The cottage was half-buried in long grass and weeds; the garden looked more in need of harvesting than pruning and surrounded a small, square, cream-washed house that looked as if it were more functional than livable. It only needed a neon sign or big letters to pass for one of the motorway cafes.
A tall, thin, quarrelsome-looking girl opened the door to Macalvie's fist-pounding. Jury would have thought he was raiding the place rather than visiting it.
The girl's sallow frown looked cast in bronze and her unfocused brown eyes were set in deep sockets. She had a dishcloth over her shoulder and was lugging a Hoover. She informed them the perfesser was having his evening meal and they could go on back. With the handle of the Hoover she pointed, more or less, to a room at the rear and then went off.
Dennis Dench was eating quail and salad, washed down with a half bottle of white wine.
Each tiny bone had been placed in a bone dish, not haphazardly, but rather with attention to the underlying structure of the small fowl. After greeting Macalvie, who made an unconvincing apology for disturbing Dr. Dench's meal, Dench went back to the quail. He did not gnaw at the leg bone, but chewed the slivers of meat carefully.
He greeted Jury, and, once up, put his napkin down.
Dennis Dench took one last sip of wine and said, "Hullo, Brian. They're not the Healey boy's remains."
As they left the dining room, Dench looked back over his narrow, sloping shoulder at Macalvie. "You should know that; I've told you half a dozen times."
"Oh, sure." It was Macalvie's deadpan tone, the one he used when he wasn't going to argue a point.
They passed down a cheerlessly white, though well-lit hall toward a door at the end, and Jury paused to look at a large print that supplied about the only color in the house he had seen thus far. It would have to be an O'Keeffe, the one of the cow's skull.
"Nice, that," said Dennis, coming back to stand by Jury. He fiddled with his thick glasses as if they were an out-of-focus microscope. "Very good." He stepped back a bit, cocked his head, frowned slightly. "Well… as good as a painter could get in that particular line."
The basement laboratory was no more antiseptic than the rest of the house, although it was considerably more interesting. It had not an O'Keeffe but a Daliesque quality in its display of bones, leathered skin, objects floating in large jars -all less horrific than surreal. There were two skeletons in full bloom, if the bright red carnation between the ribs of one and the daisy chain round the collarbone of the other were an indication.
Dennis Dench shook his head. "Minerva's always doing that."
"Minerva?" asked Sergeant Wiggins, who turned from his inspection of a jar.
"One who let you in. Thinks it's all a bit of a giggle."
Jury couldn't imagine the young woman who let them in giggling about much of anything; her skin was the color of the ashy mask contoured over the frame of a skull.
Plucking a starched white jacket from a hook, Dennis said, "I've told her a dozen times the lab needn't be hoovered, but she still insists the floor needs scrubbing and the 'skellies' dusted. I think she's named them. Naturally, she doesn't touch anything else because I told her I would put her in the tub there,"-he nodded toward something like a washtub-"and then her skelly would be scattered over Salcombe estuary."
"What are you putting together?" Macalvie nodded toward the long white table with a Formica top where a sandbox rested on one end and, on the other, the threatening tub. Bones protruded from the sandbox, apparently drying; in the tub of viscous liquid, other bones were being divested of remaining flesh. Having pulled on his surgical gloves, Dennis pulled out several smaller bones and plunged them into another bath. The hanging light was dazzling, a false sun. "Jason at the beach?" asked Macalvie, chewing his gum.
Dennis addressed Jury. "I told him not to drag you all the way here from Exeter."
"You're well known, Dr. Dench. It's not a lost trip."
Dennis Dench gave Macalvie a pursed little smile.
"Call him Denny," said Macalvie, walking over to a cabinet and knocking on it as if he expected someone or -thing in there to open up. "Let's see Billy Healey's skeleton, okay?"
Having dipped the two bones in the tub, Dench now stood them up in the sand and said, "You can see the skeleton, but it's not Billy Healey's."
Macalvie was trying to open the cabinet door. "Just because I don't have a degree in osteoanatomy doesn't mean I haven't read up on it. Who the hell built this cabinet? Dr. Caligari?"
"The skeleton's over here, Brian. You never did have the patience of Job."
He removed the white cloth from the skeleton of a child that Jury would have guessed to be preadolescent. It was restored except for a few fragments that lay in a neat semicircle beside the leg. Beneath the child's skeleton were the tinier animal bones.
Macalvie stood, hands in pockets holding back his rain-coat. He nodded toward the bone fragments. "You can't jigsaw those in?"
"Wouldn't be worth it. There's probably been warpage anyway. They wouldn't tell you anything more."
Wiggins, having had his fill of pickled things in jars and the range of photographs tacked on the wall, came over to have a look. Running his hands over his rib cage, he said, "Seems everything's there." He might have been making comparisons. "What's the most difficult thing to determine, Professor? From the skeletal remains?"
Macalvie snapped, "Age."
Dennis Dench looked away, pained. "How many times do we have to have this argument, Brian? Age in a child is the easiest thing to determine. You know perfectly well-from what you've told me you'd read-complete epiphyseal fusion in a skeleton is found only in adults." He turned to Wiggins and Jury: "In this case, it was fairly easy. It's a skeleton of a subpubic male Caucasian of between fourteen and, I'd say, sixteen. The Healey boy was only twelve."
Macalvie shook and shook his head. "Don't tell me you can cut it that close."
"The devil I can't; except for some environmental variants, bone fusion can be traced in a growing child with exactitude from year to year."
Macalvie said, generously, "Okay, even if I give you that-"
"And what about the odontologist's report? Everything points to this as the skeleton of a boy older than Billy Healey."
Jury said, "You mentioned environmental variants. That would include malnutrition, wouldn't it?"
Dennis frowned. "No sign of that here, though. You're referring to the Healey boy's allergy to milk products?"
"I understand Billy Healey had to take heavy doses of vitamins and calcium… There was some doubt as to whether he took all he was supposed to."
Answering for Dennis, Macalvie said: "No actual signs of malnutrition, but that doesn't exclude the bones as being those of the Healey kid."
"Brian, I hate to remind you: I've written three books on the subject."
"I know. I've read them." He was standing in front of Dench's desk running his finger over bindings. Quickly he pulled one out, flipped through it, found the column he wanted, and said, "I quote: 'Ossification centers are often difficult to recognize and sometimes lost in an immature specimen.'" As Dennis raised his eyes to the ceiling, Macalvie flipped the pages again. "Here you've got a case of a youngster whose height could be determined only within three inches. That's a hell of a variable, three whole inches."
"Oh, come on, Brian. All anyone has to do is watch a games match at some school to see a boy of twelve can be as tall as one of sixteen. And the difference in Billy's and Toby's height wasn't apparently that much. An inch, inch and a half. Anyway, we're not talking stature here, we're talking age." Dennis's look at the skeleton was remorseful, his hand drawn down the long femur bone in a gesture that suggested it was flesh and blood he touched.
"You're forgetting something, Denny. Let's assume you're right about the age," said Macalvie. "The only thing you're basing your conclusions on is one little thing-"
"It's not a little thing. Each epiphysis fuses with the bone shaft at a particular age-"
"Can you forget that for just one damned second while I go on?"
"No." Dennis carefully realigned the femur of the dog with its pelvic bone.
Carefully, Macalvie leaned his hands on the table just above the skull and leaned over the small skeleton. "Jesus, but I'm glad you're not on my forensics team-"
"So am I." Dennis politely stifled a yawn. "You've got a thick skull." He ran his eyes slowly over Macalvie's face. "Literally."
"You're working in a vacuum, Denny. I'll tell you why I'm right-"
"You're wrong."
"Because, number one,"-Macalvie had moved over to the rack of test tubes and pulled two from its pronged fittings- "these soil samples. Now, the vicar of that church told you, although you've conveniently forgotten, nobody's been buried, to his knowledge, in that disused graveyard for forty years, and here we come up with soil removed and replaced long after that. I sent this stuff through forensics-"
"Thought you didn't trust them." Dennis had stepped back to look, sadly, at the small dog's skeleton.
"They didn't know what it was for."
"I could tell you the same thing they did."
"Maybe. Since you seem to know everything. The disturbance of this soil and its constitution shows that the grave was dug within the two-year period when a nearby mineshaft was excavated because we've got traces of zinc and other substances in the soil. That's one. Two: in those two years not one preadolescent male Caucasian went missing from the area without either returning voluntarily or having been found or the remains having been found-"
Wiggins turned from his study of the markout of the gravesite and frowned. "Pardon, sir, but isn't there a fallacy in that argument? What about cases not reported?"
"All right, I'll give you that. But we're still talking about a missing boy and a dog buried together in a structure obviously fitted out to sustain life. Until somebody pulled the plug." He was talking to Wiggins over his shoulder, his hold on the table still secure as if Dench might drag it out from under him.
Macalvie went on. "To say nothing of that deserted cemetery being found within a quarter mile of the Citrine house. And with all of this evidence, you're standing there and talking about a possible three- or four-year difference in bone fusion."
"That's right. And I'm dealing in facts; you're dealing in induction. You're adding up a lot of information and coming to a conclusion. But a piece of your information is missing. Ergo. Erroneous conclusion," said Dennis calmly.
Macalvie shook his head quickly, like a swimmer clearing water from his ears. He glanced at Jury, who'd been leaning against the counter. "You've said sweet nothing. How do you rate the chances that two kids with two dogs could have been buried secretly in that time frame and so close to the Citrine house?"
Jury had had his eyes on the tiny skeleton of the dog under the boy's feet-for his mind had encased them in stone like the effigies he had so often seen in the churches and cathedrals-lord and lady, earl and countess-with a little dog, and sometimes two, cushioning their feet. And he remembered the position Dennis Dench had inferred; the bones of the dog had been lying atop the skeleton of the boy. While part of his mind stood aside and looked at the problem objectively, he himself could hardly breathe and his own eyes were no longer dazzled by the glare of the hanging light, the fluorescence, the almost screaming whiteness of the walls, the Formica. They had grown steadily dimmer, though his ears had taken in everything the others were saying. At the same time he watched the light fading like headlamps sweeping by in the fog and the then total darkness. He could hardly breathe. Which of them had used up the last of the oxygen? The child? The dog? He had had the dog, at least. The dog that Jury doubted had been sealed in the grave for companionship.
But who knew? Who could possibly tell what a mind so warped would do? "I was wondering about Toby," Jury finally said in answer to Macalvie.
"Toby? Toby's dead. You read the report."
"He was fifteen."
Dennis Dench laughed his short, brittle laugh. "Convenient, that would have been for me."
"It was certainly convenient as hell for the kidnapper."
The only witness dies in an accident? Talk about coincidence."
"Believe me, I did," said Macalvie. "According to your police there wasn't a single reason to tie that lorry driver to Toby. The lorry was actually stopped at a zebra crossing-I didn't know they did that-and the kid bolted across it when he started up. It was dark, raining, he swerved. Too late."
"That's another thing. What in the hell would the boy be doing in London?"
"Running. Is there a better place to hide than in a crowd?"
"The natural thing for a kid to do is run home."
Macalvie sighed. "Not if there's somebody at 'home' who knows you're witness to a kidnapping."
"That's your theory, Macalvie."
"So what's yours?"
"I don't have one."
Macalvie went over to stand beside Wiggins who was studying the photographic mockup. He unfolded an old newspaper clipping and laid it on the counter beside the partially reconstructed photograph. The picture in the paper wasn't a studio pose; it showed a young boy with a puzzled look, his hair covered by a woolen jacket hood like a monk cowl. He was squinting. Macalvie studied the picture for a moment and said to Dennis, "I couldn't tell me old mum if her eyes were nothing but silver discs; mind if I change this?"
"Yes." Dennis was covering the small skeleton.
Even while asking the question, Macalvie cut a piece from a scrap of paper, penciled something in while looking at the clipping, and put the tiny strip on the photograph. "Give me your scarf, Wiggins."
With some reluctance, Sergeant Wiggins unwrapped the brown scarf as carefully as a doctor removing bandages from a patient who'd just had an eye operation.
Macalvie arranged the scarf around the skull in the photo, simulating the newspaper picture. He put the rest of the scarf over the left-hand side of the face and what remained was a fuzzy, but reasonable facsimile of a face.
"If that isn't Billy Healey, I'll turn down the promotion to assistant constable."
Dennis tucked the covering round the skeleton of boy and dog, as if, in the ordinary way of good nights, he were putting them to bed. "Since the chief constable hasn't offered it, it's not much of a bet."
Macalvie grinned. "Thanks for letting us take up your time."
They walked back through the dining room where the dishes still remained, together with the bottle of white wine. Dennis Dench took three glasses from a sideboard, set them on the table, and said, "You've got to taste this. It's superb. Chablis Moutonne."
Holding it up to the light, Macalvie rolled it in the glass as Dennis Dench rolled his eyes at Macalvie.
"He knows as much about wine as he does about bone fusion," said Dench.
Macalvie sipped, rolled the wine in his mouth. "Full and direct. Subtle bouquet, though a bit violent. Admirably dry -what do you think, Wiggins?"
Wiggins sipped it; his mouth puckered. "Very dry, sir."
"Bone dry," said Jury.
"The guy's a genius," said Macalvie, as the three of them stood near the car. The rain driven in from the estuary blew Wiggins's scarf back; he snatched at it, clearly not wanting to lose it twice in one evening. "Too bad he's so stubborn," added Macalvie, slamming the car door.
"How far is it to the Citrine place?" asked Wiggins, staring out into the cloud of rain.
Jury turned to answer. "No farther than it'll take to hand out three or four tickets, probably."
Jury, sitting in the back seat, wondered if the Devon-Cornwall constabulary fitted out all of its official cars with tape decks or whether Macalvie had managed one just to listen to Elvis.
After twenty miles, they were leaving "Heartbreak Hotel" and entering into a memory of a bright summer's day, purely temporary; bright summer's days usually were.
Wiggins, sitting beside Macalvie in the front seat, had been going on about telephone kiosks for the last fifteen minutes or so, probably (Jury thought) in an attempt to lead Macalvie round to explaining Gilly Thwaite's own call box and Telecom's part in it.
"It's like the red double-deckers. Landmarks, those red call boxes are, and they're taking them all down. Only leaving up a few, for nostalgia's sake, probably. I'm surprised there're those in Exeter still standing. Like the one Miss Thwaite was talking about…"
No comment. Macalvie was singing along with Elvis about the empty chairs, the bare parlor.
"A crying shame," said Wiggins.
"What is?" asked Macalvie, as the parlor and doorstep of "Are You Lonesome Tonight" vanished like the flying landscape.
"That the kiosks are coming down. The government's only keeping about two hundred of the K2's-that's the regular one, like the one Miss Thwaite was talking about…" Wiggins paused. No response. He went on with a sigh. "I always liked the Jubilee one. A bit fancier on top. Very valuable that would be now." Wiggins's laugh was more of a giggle. "Don't think you'd find Telecom trying to break one of those call boxes open." There was no answering comment from the front seat. One would have thought those two never used the telephone. Wiggins's sigh was huge this time. "If you wanted one, I mean one of those King George boxes, you could actually buy one. Cost you over a thousand quid, maybe two. There's a firm exports them. They refurbish them. Americans probably keep 'em in their halls. Cast iron, post-office red. I wonder how the American call boxes work. How they get the coins out-"
Jury turned and gave him a look. "Bulldoze them." Jury shook his head, turned back again.
Wiggins was undaunted. "Antiques dealers are buying them up and selling them, too, if you can imagine."
"I can imagine anything about antiques dealers." Macalvie pushed the eject button and Elvis came out.
Jury was trying to think about Dench's bones as he watched what he could of the dark landscape Macalvie was fast leaving behind, and with it, one of the new eyesore-call boxes Wiggins so abhored, telephone encased in its acrylic surround. Suddenly, the car was rocking with heavy metal.
"My God, Macalvie. Turn that down."
"Led Zep?" Macalvie half-twisted his head to the back. "You don't even like Led Zep?"
Even. Jury the musical stick-in-the-mud. "And keep your eyes on the road."
"Beautiful voice, he has, that Robert Plant," said Wiggins, da-de-daing"Stairway to Heaven."
"And Page's guitar. That bow work is cosmic, cosmic. I don't go at all for the noodlers, Edward, Yngwie, those guys."
Noodlers?
"Oh, I can't agree with you there, not at all. You can't call them just speed freaks. Yngwie's got progressions as classical as they come," said Wiggins.
Yngwie? Edward? Were all fans on a first-name basis with their idols? "What about Charlie?" asked Jury.
Again, Macalvie twisted round. "Charlie who?"
Jury sighed. "Raine. Don't you keep up with the current scene?"
"You talking about that group that's in London? I've got something here."
To Jury's dismay he took his hand off the wheel to scrabble amongst his tapes, slid one in. A voice, clear as the frozen night, was in the middle of a song.
… sky
was blue above
the trees
but only for a while
It sounded to Jury as if it were going the way of Elvis's bright summer day. The light gave way to darkness, summer to winter, stone walls to the ravages of time, cliffs to the lashing of waves. It reminded Jury, in some way, of the clair-voyee.
I watch the streetlamp
Down below
I watch you turn
I watch you go-
"Well, well, well," said Macalvie, killing the tape as a low-slung sporty number shrieked past the Ford on this otherwise deserted stretch of road.
Wiggins was thrown back as Macalvie accelerated.
Jury sighed.
The Citrine house was stark white against the sky and a hundred feet or so from a cliff along a solitary stretch of the Cornwall coast. A frozen gullied road was not meant to encourage visitors. Nell Citrine Healey had been the only one who had used it; she must have liked her privacy. It was privacy, Jury thought morosely, that had worked against her.
The rear of the house faced the end of the dirt road. They went in through the kitchen door, unlocked, unbolted.
"Doesn't anyone bother to lock up?" asked Wiggins.
"She probably thought there wasn't anything of value left to take," said Macalvie.
Wiggins looked away.
They stood in the big kitchen with Macalvie looking down at the long oak center table as if he could see the sandwiches-the one half-eaten, the other untouched-and the pills still sitting there. Macalvie pointed to a row of mullioned windows. "Billy wouldn't have heard-"
"No one could have known Mrs. Healey wasn't in the house; that she was outside was mere chance," said Wiggins.
"Of course. So if it was someone known to her, and she hadbeen there, say, in the kitchen, whoever it was could simply have said they didn't want to drive the car any farther down that road. But they wouldn't deliberately announce themselves by coming down that road. So Billy wouldn't have heard anything. Anyone could have walked right in, but it was someone he knew, I'm sure."
Jury leaned back against a Welsh cupboard of wormy chestnut and folded his arms, looking at the kitchen hearth, the chairs pulled up to it. It was the sort of spot that could have seduced anyone into having a cup of tea. "If you could only remember, Macalvie, that you weren't here; that you weren't in this kitchen." He looked out at darkness.
"Then what's your theory?"
"I don't have one."
Wiggins came in from the front room, saying, "They've a piano, a baby grand-Good Lord, sir, shut that door!" His look at Macalvie was severe as he pulled the lapels of his overcoat tightly round his throat.
Macalvie shut the kitchen door.
As he would have recognized the outfitting of the kitchen, Jury would have known this room from Macalvie's description. In the center was the writing table where Charles Citrine must have been sitting, talking with the police superintendent. Over there was the window seat where Nell Healey had sat staring out to sea. There were no sheets, no covering, over the furniture. In spite of the rising damp and the passing years, the room still had the look of its occupants having left just minutes before: an open book lay facedown on a coffee table; the pale cushions of an armchair still bore the impression of an occupant; the logs were laid and ready for lighting; sheets of music were stacked on the piano. Until one noticed the spine of the book was cracked, the pages stiff with age; the sheet music yellowed; the piano layered with dust.
Said Wiggins: "They must have taken music pretty seriously to have a grand piano in a house they used only a short time out of the year."
"Billy was supposed to be some kind of musical prodigy. The piano,"-Macalvie nodded toward it-"was the father's idea. Healey was a frustrated concert pianist who was probably living out his fantasies of being Rachmaninoff through his kid. My bet is he was a real slave driver. Anyway, the kid didn't use it."
"How do you know?" asked Jury, not terribly surprised by this time at Macalvie's clairvoyance.
"There was no music on the stand; the cover was down; I ran my finger over it. Dusty as hell." Macalvie smiled. "He didn't practice here; she didn't dust. Says something about them, doesn't it, the way they were."
The smile was in place, but it didn't reach his eyes, Jury noticed. Then the smile vanished and he walked over to the french window giving out on a view of waves they could hear but couldn't see.
"She likes you, too, Macalvie." Jury smiled at his friend's back. "You should go and see her. I'm sure you wouldn't have any trouble getting round Sanderson."
There was no answer.
"I'm having a look upstairs. Brian?"
Without turning, Macalvie said, "Billy's room is at the top, the guest room next to it. Toby used that."
While Wiggins visited the guest room, Jury went into Billy Healey's. As had the living room, this one still looked lived in, as if all of his boy's things had been left in just the way he had placed them. Cricket bat lying across a carved walnut chair and a cap hanging on its finial; stacks of magazines and paperback books slipping and sliding along the far wall in a drunken wave; fossils and chipped seashells on the bureau, one especially good specimen lying on a bit of torn paper with the penciled inscription, Chessil Beach, the paper browning round the edges, beginning to look more like parchment. But the focal point of the room was outspread on the faded oriental rug at the foot of the bed-a complicated intertwining of metal tracks, miniature buildings-or pieces of a Monopoly set used for that purpose-and an electric train. He stood looking at it for a few moments chewing his lip. Then he knelt down, unable to resist its lure, and punched the starting button. The slightly rusted engine slowly and laboriously started chugging along the track, entering a mossy tunnel of a papier-mache hillside.
He let it run as he went over to the books against the wall, sat down on the floor, and looked them over. Jury could almost see the years of Billy's life changing with the books. Picture books, the William books, comics. He must have named his dog Gnasher after the one in these old "Beano" strips. Then came Oliver Twist, Treasure Island, nothing by the Brontës-perhaps he got too much of that in Yorkshire -and some poetry. Jury recognized the small paperback of American poetry as the same one that Nell Healey had been holding. He pulled it out, thumbed through it to Robert Frost, noticed as he did so there were a lot of underlinings, marginal notes that surprised him. Apparently, his stepmother had had a decided effect on his reading. He found the one called "Good-bye and Keep Cold," and read it through twice.
But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm.
How often already you've had to be told,
"Keep cold, young orchard.
Good-bye and keep cold…"
Jury put his head in his hand. He went on looking through the book and stopped at a poem of Emily Dickinson, also heavily underscored. His eye was immediately drawn to the line, "It was not frost, for on my skin I felt siroccos crawl…" The word sirocco was underlined twice and in the margin written in a loopy scrawl, "desert wind, hot."
"I used to have one, but not this good of a one."
Wiggins's voice brought Jury round. "What?"
"Train, sir." Wiggins was kneeling by the track. The engine was going through the tunnel, probably for the dozenth time. Jury had forgotten the train. "It was a contest, it was, to see who could collect the most pieces. I was the only one had a British Rail Pullman car. What sort did you have, sir?"
Jury had risen, still with the book in his hand. "None. What's a 'sirocco,' Wiggins?"
The sergeant looked up from the miniature metal station, frowning. "The band, you mean?"
"No. I mean what is it? What's it mean?"
Wiggins shook his head. "No idea. Funny name, come to think of it. They're usually called things like Kiss of Death, or plays on words like Dire Straits. Good name, that." Wiggins got up. "The guest room's all tidied up. Nothing there that seemed helpful."
"I'll have a look." Jury frowned. "Do you still have that issue-"
Wiggins looked back, standing in the doorway. "Of what, sir?"
"Nothing," said Jury. "Nothing."
It had started to rain steadily during the short drive to Macalvie's cemetery. Macalvie's cemetery: the graveyard that surrounded the disused church appeared to Jury to have little purpose anymore than that which Macalvie had brought to it. It surrounded the church unevenly on three sides.
They squelched through mud and high grass, stepping, Jury imagined, on graves whose stones had slowly slipped so far beneath the ground that one could barely see them. When they'd nearly reached the wall, Macalvie beamed his torch downward, kneeled, and removed the canvas staked across the grave.
It had been carefully staked out by Dennis Dench. Markers showing the position of the body were still there. The site was clear of vegetation for a foot round the site. There was little else to show that a body had been exhumed from the opening, that it had not been dug for a burial yet to come.
Except (thought Jury) that nobody came here anymore. He squinted through the dark at headstones leaning at odd angles, nearly hidden by tall grass and weeds. The rain fell steadily.
Wiggins stood at the bottom of the grave staring down, the package that was Dench's book between his gloved hands like a Bible. He made no move to rewrap the muffler that a sudden wind had disturbed; he said nothing about the weather.
Jury looked up from the gravesite to the old wall, crumbling like the wall round the Citrine house in West Yorkshire. What in heaven's name must have been going through that poor woman's mind in her interminable watching at the gate that listed like these gravestones in that deteriorating wall? What scenarios had she devised for the death of her stepson?
That she was hopeless of ever seeing him again was clear. She was not watching that small frozen orchard waiting for a miraculous reappearance, waiting for the boy to climb down from the tree in which he'd been hiding. It enveloped her like fog, the sense of hopelessness.
In her darkest imaginings of the way he died, could Nell Healey possibly have imagined this?
An owl screeched. They all stood looking down into the excavated grave, filling with rain.
Wiggins did not complain about the weather.