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‘Why?’
‘Because understanding is a step towards condoning.’
I’d read something similar in the paper the day before.
‘Maybe Sophie will find something the police have missed,’ Matty said, giving me a wink to show he was on my side. ‘They’re not exactly making much headway, are they?’
‘I imagine they know more than they’re letting on,’ she answered coolly. ‘And if he’s not careful, that’s what’s going to trip him up.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s been a year and a half, and still no arrests.’
‘Cockiness comes before a fall, that’s all I’m saying.’
I sensed the tension, changed the subject.
‘Are you coming to see E.T. with me and Mum tonight? It’s about this alien who moves in with a human family. Supposed to be brilliant.’
‘Sorry, pumpkin. I can’t. It’s my turn at the crisis centre.’
Next day the story broke. The editor at the Tribune had received a second letter.
TWENTY-NINE
My mother was driving me to school. The end of January now, two months since the editor from the Tribune had received the Shadow’s second letter.
Every morning we’d get up in the dark, scrape ice off the windshield, run the heater on high. Frankly it wasn’t much better than Massachusetts, though at least here, the breath didn’t freeze in front of your face. Burn as you sucked it in.
My mother buckled up. It’s the law now.
‘How about some music?’
‘Sure.’
‘Our House’ pumped from the speakers. I tapped my fingers to the beat.
‘Madness?’
‘What?’
‘The band. That’s their name, right?’
‘Yeah. They’re from Camden, you know?’
My mother smiled.
‘Practically neighbours.’ She listened a moment. ‘The words are kind of sad. Nostalgic.’
‘Only because you’re old. At your age, everything in the past seems better.’
‘I’m not using a stair lift yet, thank you very much.’
She was the same age I am now. She was right, it’s not old. But I feel ancient. And not everything in the past does seem better to me. It’s not such a foreign country, nor do they do things so differently there. Violence, rage, self-delusion. Nothing of substance has changed in the passing decades. People are still killing each other, stealing, lying to the folk they’re supposed to love.
The tune faded away, the beeps marking the hour.
The time is eight o’clock. This is the news . . .
My fingers froze on the dial as I went to switch stations.
Edwin Burke, editor of the Tribune newspaper, informed police yesterday that he has received another carbon copy note from a person claiming to be the killer of eight women in North London dating from July 1981.
Just three lines long and typed in block capitals, the note addressed to Mr Burke and marked for the attention of Detective Inspector Harry Connor who is heading up the serial murder investigation read:
HAVE YOU FOUND LYDIA DEVAL YET? NOTHING IN THE PAPERS . . .
Scotland Yard has since confirmed that an au pair of that name has been missing since October last year.
October 1982. Not long after the fire and that rollercoaster drive. Matty had been moody for weeks afterwards. He cancelled arrangements or else forgot them altogether – my school Prize Giving included.
I’d been nervous, worried about silly things like stumbling on the stage or forgetting to say ‘thank you’ for the trophy. My mother seemed nervous too, fussing about with my hair and the stupid dress I didn’t want to wear. My table manners may have improved slightly since leaving Goddard Street, but I still couldn’t see the point of skirts.
She stood back, appraised me with a tilted head.
‘You’ve grown. Do you think it’s too short?’
‘Trousers go down to the ankle.’
A deep breath, a long sigh.
‘It’ll have to do.’ She glanced at her reflection, teeth worrying at her lower lip. ‘I wonder what the other moms will be wearing. Ralph Lauren at ten paces, I expect.’
Another sigh followed by a shy smile.
‘You look beautiful, sweetheart.’
She checked her watch, forehead creasing into a frown.
‘Where on earth’s Matty got to? He was supposed to be here forty minutes ago.’
She paced about, gave it another ten.
‘We can’t wait any longer, we’re late as it is.’
All the way she was flipping out about where he was, watching for him on the road.
‘Maybe he misunderstood, thought we were meeting there.’
He wasn’t at the school though, didn’t show up all morning.
‘No Matty?’ one girl whispered as we sat on the benches waiting to be called up. The girl from my party who’d said he was gorgeous.
‘I’d have thought he’d be in the front row with that camera of his,’ another chipped in.
I put on a face I didn’t feel.
‘He’ll be here.’
Turned out I did stumble going up on the stage, too busy looking for him in the crowd to pay attention where I was going. Matty wasn’t my father, but he was my family. I wanted him watching me, cheering me on.
‘Why didn’t he come?’ I asked my mother afterwards.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, voice pensive. ‘Something must be wrong.’
He didn’t call, didn’t pick up his phone when my mother called him. We went around to his place, but he didn’t come to the door. Days passed without a word, no ‘sorry’, no explanation.
Then finally on Friday evening he showed up with a bottle of champagne. The good stuff.
‘Bit of bubbly,’ he said in a pleased-with-himself voice.
Had he got the date wrong?
‘What are we celebrating?’ my mother asked, testing.
‘Do we need an excuse for champagne?’
She slammed the door in his face.
‘What have I done now?’
‘The worst thing is, he doesn’t even know,’ she told me.
She was wrong though. If what we found out later was true, forgetting my Prize Giving wasn’t remotely the worst thing he’d done.
MISSING
LYDIA DEVAL
White, female
Missing since 13th October 1982
Height: 5 ft 2in
Weight: 7 stone (approx. 98 lbs)
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown, curly, shoulder length
Age: 20 years
Lydia was last seen wearing a yellow sweater and blue denim mini skirt in Crouch End at 11.30pm on 13th October. She never made it home and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Foul play is suspected.
IF YOU HAVE SEEN LYDIA – OR ANYONE CLOSELY RESEMBLING HER – PLEASE CALL 999 IMMEDIATELY.
