hit him? Why? Where?’
‘In the solar plexus.’
‘No, I mean where were you?’
‘In this horrible place around the corner. I’m feeling a bit better now, but as soon as I walked in there, I don’t know …’ She frowned, trying to remember where the feeling had come from. ‘I can’t explain it. He’s called me names before. Big deal, right; don’t dignify it with a response, all that crap … So why today? I could have killed him. I’m not joking. I have never felt so angry in my life. Except … no, not even then.’
‘Except when?’
Jessie paused for a moment. No one really touched on this subject. It was taboo. ‘When Mum died, and the doctor told us she’d known for months. I was furious, still am. But not like today. I didn’t want to kill the doctor.’
‘But you wanted to kill Mum?’
‘Yeah, well, the cancer had done that for me.’
They sat in silence for a while.
‘Do you miss her?’
‘That’s a stupid question, Bill.’
‘Sorry.’
‘We never talk about her,’ said Jessie quietly. There was another pause.
‘It’s been five years, what more can we say about it?’
‘Nothing. But we should still talk about her.’
Her mother had energy enough for all of them. A husband, three sons and a daughter. That it was not inexhaustible, as Jessie had been led to believe, was something she still could not comprehend.
Bill lit a cigarette. He offered the packet to Jessie. She refused. The moment had passed.
‘I dream about her,’ said Bill, halfway down his cigarette. ‘She’s always laughing.’
‘I don’t,’ Jessie admitted. ‘You know the thing that terrifies me the most? I can’t remember what she sounded like. I can’t hear her voice.’
‘I’ve got tapes she sent me when I first went to Africa. I’ll send them to you, if you like.’
She looked away from her brother crossly. ‘I don’t want tapes, Bill. I want her.’
This statement was followed by the awkward silence that Jessie was used to getting from her brothers when she tried to talk about their mother. Her father was the same. None of them would talk to her about it.
‘I feel cheated,’ she said to the windowpane. ‘I want to go shopping with her for my wedding dress.’
‘Christ, Jess, I thought you said it was over with that guy.’
‘It is.’
‘Who are you getting married to then?’
‘I’m not getting married to anyone.’ Bill looked more perplexed than ever. ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Jessie, finishing her drink. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
‘Boss?’ said a voice behind her. It was Burrows. ‘They need you at Marshall Street Baths.’
‘Is is Anna Maria?’
‘They wouldn’t tell me.’
Burrows looked over at Bill, nodded curtly then returned to the door, which he held open for Jessie. She kissed her brother on the cheek; he held her hand.
‘You’ll be all right, Jess,’ he said.
She pulled her hand away. Sometimes she wasn’t so sure.
The media frenzy had doubled in the short time Jessie had been in the pub. White vans with satellite dishes and company logos were stretched back into Broadwick Street. She and Burrows made slow progress through the crowd. No one took much notice of them, they blended in with all the other hacks and hawks. As they pushed to the edge of the pack, in a quieter place further away Jessie saw Amanda Hornby. She was standing in front of a camera, a small microphone clipped on to her lapel. She glanced nervously at the spiral-bound pad she held in her hand. Jessie looked at her watch. A special bulletin. Live from the scene. There must have been some development or else there wouldn’t be this frenetic activity. Amanda looked up and caught her staring. Jessie tried to look away but it was too late, the news reporter had clocked her and she was coming over.
‘Oi, get back here!’ the cameraman shouted.
‘I’d do as he says,’ said Jessie.
‘Why are you back, Detective Inspector? What’s going on? Is Sarah Klein here to identify her daughter?’
Sarah Klein? Here? ‘Three minutes to air,’ said the cameraman, sounding exasperated.
‘It’s not my case.’
‘But you’re here.’
Jessie couldn’t argue with that.
‘Why?’
A car pulled up to the barrier and Jessie inadvertently looked around. She saw the familiar red hair emerge.
‘Sally Grimes – isn’t she the pathologist who helped you with the celebrity murders?’ said the reporter. Jessie ignored her. ‘So you’ve definitely got a body then?’
Jessie turned back to Amanda Hornby. ‘You know too much.’
‘That’s my job.’
‘Amanda!’ shouted the cameraman. Amanda put a finger to her ear then glanced down at her watch. She started walking slowly backwards. ‘I know nothing. Just one thing, give me one fact, that’s all I’m after.’
Jessie watched her retreat.
‘One fact, that’s all,’ she pleaded again.
‘My brother fancies you,’ said Jessie flippantly. ‘And that’s a fact.’
Amanda swore silently, turned to the camera and nodded once. ‘That’s right, Sarah Klein the mother of the missing girl arrived here ten minutes ago, creating quite a scene. She was driving her car, turned into Marshall Street just behind me and was blocked from continuing any further by the growing number of photographers and journalists who have congregated here. Eventually she got out of the car and forced her way though the crowd, refusing to answer any questions. It was only when the extent of her distress became evident that they allowed her to pass.’
Jessie listened in horror.
‘That’s correct. The actress was due to appear in a West End production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf in a month’s time. The much-revered director, Timothy Powell, isn’t saying anything at present as to whether this is still the case, though it is assumed she will not carry on with a play the subject of which is a couple with an imaginary child. Things are looking less hopeful
