My Name is Eva(45)

‘Take a minute to think about it,’ he says. ‘Can you remember who else was in the group when this was taken?’

She frowns, then shakes her head again.

Pat says, ‘It was him, I’m positive. It’s such a distinctive face. I knew I’d seen it somewhere and I know it was in this picture the other day.’ She looks cross and folds her arms. ‘I should never have left the tin with her. I just thought she’d enjoy looking through it, for old times’ sake.’

Evelyn looks up, a big smile across her face. ‘Pat dear, that’s it. You’ve just solved the clue. You are a clever girl.’

Pat looks puzzled. ‘What on earth are you going on about now?’

‘The crossword, dear. Leave carrying early paper celebrating the past. That’s the answer. For old times’ sake. Well done, dear.’

‘Oh, honestly, Aunt! The blessed crossword doesn’t matter. What we need to know now is, where is the rest of this photograph?’

‘Why don’t we sort through the photographs methodically?’ says Inspector Williams, getting up. ‘Maybe the missing piece is still there.’ He goes across to the pile of photos Pat has left strewn on the side table and begins sorting them into neat groups. She joins him and they stand for several minutes shuffling the snaps like playing cards.

Evelyn watches them, then murmurs, ‘For old times’ sake.’ She repeats the phrase several more times, then begins singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, quietly at first, but when she can see her voice hasn’t been heard, she sings more and more loudly until a nurse enters and says, ‘Oh dear, I think Mrs T-C is getting a little overwrought. I’ll take her back to her room for a bit of a rest, shall I?’

‘Please do,’ says Pat. ‘We’re not getting anywhere with her today.’ And she turns back to looking at the photos and shaking her head.

Evelyn can’t help smiling as she is helped to her feet and as she leaves the room, guided by her carer, she nods at the Inspector. ‘I’ve so enjoyed our little chat. I hope you can come again soon.’





41





Mrs T-C, 1 December 2016





Just a Few More Questions





‘Who’s this you’ve brought with you today, Pat?’ The police officer is right behind her, with a smile on his face. That doesn’t bode well. She thought she had seen the last of him.

‘Oh, you remember Inspector Williams, Aunt? The detective who was here before? He just needs to show you a few pictures. You won’t mind looking at some pictures, will you?’ Pat offers what she thinks is an encouraging smile. It isn’t.

He comes forward, pulling a chair across to sit next to Evelyn. ‘Good morning, Mrs T-C, I’ve got a few photos here I’d like you to take a look at.’ He spreads some pictures out on the coffee table in front of her: there’s the ATS uniform, various documents bearing her name, the passports, the guns and also a cream cabled sweater, now yellow with age, and a pair of light brown cord trousers.

‘You may remember I showed you some pictures of things we’d found in those old suitcases the other day, but I’d just like to take you through them again, if I may.’

Is he really asking her permission? But Evelyn simply nods and says, ‘Very well then, but don’t let’s take too long about it. I’m going out on a coach trip this morning. We’ll be leaving very soon. We’re going to Bognor Regis for fish and chips.’

‘No, she isn’t,’ hisses Pat, leaning towards the policeman. ‘I checked. Nothing’s happening and she never goes out, anyway.’

Inspector Williams coughs behind his hand, then points out the two photos of the sweater and trousers. ‘As I was saying, these are pictures we took of the contents of the old cases that were found in the bedroom at Kingsley Manor.’ He pauses for a moment, allowing her time to study the images. ‘Now, I’d like to know whether you recognise either of these items.’

There, arranged with its arms outstretched as if inviting her into its embrace to remember that day of icy blue sky, brilliant white snow and harsh brutality, is the Aran sweater with its thick cream cabling, oiled wool and incriminating spatters of blood, no longer crimson, now rusty brown, but still very evident all across the breast and the folded cuffs.

‘Is this your sweater?’ he asks, holding the photograph closer, so she can almost touch it, almost smell the musty wool of it, remember the scratchy warmth of it clinging to her body.

Evelyn peers at it through her specs, blinks, then says, ‘What’s that tatty old thing? Pat, it’s one of yours, isn’t it?’ She looks up at her niece, wearing one of the many misshapen, unpressed jumpers she always seems to be wearing when she visits. She looks at the photo again and says, ‘Or it might be the one I used to wear for gardening? I never wore my good clothes for working in the garden. You should remember that, Pat.’ She looks at her niece again with a critical eye. ‘All that manure and rose thorns don’t do your clothes any favours, dear.’

‘And the trousers? Do you recognise them?’ He shows her a photo of the baggy cord trousers she had struggled to secure around her slim waist as she skied and then struggled even more to keep wearing during that terrible attack. They too are laid out; the legs are parted, inviting penetration. The blood spatters, once so evident, have blended over time into the brown of the cord fabric, but must still be present. Evelyn squints at the picture again, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose.