The Therapist(53)

‘I think your murderer’s is still out there,’ I tell her. ‘And I’m going to find him.’ But in my mind, it isn’t Nina Maxwell’s face I see, it’s my sister’s.

I remember this when I wake up and a terrible uncertainty consumes me. Who am I doing this for? Is it because my sister never got what I considered justice for her death that I’m determined it won’t be the same for Nina Maxwell? I’m not even sure what it is that I’m doing. How can I justify secretly helping to look into a miscarriage of justice when there might not even have been a miscarriage of justice?

Then a letter arrives, pushed through the door by the postman. It’s so unusual to get a handwritten letter that I spend some time studying the envelope, trying to guess who it’s from. I don’t recognise the writing; it’s slightly shaky, so maybe it’s from someone elderly. Lorna comes to mind but when I open it, and unfold the single sheet of paper inside, I understand straightway.

Dear Alice,

I wanted to write and thank you personally for accepting to listen to what he had to say regarding Oliver and Nina. I know you may not be able to help, or even wish to help. But I want you to know how grateful I am for your willingness to consider that Oliver might not be guilty, when those who knew him well were so quick to condemn him.

Please forgive me for not writing more, and for my appalling handwriting, I know that Thomas has explained my situation and that you will understand.

I sincerely hope we will get to meet each other one day.

With warmest wishes

Helen



For a moment I wonder how Helen got my address, then remember that her brother had lived here. I feel horribly emotional as I slide the letter back in its envelope, the doubts I had about helping Thomas fading as quickly as they came. It’s not as if I’m going to tell him my theories about Connor or Will, or anyone else. I’ll only tell him what people have said, and leave him to draw his own conclusions. If Oliver didn’t kill Nina, and someone else is murdered, I’d never forgive myself for being too afraid of upsetting people to do the right thing.

I already have most of what I need for supper this evening, because I went shopping in Stoke Newington last night. But I forgot the coriander, so I shrug on a jacket and head to the local shops.

I cross the square quickly, waving to Tim and his boys as I pass the play area. A chill wind I hadn’t reckoned with drags tendrils of hair from my clip, and I button my jacket to the neck, wishing I’d worn something warmer. I’m soon at the greengrocer’s, where I add a huge bunch of deep purple grapes, and some pears, apples and oranges to the coriander I need. And as I have grapes, I buy a couple of creamy cheeses at the delicatessen next door. There’s a flower stall a little further along and on impulse, I buy a bunch of pale pink roses for Lorna. I’ll take them round later; maybe I’ll be able to catch her on her own.

Feeling the need for a coffee, I cross over to a café I’ve been to before. As I get nearer, I see Tamsin sitting in the window, a steaming mug in front of her. I start to move away but, suddenly aware of my eyes on her, she lifts her head. I smile awkwardly and raise my hand in a wave, as if I’m just passing by. But, jumping up, she pushes through tables and comes to the door.

‘Do you have time for a coffee?’ she calls over the noise of the traffic.

‘Why not?’ I say, glad that she’s asked.

I love this café, with its vibrant hum of conversation interspersed by the hiss of the coffee machine, the clatter of crockery, the ting! of cutlery on plates. It’s warm and crowded, but not so crowded that we can hear what the people at the next table are saying. The air is heavy with the scent of coffee and freshly baked cakes.

‘You’ve been busy,’ Tamsin remarks as she takes my bags from me and pushes them under the scrubbed wooden table. ‘Is it for tonight?’

‘Some of it is.’

She nods approvingly at the roses. ‘I like a girl who buys herself flowers. If I didn’t buy myself some, I’d never get any.’

‘They’re not for me, they’re for Lorna. She looked a bit down the last time I saw her.’

‘That’s nice of you.’

She lifts her bag onto her lap, pushes her mobile, red leather gloves and white bobble hat into it, making room on the table, then takes out her purse.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Oh – thank you. Your hot chocolate looks delicious so I’ll have the same, please.’

She’s back a few minutes later with a mug in one hand, and two plates precariously gripped in the other, each bearing a slice of cake. One is definitely chocolate but the other I’m not sure about. Coffee, maybe?

‘And walnut,’ Tamsin says when I ask. ‘You choose.’

‘Gosh, thank you, I wasn’t expecting cake. They both look amazing – why don’t we do half-and-half?’

‘Perfect!’ There’s something almost childish about her delight as she cuts each cake down the middle.

‘Are we celebrating?’ I ask. ‘It’s not your birthday, is it?’

‘No, but it feels like it.’

‘Has something happened?’

She takes her time answering. ‘Connor and I had a long talk last night about something that’s been bothering me for a while, and well, it wasn’t what I thought it was. So now I’m feeling kind of good about everything.’