Blind Date by Frances Fyfield Page A

right. She was always turning round to see what was behind, always frightened, but she never learned to cover her back.”
    The man laughed without real mirth, the hand still shaking as he raised the cup. The habits of the alcoholic still led him to excess. He had little use for sleep. The ceiling above where he sat was yellow with nicotine.
    â€œPoor cow. Thin Lizzie. All her efforts came to nothing. Bloody Jack gave enough hints of guilt, all right, not quite a confession, almost, but the judge wasn’t having any. End of case, end of career. The last in a long line of Elisabeth’s wee failures. She resigns, goes home to her mother and gets mugged in a Devon village, I ask you. How’s that for irony? Silly bitch, useless as ever. Still beautiful, you say? Do I sense a tenderness for the lady? Not that she was ever a lady. Discreet, yes, never told her family a single bloody thing, but never a lady. Do you fancy her?”
    â€œLord, no. I’m just curious. I went all the way down there because you asked me to go. You get in touch after all this time … ask the impossible …”
    The man stirred, looked Joe in the eye. One of his own, pale eyes, watered. There was a crust of yellow round the lid.
    â€œWell, why not? You’re half to blame. And you’re sneaky. You could check on her without being obvious, hiding behind your camera. You wouldn’t even have to bang on the door. And you know what? You’re a kind of pervert yourself. I might have fingered you for a killer, except you like things already dead. Or half dead. You won’t take pretty pictures of living things, not you. Not even kittens or puppies. You like things which can’t move. Pervert.”
    Joe shifted beneath the watery gaze. The room was warm.
    â€œI don’t understand,” he said, realizing he was sounding plaintive and naive, “how her family never knew about her involvement. They knew about a man being charged and rapidly acquitted. They knew about a supposed confession. They never seemed to know how Elisabeth was involved.”
    The old man looked at him, pityingly. “You don’t think Lizzie travelled under her own name, do you? Prat. I suppose the family would have got to know if the trial had gone the distance, but it didn’t. Lizzie was anonymous from the start. She was at the finish.”
    He puta finger to his lips in a parody of discretion. Shhh. Then he got up and stretched, without enthusiasm.
    â€œShe shouldn’t have gone so far,” he murmured. “That’s what did for the judge. Activities beyond the call of duty, poor old fart. Couldn’t see the truth in pillow talk. Goes back to Adam and Eve and the snake. Curiosity, you said? Killed the cat, my boy. Killed it. Now, fuck off.”
    â€œDo I continue? Find out what I can?”
    â€œThat’s up to you. Suit your fucking self.” Then he added, so faintly Joe could scarcely hear, “Please.”
    Down, down, down. Joe walked down more steps than he could count. One day, he would count the steps. For now he wondered how it was that a wheezy man, who looked so much older than his years, ever managed to climb so far, but this was only his third visit and it would not be his last, so he did not count today. Tonight, on the verge of midnight, he had another place to go; people to meet. Then he would go home. Somebody else’s home, but still home. Jenkins had not quite specified trespass as part of the task, but he had supplied Elisabeth’s address. Drunk on caffeine, Joe’s head was still reeling from the cricket on the television which had stood in the corner of the room, silent, while both eyes went towards it, constantly. Someone in white, dressed in the garments of a lab assistant, ran languidly over a stretch of green. Joe had never understood the mysteries of cricket. He did not want to take pictures of people in movement: he knew his limitations. He loved portraits.