My Name is Eva by Suzanne Goldring

Author:Suzanne Goldring [Goldring, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781786819680
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2019-09-10T18:30:00+00:00

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.

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