“The thing is, it’s all so stupid, it’s not true, I mean, it isn’t the right one, it’s stupid, but it gave me a terrible shock. Well, of course it did.”

“What gave you a shock?”

“When they said her name.’

“Whose name?”

She glanced at the doorway again. Then she gave a deep, juddering sigh. “It isn’t as if it’s such a common name, is it? Weeny’s name. Edwina.”

“Not so common, no. No, I can’t say I’ve known any other.”

“Only there it was. Edwina Sleightholme. Of course it isn’t her, my Edwina that is, my Weeny, of course it couldn’t be, but you can see how it gave me a shock, coming out of the television like that. The room went round.”

It took several more minutes for him to get the story fairly clear.

A young woman, the same name as Eileen’s younger daughter, the same age, had been charged with the abduction and murder of two children, and the abduction, with intent to murder, of a third.

“It just seems unbelievable, that,” Dougie said. “Just unbelievable. No wonder it gave you such a shock. Was it that little lad disappeared last year, that one?”

“Yes. And another boy and a little girl. It’s terrible.”

“Of course it is. I suppose if they’ve got someone c it’s c no, it’s terrible.”

But there was something not right. There had to be.

“Where was this?”

“On the news. Katie Derham.”

“No, where was the c the one with the same name as your Weeny? Where was she?”

“That was the funny bit.”

“What was funny, Eileen?”

“The funny bit was not only her name and her age but where she lived. She lived there. Same as our Weeny. They even live in the same town!”

She started to laugh the terrible giggling laugh again, but her eyes were on his face and would not focus anywhere else, her eyes begged him to laugh with her, to see how funny it really was, that there should be two women of the same name and age, two Edwina Sleightholmes living in the same town, two c

Dougie Meelup’s heart began pounding so hard he felt a pressure inside his chest, inside his ears, inside his head, an awful, pulsating pressure.

Thirty-three

“It’s me.”

“Hi, you. How did it go?”

“Good. Great.”

“Many there?”

“Packed.”

“Sell any?”

“About half of them, straight off. At least half, I didn’t count them properly.”

Simon sat in his car in a quiet street behind the gallery. It was just after nine o’clock and he had dodged away from the private view before everyone else, before Martin Lovat, the gallery owner, could buttonhole him to go out to dinner and, above all, before Diana realised that he had left.

“Si, I’m really, really pleased. I wish we could have been there. Did the folks turn up?”

“No. Ma sent a loving note.”

“Oh, honestly.”

“You know Dad wouldn’t be seen dead in an art gallery and Ma wouldn’t come without him. They’ve never been. I didn’t expect them this time either.”

“Hang on, Si c I thought I heard Felix. Wait.” There was an acute few seconds of intent, listening silence before Cat said, “No, false alarm. You going off to celebrate now then? Somewhere Mayfair and glam?”

“Nope. I’m driving back. I slightly wondered if I could come in.”

“What, tonight? You won’t be back till gone eleven.”

“Sorry, not a good idea then.”

“Honestly not. His lordship is waking me two or three times a night at the moment and Sam keeps coming into our bed. I was just about to go up when you rang in fact.”

“OK.”

“You sound bleak. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Did you see any news by the way?”

“Yes, it was all over the six o’clock. Hordes of screaming women racing after the police van taking her from court. Makes you shudder.”

“Ed Sleightholme would make you shudder.”

“Want to come tomorrow? I’ll be home by four. Supper and stay.”

“Only if you mean it.”

“Oh bugger off, Simon,” Cat said cheerfully as she put the phone down.

Through his rear-view mirror, he saw a knot of people from the gallery coming up the street. He gunned the car away from the kerb and sped off.

He should have been on a high from the success of the private view. He had spoken to a couple of art critics from the national press, had watched the red circles being stuck on to the frames of his drawings, had heard the buzz of interest all around him. But he had felt both detached from it all, as if the drawings were nothing to do with him, and yet at moments when he caught sight of one, acutely aware of just how close they were to him and hating the way anyone and everyone was able to peer, comment, judge. What he loved was the work itself, the doing of it, silently, privately. The rest he could take or leave and some of the rest he resented. He shook his head ruefully at his own thoughts.

The news, such as it was, about Edwina Sleightholme’s appearance in court, dominated every bulletin around the radio stations. She had pleaded not guilty on all counts and no application for bail had been made. Simon wondered how she had been in the dock, pictured her, small, slim, dark-haired, impassive. She had given nothing away to him or to any other officer and he guessed she would give nothing away to anyone else, not even the shrink. He had known other murderers. Apart from those who had killed in a blind moment of desperation, or alcohol-and drug-fuelled rage, they had shared Sleightholme’s same opaqueness, the infuriating, almost arrogant refusal to participate in the normal intercourse between human beings. He thought of her beside him on the shelf halfway up the cliff, afraid, and angry with herself for being so. Defiant. Closed. Would anyone ever discover why she had done whatever unspeakable things she had, to God knew how many children? Could there be anything like a reason? Her face was fixed in his mind, until he realised that what he had wanted to do was draw her, capture that expression, pin the neat cap of dark hair and the impenetrable eyes on the paper for eternity. He did not often work from memory but he wondered if he might try to do so this time. Perhaps by analysing her face, feature by feature, by looking into the eyes as he remembered them, by studying the set of her mouth and head, by trying to capture her expression full on, perhaps he might find a way into her mind and motive. Perhaps.

“A thirty-eight-year-old woman, Edwina Sleight-holme, appeared in c”

He doused the radio and picked up speed, wanting to put miles between himself and London quickly. He had steered away from Diana for the whole of the evening, apart from a hurried greeting. It had been easy, the room had been packed, people wanted to talk to him. Once or twice he caught sight of her trying to meet his eye, once he moved as she negotiated her way through people’s backs to reach him.

A car pulled out without warning into the fast lane in front of him, giving him a fraction of a second to brake, missing a collision by centimetres. Simon flashed his lights and then, furious with himself, clicked on the hands-free phone and pressed one button.

“Lafferton Police.”

Simon read off the number of the car ahead of him. “Can you alert motorway patrol please? We’re approaching Junction 7 and I want him stopped.”

He dropped back slightly. Let the bugger reach ninety or a hundred just in time to be picked up.

Thirty-four

“Dad?”

“Hello?”

“Is that you?”

“I’m trying to be a bit quiet, lad, Eileen’s just dropped off.”

“Bloody hell, Dad, is this true or what?”

“It’s true.”

“Only Leah saw it on the news and said there was a name she thought she recognised and then when I went in c Jesus Christ. What’s it all about?”

“I don’t know, Keith, I just don’t know. All I know is what it’s been like here. She saw it on the telly as well, you see, and she said, wasn’t that funny, someone with the same name, same age c”