“It’s only the third day of the case,” Jonah protested.
“But you’ve had some developments?”
“We have, but there’s nothing I’d be happy giving to the press.”
Wilkinson let out a huff of air. “Fair enough.”
Jonah could tell that he was disappointed, but he’d known Jonah long enough to trust him. “I do have a few things to pass on, though.”
“Tell me,” Wilkinson said, and pulled up the chair opposite Jonah’s desk.
So Jonah summarized for him the poor investigative work into Mackenzie, and the teacher’s strange attitude toward Aurora. And then he went on to tell him about Connor, and the fact that he was now the most likely suspect in Jonah’s eyes.
“I want to look hard at everything related to him,” Jonah finished. “I’d particularly like to know whether he was brought in so many times because something just didn’t quite ring true, or whether it was pure bigotry.”
Wilkinson was pulling at his lip thoughtfully. “I can see the need to look into him. But we need to make Mackenzie our prime suspect.”
“Don’t you think there’s a lot more pointing at Connor Dooley?” Jonah protested.
“That isn’t clear yet,” the DCS said. “Mackenzie has gone almost uninvestigated.”
“He seems to have no knowledge of the place her body was hidden.”
“How do we know that for certain until we look into the man’s movements?” Wilkinson countered. “I know, I know. We don’t want to ignore a potential lead toward Connor Dooley. So have one of the team keep looking at him. The rest can focus on Mackenzie. We’ve got to do it right this time,” he added more quietly. “If corruption occurred thirty years ago, we need to be absolutely squeaky clean now.”
Jonah felt a dull sense of resignation settle over him. He knew the chief was right, however much it seemed like the wrong course of action.
“All right,” he said. “As you say.”
Wilkinson rose, and then offered, as a form of amelioration, “I’ll give your apologies at the Community Cohesion meeting.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jonah said, trying to pretend he hadn’t forgotten all about it.
24
Aurora
Saturday, July 23, 1983, 1:00 A.M.
She couldn’t think about anything except the vomit. Everything had been reduced to the heaving of her stomach and the opening of her throat as it poured out of her.
She was sitting with her head and body turned sideways, one hand instinctively pulling her hair out of the way.
Part of her was afraid of the sickness. Of having damaged herself somehow by drinking.
“Hey.”
There was suddenly an arm round her. A gentle rub at her arm. But she was unable to look up and see who it was. Her body was fully involved in being twisted and bent double, retching and retching what looked increasingly like water.
“Let me get you some orange juice.”
It was Benners, she realized. She didn’t want him to leave her, even to go and get something that might help. She was too afraid. Too miserable.
But the retching eased up a little, and she was able to nod. She didn’t want him thinking she was pathetic, either.
She finally felt like she was ready to stop just before he came back. She looked up and saw a warped version of him through eyes that didn’t seem to want to stay focused. She could still read the sympathetic smile as he settled himself next to her and tore open the carton.
“Here you go.”
It was difficult to drink it from the ragged spout. It ran out of her mouth and down her chin in a tepid rush.
She stopped drinking to wipe her chin. “God. I must look awful.”
Benners laughed. “Nobody looks great like that. But it’s all right. I’m not judging you.” He lifted the carton again. Her hand followed it, slack and uncoordinated. “Come on. Have some more. You need to get something else into your system.”
She tried again, and got a thin stream into her mouth. A mouthful. Another.
And then the nausea rose back up, and she turned to the side again and released the juice in a rush.
Benners let her puke, rubbing her shoulder again and making soothing noises. Some of her hair swung forward and he caught it for her.
“It’s miserable, isn’t it?” he said. “But you’re doing fine. I still end up like this every few months. I think I’m on top of it, and then I have a few and I get cocky. Alcohol does that. It’s like its method of reproduction. Once it gets you, it whispers in your ear and tells you to keep on going.”
Once she was done, he lifted the carton again. “It’ll stay down soon. And you need the water and the sugar.”
She didn’t want to drink, but she took it to please him. She drank a lot more this time and immediately felt better for it.
“I shouldn’t have drunk anything,” she said, after she was certain it was staying down.
“That’s not true,” Benners argued. “You can’t go around avoiding doing everything in case this kind of thing happens. This is a moment or two of life. A few minutes of misery, and then usually a pretty rancid hangover the next day. But this—this suffering, right now—is what makes the liberation and the joy you felt earlier sweet. How can you enjoy pure bliss without suffering for it?”
She still couldn’t see his face properly. He seemed to be sliding sideways.
“But how can you call it bliss when you know this is coming?” she asked him. “When you have a moment of joy, and then this lands on you?”
“Because that’s what makes it bliss,” he said. He leaned close to her, making his point so earnestly that it was hard to disagree. “If it wasn’t temporary, then it would just be normal, wouldn’t it? Normality. And then it would become immediately boring. Disappointing. Nothing.”
She was suddenly afraid that she smelled of vomit. She leaned away from him.
“Sorry. I’m browbeating you.” He grinned at her.
“No,” she said. “You’re right. I just…I saw Zofia like this a few times, and I decided I was never going to do that.”
“Zofia…The blond one? Who used to get the bus sometimes?”
Aurora nodded. “Her parents took her away. She’d got friendly with some of the sixth-form girls who were really into drink, and ended up in hospital after a party. They decided the school was bad for her.”