life might lead you to have doubts about your own.
I stuffed the papers back into the envelope, the envelope into my bag and the shoebox back into the cupboard. Then, casting one last torchbeam around the room, I turned off the other lights and went out. Above me reggae had turned to funk and the house was vibrating. I could probably have broken down her door with a sledgehammer and still not been caught. Back in my car I sat with the engine running, trying to pump some heat into my hands. Across the street a tall man in a grey raincoat and hat was walking in the direction of the house. He turned in through the gate and went up to the front door. He stopped for a second, then took out a key and opened it. The music sucked him inside. Poor guy. Maybe he was thinking about sleeping. I looked at my watch. It was 10.27 p.m. I had been in her flat for nearly an hour. Funny how time flies when youâre breaking the law. Back home I stuck the Degas postcard next to Miss Patrickâs blurred snapshot. I thought they made a good pair. I wished them both good night and went to bed. I was feeling good.
Sunday. And since there wasnât much I could do to earn my living I took the day off. Carolyn Hamilton had been missing since May. Another twenty-four hours wasnât going to make that much difference. I dedicated myself instead to the domestic: hearth, home and sibling duty. I spent the morning cleaning the grease off the cooker and after lunch I went to see Kate.
It was usually that way roundâme visiting herâbut then sisters are to be forgiven most things, especially two children under three and a husband who thinks heâs a newer man than he is. It was a bright freezing day. Islington sparkled, all spruce and upwardly mobile. There were new windowboxes on the two upper floors of the house, I noticed, as I stood with my finger on the doorbell. No doubt come spring there would be daffodils and tulips. Just as when we were kids. Like mother like daughter. If Kate was the chip off the old block I was the sawdust. Who knows, maybe Iâd only rebelled because sheâd conformed. The door, with its carefully restored Victorian glass, swung open to reveal Kate in a track suit, one arm full of chubby child. My first thought was how tired she looked, my second how lovely she still was, with her thick jet black hair in a long loose cut, and blue-black eyes, against a fair skin. The Irish side of the family. There had been a time when I minded that mine was the English legacy, all mouse-brown and freckles. As the younger it had taken me a while to get out from under her reflection and find my own sex appeal. But you canât really blame your own sister for a trick of the genes, and to her credit she had never used it against me. Maybe I had things she wanted, like eighteen months in hand and a natural mistrust of the world. She grinned and it momentarily chased away the shadows under her eyes. Inside, the baby, who still seemed far too young to be called Benjamin, was exercising his lungs.
âHannah. My God, when did yotââ
âA few dAnd you?ays ago. I tried to call you but you were always engaged.â
She made a face. âAmy. Sheâs obsessed with the telephone. Carries it around with her most of the day. Weâve bought her a toy one but she isnât fooled.â
Amy, in her arms, squirmed with pleasure at being the centre of the universe. âHi, Amy, how are you doing?â
âIâm bigger now,â she announced proudly. Obviously a lot of people had been telling her. âWanna see my toys?â
After the obligatory introduction to three dolls and a duck called Malcolm I settled myself in the kitchen, making coffee while Kate changed the baby, and fed Amy, who in turn fed the dog. Domestic bliss. Like living in a circus. I thought about the silence of my own apartment and the empty spaces that made up Carolyn Hamiltonâs. Single girls of slender means. At