She closed her eyes.
‘He was so little,’ she burst out. ‘You could hurt him so easily. I’d already accused him of opening my letters. I loved him… I swear I’ve never loved anyone…’ Gradually her crying stopped.
‘So you gave him the keys? The whole bunch? That’s room keys, safe keys -‘
‘Keys to all desks and steel cupboards; to the front and rear doors of the building and the key to turn off the alarm in Chancery Registry.’
‘Lift keys?’
‘The lift wasn’t bolted by then… the grilles weren’t up… They did that the next weekend.’
‘How long did he have them for?’
‘Five minutes. Maybe less. It’s not long enough, is it?’ She had seized his arm beseeching him. ‘Say it’s not long enough.’
‘To take an impression? He could take fifty impressions if he knew what he was about.’
‘He’d need wax or plasticine or something: I asked. I looked it up.’
‘He’d have had it ready in his room,’ Turner said indifferently. ‘He lived on the ground floor. Don’t worry,’ he added gently. ‘He may just have been letting in the choir. Don’t let your imagination run away with you.’
She had stopped crying. Her voice calmed. She spoke with a sense of private recognition: ‘It wasn’t choir practice night. Choir practice is on Fridays. This was Thursday.’
‘You found out, did you? Asked the Chancery Guard?’
‘I knew already! I knew when I handed him the keys! I tell myself I didn’t, but I did. But I had to trust him. It was an act of giving. Don’t you see? An act of giving, an act of love. How can I expect a man to understand that?’
‘And after you’d given,’ Turner said, getting up, ‘he didn’t want you any more, did he?’
‘That’s like all men, isn’t it?’
‘Did he ring you Saturday?’
‘You know he didn’t.’ Her face was still buried in her forearm. He closed the notebook. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ever mention a woman to you; a Margaret Aickman? He was engaged to her. She knew Harry Praschko as well.’
‘No.’
‘No other woman?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever talk politics?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever give you any cause to suppose he was a person of strong left-wing leanings?’
‘No.’
‘Ever see him in the company of suspicious persons?’
‘No.’
‘Did he talk about his childhood? His uncle? An uncle who lived in Hampstead. A Communist who brought him up?’
‘No.’
‘Uncle Otto?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever mention Praschko? Well, did he? Did he ever mention Praschko, do you hear?’
‘He said Praschko was the only friend he’d ever had.’ She broke down again, and again he waited.
‘Did he mention Praschko’s politics?’
‘No.’
‘Did he say they were still friends?’
She shook her head.
‘Somebody had lunch with Harting last Thursday. The day before he left. At the Maternus. Was that you?’
‘I told you! I swear to you!’
‘Was it?’
‘No!’
‘He’s marked it down as you. It’s marked P. That’s how he wrote you down other times.’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Then it was Praschko, was it?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Because you had an affair with him! You told me half and not the rest! You were sleeping with him up to the day he left!’
‘It’s not true!’
‘Why did Bradfield protect him? He hated Leo’s guts; why did he look after him like that? Give him jobs? Keep him on the payroll?’
‘Please go,’ she said. ‘Please go. Never come back.’
‘Why?’
She sat up.
‘Get out,’ she said.
‘You had dinner with him Friday night. The night he left. You were sleeping with him and you won’t admit it!’
‘No!’
‘He asked you about the Green File! He made you get the despatch box for him!’
‘He didn’t! He didn’t! Get out!’
‘I want a cab.’
He waited while she telephoned. ‘Sofort,’ she said, ‘Sofort,’ come at once and take him away.
He was at the door.
‘What will you do when you find him?’ she asked with that slack voice that follows passion.
‘Not my business.’
‘Don’t you care?’
‘We never will find him, so what does it matter?’
‘Then why look for him?’