Free Garden of Evil by Graham Masterton Page B

was.’
    Without any warning at all, Jim found that he was crying. His throat felt as if it were choked up with thistles and tears were pouring freely down his cheeks. He found it almost impossible to say anything.
    â€˜It wasn’t . . . don’t say that . . . please don’t tell me—’
    Detective Carroll took hold of Jim’s hand in both of her hands and squeezed it in sympathy. Detective Brennan laid a hand on his shoulder. Jim had never known that it was possible to feel so bereft.
    â€˜The girl who was nailed to the ceiling, Mr Rook. Ms Seabrook has made a positive ID, and the coroner has also taken DNA samples in case you want to question your own parenthood.’
    Jim gave the slightest shake of his head. It was all he could manage. He couldn’t speak any more. He walked off slowly along the corridor until he reached the window at the end, which overlooked the grassy slope that led to the athletics track.
    As they sailed overhead, the clouds cast shadows which fled across the grass like the souls of people who were once loved, hurrying to go wherever they have to go, or wherever the wind takes them.

SEVEN
    O utside Jane Seabrook’s house, Stone Canyon Avenue sloped steeply uphill, and the driveway leading up to 37109 was even steeper, so that Jim had to park his car at an awkward tilt, with its rear end protruding into the road, and he had to push his door open with his feet in order to climb out.
    It was midday, and still breezy, with the clouds tumbling overhead like a speeded-up movie. He felt completely unreal as he climbed the steps that led up to the front porch. Ocher-colored dust blew up from the flowerbeds on either side, as if he were a spirit who caused whirlwinds wherever he walked.
    The house was modest: a cream-painted two-story family home, with Spanish-style windows, and a heap of flowering pink bougainvillea hanging over the porch. As Jim reached the top of the steps, a small dog began to yap, and he heard a clear woman’s voice call out, ‘Tessie – hush up, will you!’
    He didn’t recognize the voice. Are you supposed to recognize somebody’s voice after eighteen years? He went up to the varnished oak front doors and rang the bell. He waited, biting his lower lip. He looked around. An old man in a frayed Panama hat was standing in his front yard on the opposite side of the road, staring at him suspiciously. Jim almost felt like giving him the finger.
    The doors opened and there she was. No longer brunette, but blonde, with a shoulder-length bob, with bangs. But still the same hazel-colored eyes, and the slightly feline cheekbones, and the pink lips that looked as if she had just finished blowing somebody a kiss goodbye.
    She was wearing a simple black linen dress, and a string of black beads around her neck, and a plain silver bracelet.
    â€˜Hallo, Jane,’ said Jim.
    She gave him a tight, complicated smile. ‘You’d better come in,’ she told him.
    He followed her across a wide, cool hallway with a brown-tiled floor. On the left-hand wall hung a large mirror, with a brown wooden frame; and on the right-hand side hung a garish amateur oil painting of a lake, with disproportionately giant ducks flying over it.
    They came out into a conservatory, with calico blinds drawn down to keep out the sun. It was furnished with brown wicker armchairs, and a glass-topped coffee table, and a variety of frondy potted palms. It smelled of dry heat, and plant fertilizer, but it also smelled of Jane. She was still wearing the same perfume, after all these years. Light, and flowery, with an underlying muskiness, although he had never known the name of it.
    â€˜Can I get you something to drink?’ she asked him.
    â€˜I’m good, thanks.’
    â€˜Please – why don’t you sit down?’
    He hesitated for a moment, and then he sat. She sat, too, with her knees tight together and her back very straight, although she