They each take a different room in the house and we have to go to one of them and have him ask us questions. We all line up, then Mr Paterson tells us which room we have to go to.
I line up with Jonesy in front of me. She gets all excited while we wait. Four other girls get spoken to first, then it’s our turn. Jonesy’s policeman is in uniform, quite young, a little bit handsome. When she is told to go to the reading room where he’s asking girls questions, she lets out a muffled, ‘Yus!’
I go to the kitchen for my interview. My policeman is the only one not in a uniform. He is older than the others, maybe forty or fifty. His hair is parted on the left; it is slick and combed back and to the side. When I walk in, he points to the chair I am to sit in, then he lights a cigarette and starts another page on his notepad. He goes through a series of initial questions, like name, age, how long I’ve been here. He writes all my answers down with a super-fast scribble.
I’m not sure why he wants the last one. I was going to ask him how he thinks that might help, but when I look in his eyes, I can see he is someone I’m not going to help by asking questions, so I keep quiet.
He takes a big draw on the cigarette and on the exhale says, ‘Right, my name is Detective Boyle. You know why we are here: to find out what you might know about these two incidents and where you were at the time they happened.’
‘I will help any way I can, sir,’ I say, making an effort to talk posh. I tell him I will help in any way I can, but I am not telling him about the diary or that it was us that sent the letter. That would get us in trouble and I don’t want us in trouble, and I don’t want us getting the belt.
‘Did you know Jane Denton or Sally Ward?’
‘No. Well, I knew who they were, but I didn’t know-know them. I mean, Jane lived here years ago, but I mean years ago and she wouldn’t remember who I was as I was only wee then.’
‘Have you seen either of them with anyone they wouldn’t normally have associated with?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Aye.’
‘Is it a mass murderer?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘Cos me an’ Morag Jones think there’s a madman on the loose. Like Peter Montrose.’
‘And why is that?’
‘What if they hanged the wrong man?’
‘They didn’t.’
‘But how do you know?’
‘Trust me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a policeman.’
‘And?’
‘And because, young lady, I saw the evidence. I saw the evidence, I saw the man’s eyes, and I saw them hang him by his neck. He killed those women, and he’s dead, and I’m glad he is. Do you understand?’
‘Aye, sir. But, sir …’
‘Yes?’
‘Was it no Mr Taylor then, sir?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They took Mr Taylor away a few days ago. Then Sally Ward died and now Mr Taylor is free, so you must think it’s no Mr Taylor who did it?’
‘No, it’s not Mr Taylor who did it.’
‘Not even Jane Denton?’
‘No.’
‘How d’you know?’
Because we eliminated him as a suspect. Now, this is supposed to be me asking the questions, not you.’
‘Sorry, sir. We’re just scared thinking that someone’s trying to kill all the girls in the Homes. So if it’s not Mr Taylor, then there’s someone free to do it again.’
He pauses for a moment. ‘I think there might be an extremely disturbed individual who we need to catch. We can’t confirm whether the two deaths are linked; all we can do at the moment is investigate what has happened.’
‘Can we help?’ I ask.
He seems to decide that I have nothing more to tell him. ‘You can help, young lady, by keeping yourself safe and making sure your friends stay safe. Now, send the next girl in.’
As I come out Jonesy is already waiting for me. We go upstairs to our bedroom to find out what the other girls were asked. It turns out Jonesy can’t remember what she was asked because she was too busy staring into the eyes of the policeman, who is, according to her, ‘beautiful’.
I tell her what my one said about Mr Taylor, and what he said about Peter Montrose, and how he’d seen him hanged.
‘Aww … gross,’ she says.
‘I think we need knives,’ I say.
‘Do you think?’
‘Aye, we need to protect ourselves if we get caught by the madman. We need sharp ones. We’ll steal them from the kitchen.’
‘When?’
‘The sooner the better. Tonight.’
‘Deal.’