Part 9 (1/2)

'It seemed like a good idea. Nothing happened. We tried a few things, both had some tests which were inconclusive. Anyway, he's married now with two daughters. You've got to laugh, haven't you?'

'Why didn't you tell me, Kim?'

'I'm telling you now. It was important for me to tell you about it. I want you to know that you can lean on me because you can trust me to lean on you.'

'But you didn't lean on me.'

'Don't be silly, Jane, I've always depended on you.'

We hugged and I left her standing in the doorway with her funny sheepish grin on her face, but I felt dissatisfied by our talk. I thought back over our friends.h.i.+p of weekends away, lunches, cups of tea in greasy spoons, long walks. Was Kim right? I wondered if our relations.h.i.+p had consisted of me seeking support and Kim giving it to me. Even her revelation, long after its importance had pa.s.sed, seemed a sop to me to encourage me to depend on her. As I cycled along the ca.n.a.l towpath I constructed a version of our relations.h.i.+p in which I was always the fallible, needy one and Kim was always the resilient free spirit. Was this what even the closest friends.h.i.+ps were like? One who gave and one who received?

Helen Auster was alone this time. She came up the stairs to our office looking touchingly ill at ease, panting at the length of the climb and the weight of her bulky shoulder bag. We shook hands and then I led her across to my desk. She was immediately impressed by the view and I pointed out the wharf below, by the ca.n.a.l, showed her the direction I cycled back, then took her across to the other side to show her the tower over on the Isle of Dogs which, I told her, had somehow single-handedly managed to make the skyline of London look frivolous.

'I like it,' she said.

I poured us both a coffee and we sat at my desk.

'What do you want to talk about?' I asked. 'Talking to the police always makes me feel guilty.'

'I don't think this meeting will be anything like that,' said Helen.

'It must be difficult to start up a murder inquiry again after a gap of twenty-five years.'

'Between you and me,' said Helen, 'we're starting from scratch. The CID back then went on considering Natalie to be a runaway. And so,' she gave her bulging case a pat, 'we're doing it now.'

She unzipped her case and removed a slim file. She handed me two lots of paper, each stapled together.

'These are two lists of names,' she said. 'The first is of people who were present at the party for Alan and Martha Martello on Sat.u.r.day 26 July, 1969. The second is of people who were present I mean staying at the house or in the vicinity or just visiting for the day on the following day, the Sunday, when Natalie was last seen.'

I looked through the names. There were pages of them.

'This is extraordinary,' I said. 'How did you get all these names? Was there a guest list?'

'No, we've been talking to various members of the family. The most help was from Theodore Martello. I've seen him a few times now. He's got the most amazing memory.' Was she blus.h.i.+ng?

'He certainly has. There are names here I've completely forgotten. I don't think I've seen William f.a.gles since the party. It says here that the Courtneys now live in Toronto. They were the parents of one of Natalie's best friends. Can I have copies of these lists?'

'These are your copies. If you could just have a look through, it may jog your memory. You'll see that some of the guests are only identified by their first names and you may be able to complete them. You may think of some others as well.'

'Well, for a start, the Gordon here must be Gordon Brooks. He used to be a friend of the twins.'

'I haven't gone through the list with them yet. But just write it in.'

'It sounds a terribly dull process.'

'It's more exciting than what some of the other officers are doing, I can tell you.'

'Have you talked to Alan yet?'

'Yes, of course,' Helen said. 'Let me show you what I'm reading.'

She reached into her case and pulled out a bright new Penguin edition of The Town Drain. The Town Drain.

'Are you enjoying it?'

'It's wonderful. Not that I know very much about literature... but I think it's terribly funny. Alan Martello's so grand now, it's hard to imagine him writing something that's so... well, disrespectful.'

'I don't think he's really all that grand.'

'He was quite stern with me when I asked him what he was writing at the moment. You're quite a family, aren't you?'

'People have always seemed to think so. If you're going to read all the books written by members of the family, you'll need to take a sabbatical. For a start, there are all the children's books that Martha has ill.u.s.trated. They're quite wonderful, some of them. All the time that Alan was noisily, theatrically blocked with his writing, Martha was steadily and quietly working away.'

'I think I'll stick with Alan Martello for the moment. Are the rest of his books good?'

'There is only one other novel, and a couple of short story collections. Nothing that comes near to matching up to The Town Drain. The Town Drain. But don't dare tell him I said so.' But don't dare tell him I said so.'

We chatted for a few minutes about other things. Helen asked me about architecture and I asked her why she'd joined the police. She told me that she'd studied physics at university and then had had a vision of a life spent in a research laboratory and had suddenly rebelled against it. I liked her for that. She drank the last of her coffee.

'I think I'd better go,' she said. 'Once you've looked through that, we could meet again, if you like. I'm down in London quite a lot at the moment.'

'Doesn't your husband mind?'

'He works harder than I do.'

I walked with Helen to the top of the stairs. I had to say something. 'Helen, twenty-five years is a long time. Is there any point to this?'

'Of course.'

'I thought you might be able to do a DNA test on the... you know, the baby, but Claud says you can't after all that time.'

Helen smiled. 'That's right.'

'So there's no forensic evidence.'

'There are one or two other possibilities. No subst.i.tute for good old-fas.h.i.+oned police work, though. As our Chief keeps telling us. Goodbye, Jane, see you soon.'

My father was refusing to have anything at all to do with the programme. Paul had begged and bl.u.s.tered, and even sent Erica round bearing bulbs for Dad's garden as her excuse to put the case on his behalf. Yet it never occurred to me to turn Paul down.

I biked hurriedly through the damp air that was becoming thin drizzle to the Soho restaurant that Paul had selected. His research a.s.sistant was a young woman called Bella very tall and skinny, with a halo of red hair and large, kohl-rimmed eyes that she kept fixed adoringly on Paul. She smoked acrid cigarettes lighting each one off the one before, drank mineral water and picked at a side salad.

Over poached eggs, I asked Paul who else he was seeing.

'You know Dad's not talking to me?' I nodded. 'But Alan's being marvellous. I've already had two sessions with him. My G.o.d, he can talk. He's grown his beard and hair longer, you know, and he's looking gaunt and wild. He quoted poetry at me, and talked a lot about the weakest being the strongest, or something like that, and when he described our summers together it was like hearing a novel being read out.'

I pulled a face. 'He's spent the last couple of decades in pubs and restaurants like this, talking his novel away.'