Free A Wayward Game by Pandora Witzmann Page A

moved
elsewhere, or even died, since 2006. Even if he is still here, he
won’t necessarily buy my story, or agree to talk to me, but there’s
nothing to be lost by trying. I ring the doorbell and wait, my
stomach fluttering with nerves.
    Slow footsteps
echo inside the house, and I hear the sound of a bolt being drawn
back. The door opens, and a pale, wrinkled face looks out at me.
It’s a kindly face, tranquil, and curiously ageless. The blue eyes
that stare back at me are bright, intelligent, and not unfriendly.
The man to whom these features belong is comfortably dressed in a
pale blue pullover and beige trousers, the kind of smartly casual
attire that makes me think that he was raised with a degree of
formality. Only his blue slippers hint that he is doing no more
than relaxing at home. He smiles at me, a little warily, and raises
an eyebrow in an enquiring manner.
    “Mr Walsh?” I
ask, smiling at him.
    “Yes.”
    “Lucy Lowry,
South-West London Gazette.” I hold out my false ID, and hope that
Mr Walsh won’t ask too many questions, or call the office to make
enquiries. He peers at the ID card, and then looks back at me, a
little cautiously.
    “Yes? Can I
help you?” he asks.
    “Perhaps you
can, Mr Walsh. I’m writing an article about the disappearance of
Diane Meath-Jones. I understand that you were working as a
concierge at Lexwood House, where she lived, at the time.”
    “Oh, dear me.”
Mr Walsh sighs, and shakes his head. His voice is pure Cockney, his
diction slightly dated. “How the devil did you find out where I
lived? No, don’t tell me – I know that you journos have your little
ways. Well, yes. Diane Meath-Jones. That poor girl. Breaks my heart
to think of her, even now. But – with all due respect, love – I
can’t see why people can’t move on, and leave her to rest in peace.
Really, I told the police everything I knew just after she
disappeared.”
    “Yes, of
course. I do understand.” I smile again, a little apologetically.
“It’s just that, eight years on, there are still no answers for
Diane’s family or friends.”
    “Yes, of
course.” Mr Walsh’s face softens. “Yes, it must be bloody awful for
them. I do sympathise. But still, I wonder what good can come of
yet another article about it. Millions of words have been spoken
and written already, and still nobody knows what happened.”
    “The case
always attracted a great deal of publicity. It will be years before
it’s forgotten. And – well, personally, I don’t think it should be forgotten. Not while so many questions remain
unanswered.”
    “Yes. Yes, of
course.” I sense a brief, fierce struggle taking place behind Mr
Walsh’s kindly eyes before, all at once, he seems to give in.
“Look, love, if I do talk to you, don’t go printing my name, all
right? It’s just – well, this is my life . I never asked to
be caught up in all of this.”
    “Of course, Mr
Walsh. I’d never name a source if they didn’t wish me to.”
    “All right.
Five minutes, then.”
    Mr Walsh leads
me down the hallway and into a small, flawlessly neat living room.
A newsreader’s voice wafts from the radio in the corner, and he
switches it off as he enters the room. A large tabby cat is lying
on a cushion in the corner, and opens one sleepy eye as I walk in.
It gives me a cool, green-eyed stare and then, having decided that
I am of no interest after all, closes its eyes and falls asleep
again. A grandfather clock chimes the hour. There are a large
number of family photographs on display, some of them rather old.
One of them shows a slightly younger Mr Walsh, standing on a beach
with his arm around a smiling, grey-haired lady.
    “My wife,” Mr
Walsh says, as if reading my thoughts. “Died four years ago, God
bless her.”
    “I’m very
sorry.”
    “It’s not very
nice, being the one left behind,” Mr Walsh says. “You get so used
to that other person being there, it’s like a part of you gets
ripped away. And your life tends to