Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

‘Apparently the more distantly you’re related, the less accurate they can be,’ Meg told her mother later on the phone to England. ‘They’d like you to do one too, if that’s okay. Something to do with mitro-something-or-other DNA. The copper tried to explain-it’s something to do with the mother’s line- but I don’t really understand. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, they’ll get the local police to take your sample and compare by computer.’

The results were inconclusive. The DNA was not such a close match that identity was beyond reasonable doubt, but a relationship was considered to be ‘likely’. The existence of the matching photo strengthened the conclusion that the victim was Jilly Baker, but there was still no guarantee that Brenda was telling the truth regarding its origins.

‘On balance, I’d say that the victim was your cousin,’ Graham Patterson told Meg. ‘But the evidence isn’t absolutely conclusive. She had no siblings and her father is dead. If her mother planned on coming forward, she would have by now, you’d think. The case has had max publicity. This is probably as far as we can go.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Meg asked.

‘Just that the records will still show her as unidentified. The new evidence will be put on her file and referenced as a “probable” ID.’

‘Oh well, there’s nothing more we can do then,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Best be off. We only have another two days to see Melbourne.’

Meg’s off-hand response to this news didn’t surprise him. He’d sensed her lack of empathy in the earlier interviews.

Returning to her hotel, Meg was met by her husband who told her that the TV people had been trying to contact her again. They wanted her to meet the man who’d killed her cousin.

‘How much did they offer this time?’ With this, she even shocked herself. She hadn’t been fully aware of the depths of her venality.

In Opportunity, Finn and his friends had watched Meg’s interview. While the others discussed the possible ramifications, Finn slipped out of the house and walked down to the old Halfway Creek footbridge. He often spent his Silence sitting by the bridge or leaning against its railings. Tonight he sat on the smooth rock just under the bridge. In better times, this seat would be under water, but the stream had shrunk away from its banks, exposing not only rocks but also rubbish from downstream, which had been stranded at the two-mile bend. There was a muddy, slightly rotten smell, but Finn didn’t notice. He was only aware of his heart pounding in his chest, and a faint, sweaty nausea. He had to think this one through. So now he knew her name: Jilly Baker. Of all the possible names, he hadn’t thought of Jilly, but it sounded right, now that he knew it. The next question was: what was he to do with the knowledge?

Finn had always thought that knowing the dead girl’s real name would be enough. It would establish her as an individual, with a family, and a history beyond those few terrible months on the streets. But now that her cousin was here in Melbourne, he needed to speak with her, to say how sorry he was, to seek forgiveness. He feared this as much as he wanted it. Why should she forgive him? He’d killed the woman’s cousin, caused so much heartache… Logic told him that the family may never have found Jilly anyway; that her mother had severed all ties; that she was hardly in a position to return home. He wanted to focus on that, but a small worm ate through the logic and whispered that while ever life persisted, there was always hope of reprieve. And he had taken that possibility away from Jilly Baker. He saw its application to her quite clearly, but it never occurred to him to apply it to his own case. He still felt beyond redemption.

He’d have to meet the cousin, he decided. He’d get Moss to ring Graham Patterson to see if it could be arranged.

Unaware that Across the Nation had pre-empted his decision, Finn returned to Mrs Pargetter’s and told them he wanted to meet with Jilly’s cousin Meg.

The others looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure, Finn?’ his daughter asked.

Finn would brook no argument. ‘Absolutely.’

Senior Sergeant Patterson wasn’t so sure. He’d detected a hardness and cupidity in Meg and wondered how this would affect the fragile Finn. There was also the trouble caused last time he’d helped out. After Moss’s call, he doodled on his pad for a few moments before shrugging and picking up the phone. He liked closure, and this case still had loose ends.

‘Senior Sergeant Patterson,’ he told Meg’s husband. ‘Can I speak with Mrs Turner, please?’

‘I’m sorry, Senior Sergeant, she’s out. Left a couple of hours ago with the TV people. They’re taking her to see the man who killed her cousin. Do you want to leave a-? Hello? Hello? Are you there?’

Graham Patterson tried to ring Moss but the line was busy. He shook his head. Things would just have to take their course.

The TV crew took Finn by surprise. They arrived at his front door without fanfare, and with an increasingly reluctant Meg in tow. Finn was working on his statistics when the loud knock shattered his concentration. He had always found the lovely precision of maths a haven in the midst of turmoil, and resented any interruption.

‘Coming,’ he grumbled. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door to see a plump, well-dressed woman, flanked by a younger woman and two young men, one of whom was wielding a fuzzy grey phallus.

‘Michael Clancy,’ announced the younger woman. ‘This is Meg Turner, cousin of the woman you killed.’

Meg and Finn stared at one another. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you,’ Meg said uncertainly. ‘My cousin…’ She trailed off and started again. ‘Jilly, my cousin…’

Finn continued to stare as the microphone was thrust into his face.

‘This woman has come all the way from the UK to seek news of her cousin. What do you have to say to her, Mr Clancy?’ The reporter was experienced enough to see that Meg might not provide all the drama required.

Finn blinked and swallowed before attempting to collect his thoughts. ‘I say to her-’ he stalled for time. ‘I say to her- would she like to come in and talk? Not you,’ he added as the crew pushed forward. Meg hesitated and stepped through the door, which Finn closed firmly behind her.

‘We’ll return you to the studio,’ said the reporter, ‘and wait here to see what develops.’ She turned to her colleagues. ‘Let’s hope something happens. What a godforsaken place to be stuck in. See if you can round up some coffee, Steve.’

Meanwhile, Finn was pouring tea with unsteady hands. He had wanted time to prepare before talking to this woman, but here she was, sitting in his kitchen, before he was anywhere near ready.

‘Milk? Sugar?’ His old diffidence swept over him and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Meg nodded and looked down at her freshly manicured hands. How long should I stay here? she wondered, surreptitiously checking her watch.

‘So you’re from Blackpool?’ Finn finally said, feeling foolish.

‘Yes. Blackpool.’

‘I’ve never been to Blackpool.’

‘No.’

‘Been to Oxford, London and, you know, other places. But not Blackpool.’

‘No.’

‘Never made the time. Sorry now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Nice place, Blackpool?’

‘It’s alright.’

They sat a while longer in silence, while outside the TV crew grimaced over the instant coffee purchased from the fish ’n’ chip shop.

‘What was she like?’ Finn finally asked.

‘She?’

‘Jilly. Your cousin.’

‘A nice enough little kid. I was four years older. Not really a friend.’

‘What about her mother?’