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There was a similar episode when they were married. One of many, but a particular incident comes to mind tonight. They were walking through the center of town, a sunny day, hand in hand. Buskers merrily entertained the shoppers; he felt happy, optimistic about life. Until she spotted him.
An old man. Gray hair, tall but slightly stooped, walking quickly through the crowds. Romilly stopped dead, so quickly the pedestrians behind them swore quietly in protest. He turned, confused; her face was deathly white.
“It’s him,” she whispered, pointing. “It’s him.”
It took a moment for Adam to twig what she was talking about. He glanced toward the departing figure as he rounded the corner, out of sight, then turned back to Romilly.
“He’s got out. It’s him.” She was shaking, breathless.
“How?” He stood in front of her, taking her sweaty hands in his. “Milly, look at me. How could he have got out of prison?”
“They’ve let him out. Early parole. Good behavior.”
“We’d know. They would have told you.”
“What if they forgot?” She turned her eyes to him for the first time then. Wide and dark, full of fear. “It happens. Every day. Bureaucracy fails. Things get missed.”
He tried to persuade her, but nothing could change her mind. They went home, and only after Adam called the prison, pulled a few strings to confirm that he was, indeed, locked up tight, had Romilly accepted defeat and called Dr. Jones.
So he knows she won’t let it go.
“Come in then,” he agrees grumpily.
She walks through, her eyes taking in her surroundings. He’s painfully aware that his current dwelling is nothing like the place they had together. She got the house in the divorce; he didn’t want to live somewhere with constant reminders of their marriage. She had chosen the furniture, the decor—something he has no interest in, abundantly clear now.
She correctly guesses at the location of his kitchen and walks through. The unwashed plate is discarded on the side, along with the empty bottles of beer.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, forcing politeness and gesturing toward his kitchen table. He pushes at the newspapers, the piles of bills, debris from everyday life, clearing some space.
“No, I’m fine.” She sits down carefully, as if touching something might get her soiled in some way. She places the file down in front of her.
He deliberately makes her wait, fetching another beer for himself, then taking the chair next to her.
She gets right to the point. “Here.” She opens the file, pulls out the page from the BBC website. “These photos weren’t up for long,” she continues quickly.
He nods. “We got them to take them down this morning. They included details we didn’t want shared with the public.”
“The Roman numerals.”
“Yes.”
“One for each body.”
He stares at her a moment too long. “Yes,” he confirms at last.
“He did the same.”
Adam blinks. For the first time he notices the flush of her cheeks, the nervous shake of her hands.
“I’ve read the files, Romilly. Back then. You know I have. I don’t remember anything—”
“It’s not in the files. There were facts about that case that they never wanted in the press. The detective in charge was worried about copycats, about people”—she pauses—“continuing his legacy. They redacted everything. Everything but this. It must have been missed.”
She scrabbles in the file again, spreading papers across the table. He recognizes news reports from that time. Other bits and pieces: scrawls he can’t quite read. Official-looking documents. She finds what she’s looking for and passes it to him.
“They couldn’t risk it,” she says. “But I knew. I saw it. I was there.”
“Saw what, Romilly?” he asks slowly. He looks at the report she’s passed him: the SOCO report from 1995. The forensics found in the outhouse.
