Eventually she said, ‘You’re correct, of course. We will need to take a look at Ronnie. At this point I cannot guarantee he will never be interviewed…’ and Leadsom went to interrupt her before ‘… but if he is, I’m prepared to guarantee it will be done with the utmost respect for his mental wellbeing.’

  Leadsom took his time, seemingly examining word by word what she had said to him as if it were a futures contract worth millions. Then he said, ‘You’d do it yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Leadsom was nodding. Something had passed between them that Waters felt he must have missed, but it was something beyond the words that had been spoken. Somehow Freeman had won the man’s confidence. Whatever it had been, she was business-like again.

  ‘OK. That’s my side sorted. What about yours? Obviously you know where they went twenty years ago, but that still leaves us a lot of work to do.’

  Leadsom raised his eyebrows again but not in surprise this time – this was more in something like expectation. There was a pause in proceedings, and then it was Waters who said, ‘James – you know where Seth and his brother went. Do you also know where they are?’

  You’re job and mine, Leadsom had said then, aren’t much alike, but there’s one thing we both value, and that’s intelligence – he meant, he told them, information that has value, not the sort that involves solving three-dimensional puzzles and word games. He never made an investment without the due diligence – digging deeply into what was supposedly on offer and into the people who were making the offer.

  He had a couple of firms in London he’d used before, investigation agencies. They had given him a file on the Collinson family. Those were their full names – Seth and Paul Collinson. They were from Coventry originally. Their parents had been, in Leadsom’s words, ‘Religious nutcases’. The father was a pastor in a small fundamentalist church with the full set of biblical firework displays every Sunday morning – baptising each other in rivers, the laying on of hands, speaking in tongues. It’s no wonder, he said, their kids got messed up.

  Anyway, Seth leaves home and Paul soon follows. It’s the nineties and all the New Age stuff is taking off again, all the millennial cults. The irony, he said, was that Seth ended up more or less with a cult of his own, just like his dad. At some point Paul became Saul – another way of throwing up what their parents had made them swallow all those years. ‘I don’t suppose anyone could have guessed,’ he said, ‘where else that change of name would lead in the end.’

  Waters said, ‘What else did you find out about Paul Collinson?”

  Leadsom told them that in some ways he had been like Ronnie – always in trouble at school. He’d scared other kids sometimes, but Ronnie never did anything like that. Got into drugs early… Another big difference was that Paul Collinson was gay. His investigators had told him there was no doubt about that.

  ‘Doesn’t bother me,’ Leadsom said, ‘never has, but I mention it because you people are going to be looking for a motive. And I reckon that is one.’

  Armed with such intelligence, Leadsom had made his investment. The third party company which could not be traced to him bought the freehold of a hill farm in North Wales; another irony, he told them – it cost him peanuts, such land was next to worthless at the time, but now, twenty years later, it had made him a lot of money. He had seemed almost disappointed by the fact. Seth had said he planned to set up a community where like-minded people could live and create an alternative lifestyle, a sort of outpost of the way humanity would have to live in the future if it was to survive. He was full of all that, Leadsom said.

  He kept a close eye on them at first, checking through his investigators that they were still there, especially Saul. The place was remote but at first Seth’s old friends used to turn up and hang about for months on end. Leadsom told them he didn’t care what was going on as long as his people got sight of the younger brother, which they invariably did.

  ‘So that’s it,’ he concluded. ‘It worked as far as I was concerned. We never had any more dealings with the Collinsons.’

  Waters asked, ‘When did you last check up on them?’

  ‘About three years ago. By then my guy had lost sight of Saul, hadn’t seen him on a couple of visits but when Ronnie moved into Wainfleet House, I thought he was safe there. I wasn’t too bothered.’

  ‘And as far as you know, Seth and Saul are still at the same place?’

  Leadsom said, ‘Why would they leave? They got the place virtually rent-free. They probably don’t have to work, and they’re probably claiming benefits. Proper New Age, isn’t it?’

  After a silence in which all the participants reflected on this strange story a little differently, Freeman said, ‘You’ll need to give us the address, James.’

  Leadsom sat still but made eye contact with the senior investigating officer again. She seemed to understand though he had said nothing, and she said, ‘What? I gave you my word. Do you want me to sign something?’

  Leadsom smiled a little. Waters thought, he likes her, even though she’s told him he might end up inside. People never stop surprising you. Then Leadsom reached into his inside jacket pocket, took out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Waters. He said, ‘It’s all there.’

  Miriam sat curled up on the sofa beside him, her shoulder resting against his right arm. She seemed to be as quietly excited as she would be if they were about to listen to a new performance by Mitsuko Uchida, and she had made a joke about popcorn almost identical to that made by Freeman before the first interview of James Leadsom. Sadly, they were not about to hear the great pianist interpret a Bach sonata in public for the first time; instead the tension was building before Detective Chief Superintendent Allen addressed the nation in the matter of the Wissingham Hall murder, which had occurred just six days short of twenty years ago. Or rather, not quite the entire nation, but that portion of it which resided in the area covered by the local BBC news channel.

  In view of the developments since last Friday, when Leadsom had handed Waters that piece of paper, there had been discussions about the planned broadcast. Someone even had the temerity to suggest it was now effectively redundant, but Allen had argued forcefully in the opposite direction. It was possible, he said, that now they had more information about the victim, revealing this might trigger more memories in the populace – they might not remember just a girl buying something back then in the village shop, but they might remember a French girl doing so, mightn’t they? There was a kind of desperate logic in this which had, in all events, prevailed, and now, as they watched and listened, the presenter was introducing a special appeal from “Detective Chief Superintendent Allen, who is leading the investigation into this long-running and well-known case”. Waters laughed and told Miriam that the SIO he knew would be delighted with that.

  Allen, of course, looked and sounded the part, expensively suited and solemnly faced as he explained that the recent re-investigation had uncovered several promising lines of inquiry; which is one way of saying that they now knew the name of the perpetrator and that they even had a witness to the murder itself. To be fair to Allen, there had been extensive discussions about just how much he should reveal in this broadcast – it would not have been wise to lay out all they had at this point, not before the preparations to conclude the matter had been completed. The DCS spoke for about two minutes and then answered questions from the assembled local reporters – as far as Waters could see there were no more than half a dozen of them, and Allen seemed to be making sure they all had a turn.

  Miriam said when it was over, ‘Well, he sounds very good.’

  ‘Yes. He’s absolutely the best person for that job.’

  She knew his every intonation now and turned her face up to him.

  ‘Are you being horrible about your boss?’

  Waters said, ‘No. He really is. Not everyone wants that role and he enjoys it, even though he complains about it. In doing so, he allows everyone else to get on with the investigation.’

  Miriam was only partially convinced by this – she murmured a dubious ‘Hmm’ and prodded him gently in his ribs, letting him know he hadn’t entirely got away with it. Then she said, ‘It might be you one day – Detective Chief Inspector Chris Waters holding a press conference.’

  He had told her the thoughts that had been in his mind about this, explaining how every step up the ladder brought more demands on a detective’s life outside work until in the end it could seem that he or she didn’t have such a luxury, but Miriam did not seem dismayed. Rather the reverse – she wanted him to go further in his career, or at least to go as far as he wanted, and she saw no reason to wait. He pointed out that public speaking held no great appeal for him, and when she objected to that he reminded her that despite frequent invitations from the management she had yet to play a number at The Blue Note jazz club. The end result of this exchange was another prod in the ribs, followed by a short wrestle and a bout of non-verbal communication.

  It was good to share hopes and dreams, he thought later, but there were still things he hadn’t told her from the past few days. In the Recents folder on his phone, were five unanswered calls from an Oxford landline number which he knew were from her father. He, Waters, had been genuinely busy with work on every occasion – it was noteworthy, of course, that Benjamin Josephs had not tried to get in touch after normal working hours when the person he wanted to speak to would almost certainly be with his daughter. Waters would call him back soon, maybe tomorrow if the day he had planned went well, but he would do so with a certain reluctance; he knew that if he mentioned the calls to Miriam, she would tell him to ignore them, but this was the family he intended to marry into, and whatever their history, he didn’t want to begin that by taking sides, at least until he understood why they seemed to have so many problems with each other.

  Miriam had been quiet for a while, but when she said, ‘And tomorrow you’re going to meet her sister,’ he knew she meant Chloe Favreau. He confirmed that he was, and that her plane would arrive at Stansted just before ten thirty – as he had to pick up Serena on the way, he’d be getting an early night. He squeezed her hand but she ignored that and said, ‘That won’t be easy for anyone, will it? I can’t imagine losing Daniel, even though we haven’t met for more than a year. If he was my twin, it would be even worse…’

  In the busyness of recent days, he hadn’t give it much thought – when Greene told him that Freeman wanted the two of them to meet Chloe, he had even had a flicker of irritation that he would be away from the centre of the investigation for a part of the day. Now, as he agreed with Miriam that it might not be the easiest of jobs, he remembered Smith telling him that everyone has a part to play in this tragi-comic production called life but to remember, always, that some parts are harder to play than others. We don’t always know what others are dealing with – do your job well but don’t ever forget that. Everybody hurts.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Two lines of temporary barriers opened out from the arrivals gate like an inverted funnel. Chris Waters and Serena Butler waited with about a dozen other people, ranging from a great-grandparent in a wheelchair to a toddler holding a bouquet so enormous she appeared to be hiding behind it. Serena pointed this out and said how charming it was – Waters agreed. He’d suggested they hold up a piece of paper or cardboard with their visitor’s name on it but Serena dismissed the idea, saying she was confident they would recognise Sylvie’s twin sister, even though more than twenty years had passed since the most recent photographs were taken.

  The arrivals and departures board had told them the flight from Marseille Provence had landed a few minutes ahead of schedule – the passengers ought to be here by now, Waters thought. He had tried this morning to put himself in Chloe Favreau’s place; what was she thinking and feeling? According to Freeman, the Frenchwoman had two aims – to meet the officers who had finally uncovered her sister’s fate and thank them in person, and to make arrangements to have Sylvie’s remains returned to France, which she thought would be easier while she was in England rather than back in France. And then there had been another request – she would like to see the place where Sylvie had been buried. Tom Greene had said helpfully, ‘It’s more or less on the way back from Stansted to Kings Lake. Why don’t you just drop in at the church on your way?’ A just-job, as Smith used to call them…

  He must have been daydreaming when Serena said, ‘That’s her’ and raised a hand towards a short, thin, middle-aged woman who was pulling a travel case on wheels behind her. He said a silent, short prayer of thanks that Serena was here – he doubted whether he would have spotted the woman so easily had he been waiting alone. Chloe Favreau had seen them and crossed through the stream of passengers, saying ‘Pardon,’ in the French way to each and every one, until she stood in front of them. Serena, as the officer given the task by the SIO, made the introductions, and Waters wondered whether they would then perform the traditional la bise – this had not been covered in any of the training courses. Surely that would be too intimate a greeting for the parties involved in this particular meeting, but Madame Favreau solved his dilemma by holding out her small, gloved hand in the proper English manner. She thanked them for meeting her, and would have gone on to thank them for heaven knows what else had Serena not quickly stepped in and guided her towards the exit and the car park.

  Waters had used his official on-police-business card in the windscreen so they could park close by, and within a couple of minutes they were on the move. They had agreed beforehand that Serena would sit in the rear with Chloe – having her in the back alone would make her seem too much like someone brought in for questioning. Serena did the right thing once more – having established Chloe was comfortable and that she had no immediate, pressing concerns, she allowed her to sit quietly where another officer might have been tempted to force a conversation.

  Several minutes passed. They had reached the M11 and were heading north before Waters heard the woman say to Serena, ‘Thank you…’, making it plain that she fully understood the reason for their silence, and in the rear-view mirror he saw Serena’s hand briefly touch Chloe’s arm as she said, ‘That’s OK. If you do have any questions, we’re here to answer them, as best we can.’

  Chloe asked one or two obvious things – was it far to Kings Lake and where is the Stone Warren? Her English was very good but she had the congenital inability to put an ‘h’ in front of some words that required one, and so her next question to Serena was, ‘And I think you ’ave some accommodation for me? I am so grateful for all this help.’

  Waters caught Serena’s eye as she dealt with those matters and then he had to look away. That is how Sylvie Favreau would have spoken, and the truth of that caught him unawares. How she would have charmed those English boys – and how cruel fate had been in the ones it had been her misfortune to meet.

  Chloe was talking more freely now. Serena must have asked something about her sister, and she was saying, ‘But of course, we were very close when we were growing up. Our teacher used to say science cannot tell you apart… So we looked the same, we used to play the usual tricks that twins do, you know? But always it would be Sylvie’s idea – she was naughtier than me, always…’

  Every now and then, Waters caught Serena’s eye in the mirror. Without consciously thinking, he eased his foot off the accelerator and their speed dropped back to fifty-five – Freeman had said that at no time would they be formally interviewing Chloe but if she happened to say anything that might fill in some of the background, we should be alert to that.

  ‘… I think maybe we were fourteen and we wanted to dress differently. The science may say one thing but life, you know, it too ’as something to say. For a little time then we used to fight a lot, until the differences were clear. And then it was OK again…’

  Her tone was wistful, not tearful, and Waters thought Chloe Favreau must have done her crying a long time ago. Serena said, ‘What were the differences between you? What was Sylvie like as a teenager?’

  ‘Oh, well – a big question! I was studious and she was not. As clever as me, of course, but she did not want to sit and study. Sylvie was better at the sports, the games. She ’ad a lot of energy, she liked to keep moving. She got into more trouble than me with teachers – she would ‘ave thought it funny when I became one. Sylvie was vivacious. You know this word, I am sure – it is another one you ’ave stolen from us. Full of life…’

  It is said the English above all are known for their love of irony but some ironies will cross those invisible international boundaries; there was a long moment of silence in the car after those words.

  Serena said, ‘Was she musical? Someone told us that Sylvie used to sing.’

  Waters gave her a warning glance in the mirror but Serena looked away from him. Chloe said, ‘Yes, she had a very good voice. She always wanted me to sing the ’armonies but I could not. She learned to play her guitar all by herself. This was her plan when she left. She would sing on the streets with the guitar when she ran out of money. Chanter dans la rue – there is an English word I ’ave forgotten.’

  Serena said, ‘A busker?’

  ‘Yes, this is the word. I told her this is a crazy plan but then, one sees the people doing it today. I do not know whether she did this in the end. I can tell you very little after she left ’ome.’

  Serena said, ‘You never heard from her when she was in England?’

  Chloe shook her head first before, ‘No. I never knew she was in England at all. I do not know why she would come here. I do not know…’

  They had travelled a mile or two in silence before she turned to look directly at Serena and said, ‘Someone told you Sylvie could sing? Who would tell you this?’

  For the first time, Serena hesitated, and then Chloe caught Waters watching in the mirror. She said, ‘You ’ave spoken to someone who knew her, who remembers her? Who is this?’