“I really do appreciate it.”
“I’m glad I did, because they can’t just hold you like that. They’ve got no evidence! Or, if they have, they’re not willing to show it.”
“Well, they might havesome.”
Margaret touched Carol’s shoulder. “Oh, Jesus. You did it, didn’t you, Carol?”
Carol laughed. There was something so charming about Margaret’s ditsy energy. Hard to believe that this woman had once been ultimately responsible for the prison service that had confined her for so long. “I didn’t. But while I was in there I managed to have a look at the…I suppose you’d call it a crime file? I took some pictures. Why don’t we go back to my place and we can go through it all together?”
Margaret stopped. “Oh dear.”
“What?”
“Carol, do you mind if I’m completely honest with you for a moment?”
“Please.”
“I’m a little scared to be alone with you, in your flat. Now, Catherine and Geoffrey, they seem convinced you did it. Geoffrey keeps talking about ‘hunches’ and ‘no coincidences,’ and Catherine says you may be our friend but we have to look at the situation objectively. I don’t know what I think. I’ve always beenagnostic about everything anyway. Never settle on a view. In politics, they used to call me wily but I think I’ve just always struggled to make up my mind.”
“I bet you were good at making speeches.”
“Was that a dig? It feels like a dig. I know I can talk too much. Am I talking too much?”
“No. Carry on, but maybe slow down a little.”
“Carol, I don’t know if you did it,” said Margaret deliberately. “But I do believe in innocent until proven guilty.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
“What time is it?” asked Margaret.
Carol looked at her watch. “Just after eleven.”
“Do you think the pubs are open yet?”
—
While Margaret boughttheir drinks, Carol sat at a table in the Flask and thought about how Hampstead provided an altogether different class of alcoholic. While the morning drinkers in the pubs of her South London youth read theRacing Postand theMirror, here they readTheTelegraph. On Walworth Road it was pints of lager or a double shot of Bell’s. In Hampstead village it was a strong cask ale or a large glass of Merlot. The wealth around here afforded one the scenic route to cirrhosis of the liver.
This was the first pub Carol had been into since leaving prison. An awful lot had changed. No smoking for a start, which didn’t feel right. Of the five senses, smell had always felt like the one you’d least like to have in a pub. The television in the corner played twenty-four-hour news. There were big round dark wood tables. No carpet, no fruit machines, no jukebox. On their tablewas a bottle of balsamic vinegar. How odd. She looked at the menu in front of her.
Broad bean, pea and dill fritters with whipped feta. £14
Skate, crab bisque, Cornish earlies and samphire. £22
Hereford onglet with burned salsa roja and soured cream. £56 (for two to share)
Yes, a lot had changed.
“They put about five cubes of ice in yours. Is that okay?”
Margaret placed her gin and tonic and Carol’s Bacardi and Coke on the table.
“Of course, thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind, I got us both doubles. I felt I needed it.”
“Perfect.” Carol took a sip. “Right. Shall we take a look?”
