Under the Harrow: Read Online Free Page A

“I’ve had some complaints from the other guests,” says the manager of the inn. Behind her, the lamps are switched on in the hall. She wears a scarf of Black Watch tartan, and I want to tell her that I used to live in Scotland. My sister came to visit me there.
    “The noise is disturbing them.”
    “I’m sorry.” I have to lean on the door frame. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink today. Food is going to be a problem.
    “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” she says. “I’m so sorry. It’s been such a difficult time. First Callum and now your sister.”
    “Callum?”
    “The young man from town, killed in an accident on the Bristol Road. He was only twenty-seven.”
    I remember now. Rachel was one of his nurses. I consider sharing with the woman what Rachel told me about him, but decide against it.
     • • • 
    At five, a constable collects me and we drive to Abingdon. In the interview room, Moretti says, “We haven’t been able to find your father. Are you in touch with him?”
    “No.”
    “Was Rachel in touch with him?”
    “No.”
    The heating pipes click in the ceiling above us. Outside the night is heavy with clouds. It is already snowing in Lancashire and Cumbria. The detective hasn’t asked about our mother. He must already know that she died a long time ago, soon after I was born.
    “When did you last speak to your father?”
    “Three years ago.”
    “Does he have a history of violence?”
    “No,” I say, though I’m not sure that’s entirely true. “He’s also frail. Rachel was much stronger than him. Do you have to tell him about her?”
    “Yes.”
    They will have a hard time finding him. He stopped collecting benefits after becoming suspicious of the government. Rachel had a postcard from him a few months ago saying he was in Blackpool, which I decide not to tell the detective.
    “Have you spoken to Stephen yet?” I ask.
    “He was at his restaurant all day.”
    The news comes as a relief, and I feel disloyal for suspecting him. He adored her.
    Moretti says, “What type of vehicle does your father drive?”
    “He doesn’t drive anymore,” I say, and start to explain. He’s an alcoholic, though the word has always sounded too polished to describe him. Moretti must already know some of this. He has a record. Disorderly behavior, trespassing, burglary.
    A constable knocks on the door, and Moretti excuses himself. I look into the incident room. One of the detectives is eating chips from a packet of foil and paper, and the air smells of vinegar.
    I wish Fenno were with me, sitting on his haunches beside my chair. I want to rest my hand on his soft head. I gave him a bath on my last visit, cupping my hand over his eyes while rinsing the soap from his fur. When I wrapped him in a towel he leaned against me, and we stayed like that for a long time, the warm damp soaking through my shirt.
    When Moretti returns, he says, “What we need from you now is an account of anything unusual in Rachel’s routine. It could be as small as a change in her route to work. Any new friends, a new activity.”
    “I don’t know. She talked about joining a gym in Oxford so she could swim in the winter, but she hadn’t yet.”
    “Anything else? Any changes at the hospital?”
    “No.”
    “Did she enjoy her work?”
    “Yes, mostly.” She had a difficult time early in her career, when she was studying to become a nurse practitioner while already working as a registered nurse. She told me that she would bicycle home hoping someone would hit her so she could lie down. “She said it was demanding, but it satisfied her.”
    Moretti studies me, and I wonder if I am trying his patience. Soon our interview will end, and I will have to leave. I can’t imagine what I will do next.
    “Do you want something to drink?” he asks, and I nod. While he fixes us tea, I try to think of something to tell him, but I can’t remember any changes in her habits. I read the brochure from Victim