Free Borrowed Time by Robert Goddard Page A

entrenched—too permanent—for that. Her smile had a stiffness about it, her handshake a coolness, that mere shyness couldn’t explain. Suspicion. Yes, that was it. A barely veiled scepticism about the world and the people she met in it. Me included.
    “Shall we . . . er . . . find somewhere else?” I asked, gesturing around at the tableloads of Chanel and Silk Cut. “There’s a . . . bar I know nearby. It’ll be quieter there.”
    She agreed and we made for the exit. It was a sultry evening, sunlight lancing between the tower blocks to turn the traffic fumes into golden clouds. I felt tongue-tied and uncertain. Already, the meeting had enough signs of travesty about it to depress me. I was unable to find anything to say. And Sarah seemed disinclined to help me out.
    Mercifully, the walk to the Copenhagen Tavern was a short one. The place wasn’t too busy and the waitresses were as welcoming as ever. They knew me from many solitary evenings spent in its restful corners. But there was nothing restful about my latest visit.
    Sarah ordered coffee and mineral water. I asked for my favourite beer, forgetting it was served in a novelty glass shaped like the bottom half of a kangaroo. I could see Sarah’s gaze lingering incredulously on it as the beer was poured and considered making some sort of joke out of it. Then I reconsidered. Humour—even introductory small talk—seemed impossible. We were there to discuss one thing and one thing only. Its shadow stretched between us, drying my throat as I drank, threading doubt between my carefully laid plans. What
was
I to say?
    “I . . . I’m sorry,” I ventured. “I should have spared you the trouble of tracking me down.
I
should have written to
you
. To offer my condolences.”
    “There was no reason for you to do that.” Her tone implied the idea might almost have been presumptuous. “It’s not as if you knew Mummy, is it? Or any of us.”
    “No, but . . . the condolences would have been genuine, strangers or not. What happened was . . . awful. You have my sincere sympathy.”
    “Thank you.” She looked away. “It was. Like you say. Awful. The worst it could be, I suppose. What every mother’s afraid might happen to her daughter. It’s not supposed to be the other way round, is it?” Tears had been shed over such thoughts, I sensed. Many of them. And now there were none left. “I can’t stop wondering. Nor can my sister. We don’t talk about it, but . . . what it must have been like weevils into your mind. You can’t dislodge it. It just stays there, waiting for you to wake up or stop concentrating on something else. The wondering.” She shook her head. “It’s always there.”
    “At least they’ve got the man who did it.”
    “Oh yes. They’ve got him. And there’s no real room for doubt. Not these days. I’ve become quite an expert on DNA analysis in recent weeks. I’ve read everything there is on the subject. As if my knowing all about it will somehow help. Silly, don’t you think?”
    “No. I don’t.”
    Her eyes moved slowly to meet mine. “Tell me about . . . that evening on Hergest Ridge. I went up there. Same time. Same weather. I imagined her being there. I almost . . .” She sipped some coffee. “Please tell me.”
    So I did. I gave her the anodyne version of events I’d treated the police to, supplemented for her benefit with some remarks on how pleasant, how charming, her mother had been. She’d been beautiful too. But I didn’t mention that. It smacked too much of the physical reality of what had happened to her. To describe the sunlight falling on her hair, the warm breeze moving the shadows of its strands across her face, the gleam of something forbidden but imminent in her eyes, would have led inexorably on. To the bedroom at Whistler’s Cot. Sarah had been there and seen the broken mirror. She’d stared at its reflection of the room and imagined the writhing wrenching choking end. Just as I had. But we couldn’t speak