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been taken away, he had gone there alone to look at the place and imagined how it had been, the body face-downwards, the arms flung out, the legs drawn up towards the red-brick wall. His kind, loving, ugly sister, nineteen years old . . .
    John found that he was squatting down, staring at the blackish stones as if he expected still to find there some signs of Cherry’s murder. There had been no signs even then. And in two of the intervening winters, before they built the weir, the river rose and water came up the Beckgate Steps as faras the half-way mark. He jumped up and ran down the steps to the river walk, swinging his bag full of books.
    After a few moments he was aware of relief. It had been right to do that, not to go on shunning the place. Going there and looking at it provided a kind of cleansing. Were there other areas in his life, his past, that would benefit from the same treatment? Jennifer, of course, he was going to have to look at all that and decide what he must do. Not give up, not take that defeatist line, but make up his mind how he was going to get her back.
    The boldness of this made him shiver as he walked along, though the sun was quite warm and there was scarcely a breath of wind. Her departure had been such a blow – like the physical stroke his father had had, only this was a stroke of the mind – coming as it did when he believed everything was working out for the two of them, just when he was really learning about love-making, when they were learning together how to please each other. John’s own thoughts embarrassed him and he would have shirked them but he forced himself to keep on the same tack. It was partly humiliation, he supposed, that had made him sink under the blow, feel that his life was ruined and there was no hope. All he ever did about it was go and stand outside her house and look and wait and wonder if he would catch a glimpse of her. He had never till now considered it might be possible to re-make his marriage. Instead he had looked for external consolation – not what most men would mean by that, some other woman, but in the mystery of cats’ green and the messages of a mini-Mafia.
    In the light of this, it was extraordinary to find the letter waiting for him on the doormat when he entered his house. The name and address were typewritten and it had come through the post. At first he thought it was an estimate from the builder he had asked to renew the guttering on the rear of the house and he did not open it until he had made himself a cup of tea and opened a can of ravioli for his supper.
    The letter was typewritten too. It started Dear John. He knew what a ‘Dear John’ letter was but there hadn’t been one waiting for him when she left. Face to face she had told him, she had been honest and brave. She had talked to himand told him everything. He began to read: ‘Dear John . . .’ and thought that this was the first letter she had ever written to him. They had been married for two years but she had never had occasion to write to him. That came only – ironically – when they were apart and their marriage apparently over.
    It hurt him that she had typed it, though he remembered her handwriting was more or less indecipherable. If he hadn’t seen letters of hers before at least he had seen notes to tradesmen.
    Dear John,
    I don’t know if you will be surprised to get a letter from me. I saw you outside this house back in January and, incidentally, Peter saw you too. It would have been civilized to invite you in, I know that, and we did discuss it but by the time I came to the front door you had gone.
    John, I think we ought to meet and have a talk. I expect you hate me and think I treated you badly. You would feel more kindly towards me perhaps if you knew how terribly guilty I have felt all these months. It’s no use saying that I did warn you, I did say that if Peter ever came back and wanted me I would go to him.