Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

Fry watched Maggie’s hands moving impatiently. The cat had brought no response. That was no surprise. It was obvious there had never been a pet to disturb the orderly surroundings of Maggie Crew’s apartment.

‘Jenny’s next birthday would have been on the 11th of December,’ she said. ‘She was a Sagittarian. She was interested in horoscopes, too. She wore a chain with a silver star-sign symbol — the archer, half horse and half man. She had made an appointment with her dentist for next Tuesday, because she was worried about a loose filling. Jenny Weston was the sort of person who started buying her Christmas presents early. In fact, she had already bought a cashmere sweater for her mother, and a book on Peak District aircraft wrecks for her father, who used to be in the RAF. She had even bought a toy mouse with a bell on it, for the cat.’

Maggie sighed. ‘Why are you telling me all this? I don’t want to know any of it.’

‘Jenny had taken a week’s holiday from work. It seems she loved the Peak District. But you do, too. Don’t you, Maggie?’

‘I used to,’ she said. ‘Something changed my view.’

‘Well, Jenny must have loved it right up to her last breath. She never learned that disillusionment. She never had the chance.’

‘So?’

‘She was a member of the National Trust, too. We found lots of photographs she took at National Trust properties. That was another hobby of hers — photography. It seems her favourite place to visit was probably Hammond Hall. You know Hammond Hall well, don’t you, Maggie?’

‘It says so in my file, I suppose,’ she said.

‘You’re a volunteer guide there, aren’t you?’

‘I used to be.’

‘You might have met Jenny Weston, then. You might have shown her round some time, explained the history of the Tudor wall-hangings to her, or directed her to the ladies’ toilets perhaps.’

‘I never really notice the visitors, you know. They’re just an anonymous mass. I forget them all as soon as they’ve gone. Unless they ask particularly interesting questions.’

‘Jenny might have done that. She was interested in history.’

‘Lots of people are.’

The volunteers co-ordinator at Hammond Hall had been interviewed after the assault on Maggie Crew. She had described Maggie as very knowledgeable. A bit cool and austere, perhaps, but some visitors preferred her as a guide because of the depth of her knowledge.

‘Jenny may even have dealt with your car insurance,’ said Fry, ‘or the insurance on your house.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘How do you know? I haven’t said what company she worked for.’

Maggie regarded Fry steadily from the side of her eye. ‘This is getting tiresome. What exactly is it you want from me?’

‘I want you to help us find the man who killed Jenny Weston.’

‘And why should I do that?’

She shifted in her seat as she asked the question. Fry prayed she wouldn’t turn towards her completely. She had got so far that she didn’t want her nerve to fail now. She didn’t want her face to show the reaction that made her stomach clench and her fingers tighten into tense fists.

‘Because we think he’s the same man who did that to your face, Maggie,’ she said.

A minimum number of objects were lined up in an orderly line on the desk; no more than a paperweight, an ashtray, a telephone — and a wicked-looking letter opener shaped like a dagger, with a sharp blade and imitation rubies set into its handle. The letter opener was the only item of any ostentation in the room, and it stood out like a beacon, the light from the lamp reflecting in its red stones. In a moment of thought, Maggie toyed with its handle, turning it so that the tip pointed towards Fry, then spinning it away again to line up neatly with the paperweight in a satisfying geometric pattern.

‘So tell me one more thing,’ said Maggie. ‘How was this woman killed?’

‘She was stabbed to death.’

Maggie took her hand away from the letter opener quickly, and picked up her pen instead.

‘It’s a waste of time, you know. I can’t remember any more than I have already.’

‘I don’t believe memories are gone forever, do you? They’ll come back, Maggie. But they’ll come back when you’re least expecting them. You’ll find they surprise you in ordinary things. It will be a face you see on TV that reminds you of someone. An item of clothing that you wore on the day. A glimpse of your own reflection in a window at night.’

Maggie’s mouth tightened, and the lines round her good eye flattened out in anger.

‘They will come back, Maggie,’ said Fry. ‘Better to let them come to the surface when you can deal with them than to allow them to ambush you when you least expect them. Believe me on this.’

Maggie stared at her. Gradually, her mouth relaxed. ‘Are you talking from experience?’

Fry barely managed a nod. Ridiculously, the simple question had done exactly what she had been warning Maggie against. The burst of recollection was so strong and so physical that she was quite unprepared for it. She had to look away now, and be damned to her determination to look the woman in the eye. She stared at the drapes over the window, counting the brass rings on the curtain rail while she breathed slowly and steadily, counting to three as she inhaled, holding for another count of three, exhaling and counting; holding again.

It only took a few seconds before she was fully under control. She knew there was little outward sign. Most people noticed nothing, certainly her male colleagues. But Maggie was watching her fixedly, in absolute silence. When Fry met her stare again, something had changed. There was an indefinable difference in the atmosphere, as if somebody had just turned on the central heating, and a hint of warmth was beginning to creep into the cold walls.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ said Maggie.

Fry caught a glimpse into a kitchen as Maggie opened the door at the far end of the room. While she waited, Fry looked through her notes, checking the items she had marked for raising in conversation. One thing she hadn’t mentioned yet was Maggie’s family. The closest surviving relative was a sister, who lived somewhere in the west of Ireland.

She watched Maggie pour the coffee from a cafetiere. She wore no jewellery of any kind on her hands — no rings, no bracelet. There was no make-up on her face, either, though it might have helped to hide the scars. She wore no lipstick. Her only adornment consisted of two tiny gold studs in her ears, like miniature crosses.

‘Last time you were interviewed,’ said Fry, ‘you weren’t in a steady relationship, according to the notes. Is that still the case?’

‘Yes.’ Maggie smiled, without humour. ‘They do put everything in my file, don’t they? Yes, it makes life difficult when it comes to forming relationships. Nobody wants to have to look at a face that would frighten the horses.’

‘Of course, a long-term relationship isn’t to be taken for granted these days. Not everybody wants commitment. I suppose it depends whether you want children or not, and how you want them to grow up.’

‘I’ve never wanted children anyway,’ said Maggie. ‘Some people think that’s very strange for a woman.’ She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, at the thought of a disconcerting prospect. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll change. Perhaps I’ll wake up one day and discover I have a maternal instinct after all. What do you think? We’re all victims of our hormones, aren’t we?’

Maggie put down the cafetiere. She picked up the pen that had lain by her hand all through the interview. She scrawled some notes on her pad, filling the empty lines for the first time. Fry leaned forward slightly to try to see what she was writing. But she could see that it was some kind of shorthand. Maggie wrote for a couple of minutes, concentrating as if Fry had suddenly ceased to be present. Then she threw down her pen.