'I'm serious, Jenny. I'm going to get an answer out of you one way or the other.' Despite the light-hearted tone she could tell he meant it. After her months of evasion he was pressing her for commitment.
'By when?'
'I qualify in six weeks.'
'Then what? You'll give up on me?'
'No.' He hesitated. 'But after that I'll leave it up to you to make the moves.'
It occurred to her to tell him the truth then, to confess that it had taken all her strength to try to cope with her demented father accusing her of being a child killer. It would be a relief to share it with him, to have someone to reason it through with. But what if he recoiled and turned his back on her in horror or disgust? She couldn't face his rejection, not now, not on top of everything else.
Jenny felt tears in her eyes. She hurriedly moved to wipe them away.
'What's the matter?'
'Nothing. It's just. . . There are some things I need to get straightened out. It's healthy. You're giving me a spur.'
'Anything you can share with me?'
'No.'
'I'd better head back.' He got up from the table.
Jenny reached out and touched his fingers. 'I'm glad you're being honest, really. And I'm trying to be. Just give me a little more time.'
He smiled again, decent enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. Better than she deserved. He stooped down to kiss her goodbye. As he walked away towards the old cart track that led around the side of the house, he stopped suddenly. 'Oh, by the way - there was a man with a little girl who seemed to be waiting for you around the front last night.'
'A man?'
'Yes. I drove past at about six. They were still there when I came back up around seven.'
'What did they look like?'
'He was in his thirties, the girl can't have been more than five or six.'
Jenny shrugged. It didn't sound like anyone she knew.
Steve said, 'Maybe they'd got the wrong place. You'll call?'
'I promise.'
Jenny spent what was left of the evening working, the only light in the house coming from her ancient desk lamp. It was nearly midnight and her eyes were smarting from staring at the computer screen when the return email from Father Starr arrived. He had arranged for her to visit Craven the following afternoon and Craven's solicitors were forwarding their files to her office. Her diary was already full, but Starr's tone brooked no argument. She dithered, then replied that she would meet him at the reception desk. Frustrated with herself for being such a pushover, she slammed her laptop closed and switched off the lamp. Feeling her way into the tar-black hall, she fumbled for the light switch. The single bulb stuttered into life like a guttering candle. Starting up the foot-worn treads of the narrow staircase, she heard the sound of gentle rapping at the front door: the cautious knock of a small hand. She turned, startled, telling herself it was only the wind. It came again: four patient, evenly spaced taps.
She told herself it was nothing, a plant knocking against the porch, a restless bird nesting in the eaves. She listened to the reassuring silence for a long moment and resumed her climb. As she reached the landing, feet shuffled on the path outside the front door accompanied by whispered voices: a child's whimper, a man, patient and reassuring. Jenny stood frozen, her heart pounding in her ears, waiting for the next tap, willing it to be real people outside, but they faded away. She waited for the squeak of the gate, for the turn of an engine, but nothing came.
She tiptoed softly across the creaking boards and fetched her sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet. She shook one out, then made it three.
Telhurst Prison was set anonymously outside a small hamlet on the southern plain of the Severn estuary. Surrounded by wheat fields, there was nothing to indicate its presence except a discreet sign directing visiting traffic from the main road down the narrow lane leading to its front entrance. Shielded from the surrounding countryside by a screen of poplars, it occupied a site the size of several football pitches.
The main building was of modern construction, red brick with tiny windows like the arrow slits in the walls of a medieval castle. The