Dancing With the Virgins (25 page)

*

It was getting dark by the time Martin Stafford was
brought into Divisional Headquarters at West Street.
Stafford hadn't seemed surprised to see the police out
side the door of his flat in Congleton. In fact, he had made a point of taking a careful note of their names
and numbers from their warrant cards, as if they had
brought
him
information that would be useful
.

Diane Fry sat alongside DCI Tailby in the interview
room. Stafford was dark and good-looking, his hair well
brushed back and falling slightly over his ears. He had
eyes that laughed all the time, and what was sometimes
called a boyish grin. He was the sort of man that some
women fell for without considering the consequences.
He was the sort of man that some fathers would forbid
their daughters to marry. The grin made Fry want to
punch him.

‘
Yes, of course I heard about it. I saw it on the TV,'
said Stafford.

‘
But you never thought to come forward, sir?
’

‘
Not really.
’

Tailby waited, letting Stafford fill in the gaps rather
than leaping in with the questions. Fry suspected that the DCI was already feeling disappointed. Stafford had
come too willingly and looked too relaxed.

‘
We hadn't had any contact with each other for three
years,' said Stafford. 'I'm sorry she's dead, but — well,
it may sound a bit hard, but she was nothing to do with
me. Not any more.'

‘
Would you say there was a certain amount of animosity in your parting, Mr Stafford?'

‘
I'm a journalist, Chief Inspector.'

'So?'

‘
I don't use words like animosity. They don't fit in a
headline.'

‘
I see.'

‘
Besides, most newspaper readers wouldn't under
stand what it meant. I'd be more likely to say spite. Yes,
as far as Jenny was concerned, I might say spiteful. Still,
I
am
sorry she's dead. Really.'

‘
When you say you hadn't been in contact, do you mean that you hadn't met for three years?
’

Stafford smiled slightly. 'I mean we hadn't spoken at all.'

‘
No telephone calls?'

‘
No.'

‘
What about letters? Did you write to her?'

‘
We did all our corresponding through solicitors,'
said Stafford. 'It seemed to help to filter out the venom.
’

‘
You mean the spite.'

‘
Exactly.'

‘
But you did send a postcard to your ex-wife's parents.'

‘
Oh, that. They showed you that, did they?' Stafford
laughed, as if amused at the prank of a child who didn't
know any better. 'It was just a joke. I'm amazed they
kept it. They could hardly have wanted a memento of
me.'

‘
Was there some spite on the part of Mr and Mrs Weston as well, then?'

‘
Chief Inspector, in this case I would go along with animosity.
’

Fry studied the leather jacket Stafford wore. It had
been an expensive
_j
acket once. It had probably taken a
long time for it to get so decrepit. Or should that be scruffy?

‘
How's the freelance journalism business these days?'
she asked.

‘
Tough,' admitted Stafford. 'Very competitive, you
know. But I'm keeping my head above water.
’

‘
Can't afford a smart car, then, I suppose?'

‘
I drive an Escort. It isn't exactly brand new.
’

‘
When were you last in Totley?'

‘
Where?'

‘
Totley.'

‘
That's Sheffield, isn't it? I think I've passed through
it from time to time on the way into the city. It's the
sort of place that you do just pass through, if I remember
rightly. Not the sort of place you'd stop. Unless you
live there, of course. Is there a reason for that question?'

‘
Do you know where your ex-wife lived after the house you shared was sold?' asked Tailby.

‘
Well, I didn't,' said Stafford slowly. 'But might I make an intelligent guess that it was Totley?'

‘
Her neighbours have reported a man trying to find
her.'

‘
It wasn't me.'

‘
The afternoon of Wednesday 22nd of October
.

Stafford produced a diary. 'I have detailed records of
my movements right here, Chief Inspector. I thought
you'd never ask.'

‘
We'll take the details from you when you give a statement.'

‘
Fine.
’

‘
Is the name Ros Daniels familiar to you?' asked Fry
.

Martin Stafford shrugged. 'I have such a lot of old
girlfriends, you know. It's difficult to remember all their
names.'

‘
About twenty years old, hair in dreadlocks and a couple of rings in her nose.'

‘
Hardly, dear.'

‘
She was known to your ex-wife.
’

Stafford shook his head. 'Jenny was mixing in differ
ent circles from when we were married, then. I've no idea who the person you're describing could be.'

‘
Very well,' said Tailby. 'That'll do for now.'

‘
I
am
sorry, you know,' said Stafford. 'But she was nothing to do with me any more.
’

*

When Stafford had gone, DCI Tailby seemed to want
to sit for a while. Fry stayed with him, wondering if he
wanted to discuss the interview, or whether he was content with his own thoughts.

‘
Did you believe him, sir?' she said
.

Tailby looked at her in surprise. 'Of course,' he said. 'It rings true. He believes that Jenny Weston was noth
ing to do with him.'

‘
It seems as though she's nothing to do with anybody,
really,' said Fry. And as soon as she had said it, the
irony of the sentence lodged in a corner of her chest. It
was as if the words hadn't been her own at all, but had
been said by someone else about
her.
She was aware
that her life' had become completely solitary, apart from
the unavoidable professional contact with her col
leagues, who had soon learned not to enquire about her
private life. She was nothing to do with anybody, really.

‘
Not quite true,' said Tailby, watching Fry curiously. 'There's one person out there that she has a whole lot
to do with. Though maybe she never knew it.
’

18

In
the end, Wednesday morning looked set to be over
cast. Diane Fry had come through the Forestry Com
mission plantations and down past Flash Dam. She was
already slightly late, but she sat in her car at the top of
Sydnope Hill for a while and looked down on Matlock.
She was watching the clouds come closer. They were
rolling in from the east, their shadows chasing across
the slopes of the hills and into the town
.

Fry had worked out where the roof of Derwent Court
was, deep among the other roofs. At the moment, its
tiles were glittering as the clear November sun fell on
the remains of an overnight frost. She was due at
Maggie's at nine. But by the time the clouds had closed
in enough for her satisfaction, it was nearly five past.
Fry started the car. Maggie would be annoyed that she
was late, but that was tough. She didn't want any dis
tractions today. It was difficult enough as it was
.

From here, she could see how damaged the landscape
was to the east. Huge sections had been gouged and blasted from the side of Masson Hill, on the opposite
side of the town. Bare terraces of exposed rock had been
left by the quarrying, flat and unnatural in the slope of
the hill. She checked the sky again for clouds. It was
safe. There would be no sun on Maggie's window now.

‘
So you did come back,' said Maggie a few minutes
later. 'I imagined I might have escaped your attentions.
I thought you might have forgotten me.'

‘
Never, Maggie.'

‘
Oh? You remember me for my sparkling personality,
do you? My intellect? My savage wit?
’

Fry noticed that Maggie had rearranged the lamps in
the room. The lighting was softer, less uncompromising,
perhaps designed to put her visitor at ease and make
her more welcome. A new chair had been placed in
front of the desk — this one was upholstered in green
satin on the seat and back, and when Fry sat in it she
found it remarkably comfortable
.

The cafetiere stood ready on the desk with Cream and
sugar in a ceramic jug and bowl. By such signs, Fry knew she was making progress. But it was a fragile
intimacy; it could be broken in a second, by the ringing
of a phone or the scrape of a chair leg.

‘
I thought we were getting along fine before,' she said.

‘
Did you?' Maggie fiddled with the lamp, tilting the
shade so that the shadows played backwards and for
wards across her face. Fry found the effect discon
certing, as Maggie's good eye came first into the light,
startling and white, then vanished again into the shadows of her face
.

With the Weston enquiry going nowhere, it seemed
to Diane Fry that her interviews with Maggie Crew
were a kind of Eastern Front, the one place where the
breakthrough might come, if there was going to be one.
Maggie was their only real witness. She could identify
her assailant. However she did it, Fry would have to drag those memories out kicking and screaming. So
she sat here alone with this woman, struggling to get
through to her, digging for her memories like a miner
hitting rock.

‘
Have you thought about what we said last time?' asked Fry
.

But Maggie responded with another question.
'Do you know how many visitors I get?'

‘
No.'

‘
Do you know what it's like sitting here wondering whether anybody will come?'

‘
I'm sorry.
’

Maggie slammed back the arm of the lamp as far as
it would go, throwing the full glare of the bulb into Fry's face.

‘
That's the one thing I told you I wouldn't tolerate. Do not feel sorry for me. Understand?
’

Fry had to bite back the natural response, reminding
herself that this was a woman who was in a psycho
logically delicate balance. She needed careful handling,
not an all-out row. Not the accusation of self-pity and
hypocrisy that had sprung to her lips.

‘
Let's start again, shall we?'

‘
Be my guest.'

‘
What I'd really like to do,' said Fry, 'is take you back
to when it happened, to jog your memory. I want you
to try again, Maggie.'

‘
Why should I?'

‘
For Jenny Weston's sake. And to help us stop him
from killing any more. Maggie — you can't refuse.
’

Maggie blinked, and hesitated. 'Your colleagues
always used a different approach. They tried to be sym
pathetic, to put me at my ease — all that sort of thing.
I hated it.'

‘
I don't care about that. I've got a job to do. I need you to help me.
’

Maggie stared at her. 'Coffee?' she said, and reached
for the cafetiere
.

Fry nodded. Her clenched fingers began to relax. She
looked around the room while Maggie poured. The place really wasn't welcoming at all, even with a
comfortable chair and the smell of fresh coffee. What
would bring Maggie's memories out into the light
again? When you had suffered that sort of trauma, you
needed some kind of closure. It was possible that her
memories wouldn't be fully released until they had her
attacker behind bars
.

On the other hand, there might be something deeper inside that was keeping Maggie's mind shut down. She
had to find a trigger that would release those memories
.

Fry had a twin-deck tape recorder set up. She had
fully expected Maggie to refuse to be taped, but she had
agreed readily; in fact, she had seemed almost relieved.
Perhaps the tape machine could be a compromise, an
impersonal middle ground. She probably thought a tape
couldn't bring back memories, only capture the ones
you already had. But Fry wasn't sure about that. Today,
she meant to take Maggie further
.

For a few minutes, they sat comfortably over their coffee. They even made a bit of small talk about the
weather and Maggie's neighbours, just as if Fry were a
friend paying a social call. Who knew — there might even be chocolate biscuits with the coffee.

‘
I feel as though I'm getting unfit sitting here all day,'
said Maggie. 'Before I know it, I'll be putting weight on.
’

No chocolate biscuits, then. Fry unwrapped two fresh
tapes and inserted them in the machine.

‘
You
don't look as though you have any trouble with
your weight, Diane,' said Maggie.

‘
I don't have time to put weight on.' It was the answer she always gave when people asked her. She tested the
tape machine, and both tapes began to turn. 'Ready?
’

‘
There's something I want to tell you first.'

‘
Yes?'

‘
I've decided to go back to work,' said Maggie.

‘
Is that wise?' said Fry, immediately thinking of
the dangers to Maggie rather than of the psychological
advantages of getting her back into the outside world.
'I've got to get out of this apartment some time.'

‘
You must take precautions for your own safety. We'll
send someone to your office to check out the security
arrangements.
’

Maggie sighed. 'If you insist.'

‘
If you're going back to work, I'll have to make an
appointment, I suppose. Solicitors' time is expensive,
isn't it?
’

Maggie smiled at the comment. Fry liked to see her smile. It almost gave her an appearance of normality
.

But there was still a pain haunting her eyes, and still a
strange physical vulnerability in the glimpse of pink gum.

‘
I'll pencil you in for Friday,' said Maggie. 'Two o'clock, at our offices in Mill Street.
’

Fry made a show of getting out her diary and writing
it down. 'Fine. At least it will take your mind off things.
Do you find your work interesting?'

‘
Interesting?' Maggie considered the word. 'I suppose
some people might think so. But in fact it's ninety per
cent drudgery. Wading through mountains of paperwork until your eyes are sore, filling in reports and applications. Sitting in endless meetings.'

‘
Join the club.'

‘
And there are the most objectionable of people to
deal with. Their concerns are unbelievable. It's all jeal
ousy and selfishness and greed. Husbands and wives,
children and parents, colleagues and business partners — all desperate to know about what someone else is up
to. The times they have asked me to employ enquiry agents to look into their sordid little affairs. And not
just the clients, either. My partners are just as bad.'

‘
You don't get on with your partners?'

‘
We work together satisfactorily. But they're all the
same — complacent, self-centred and obsessed. They're
so single-minded that their lives are empty shells. They'll discover it one day, but it will be too late.
’

Fry nodded. The description Maggie had just given
of her partners echoed her own file. Maggie Crew's
history was one of professional achievements, and little
else. Maggie talked of empty lives. But it only took a
glance round the room to see whose life was the emptiest of all
.

Fry watched the way Maggie drank her coffee with
out turning fully to the desk, then spun her chair back
towards the window.

‘
Ready now?
’

Maggie nodded and closed her eyes.

‘
Tell me what happened that day, Maggie.
’

Maggie didn't need to ask what day she meant. 'I've been over it so many times before. I can't remember.'

‘
What would you normally have done that day? It was a Sunday, wasn't it?'

‘
All right, then. On a Sunday, I would have got up
later than usual, had a leisurely breakfast. Toast and
marmalade and two cups of coffee, probably. I need coffee to get myself ready for the day. I would have
switched on the TV to get the morning news. Maybe I
looked out of the window and I saw what a nice day
it was.
’

Fry watched Maggie gradually becoming less tense. She was starting to relax as she focused on the world
outside herself. The best way was to ask few questions.
Encourage the interviewee to close their eyes and pic
ture the scene, down to even the tiniest details; let them
recall smells, noises, their feelings at the time. Officers
were no longer trained to take control of an interview.
Too many courts had accepted the contention of defend
ants and lawyers that the police had suggested the answers themselves
.

Eventually, this process might be conducted by
machine entirely. Two tape decks to record the answers,
and a third to repeat the necessary phrases: 'Now, just
close your eyes . .

‘
Is that what made you decide to go to Ringham Moor? That it was a nice day?'

‘
I really don't know,' said Maggie.

‘
It's OK.'

‘
Ringham Moor is not too far away. I've walked there
lots of times. I used to go there before I became a part
ner. Afterwards, there never seemed to be time.'

‘
All right. Move forward a bit. To when you reached
Ringham —
’

Maggie was silent. Fry tried to detect from the
expression on just one side of her face whether she was
remembering any more. But it was impossible to tell.
Finally, Maggie's eyes came fully open, and her body
tensed again.

‘
Does it tell you in my file that I'm unable to form relationships?
’

Fry could only nod. The moment was lost. No point
in trying to recreate it now.

‘
Yes, it would. But I was like that before, you know,'
said Maggie. 'Too busy for relationships. And it's too late now.'

‘
Not necessarily.'