The second time he visited the grave it was late afternoon and he was in a more obviously dishevelled state. His black trousers were creased and his red shirt wasn’t buttoned properly. No use had been made of a hairbrush or razor that morning. He gave every impression he’d been drinking all day, which he had – virtually a whole bottle of Gordons, consumed propped at the bar of The Major Dibley public house.
“I went to her grave the other day.”
When he spoke, his words came out admirably clear. They were forced between gritted teeth, but there was no slurring.
“At least that field I think contains her grave. All those hints you gave, all those little clues. God, you were clever. Too clever for me to use any of them for the police. Far too clever for that. They were just for me, weren’t they? Just to fucking torture me and twist me around and break me down. They were for me and they were for her. To torture her all over again!”
He spat to the ground, and swayed as if knocked to his heels by the breeze.
“I bet you fucking tortured her, didn’t you?” he growled. “I bet you fucking did! That’s just the kind of thing a sick bastard like you would do. You tortured her before she died, and then you tortured her family by not giving her a grave. You worthless fuck! I can’t believe people wept at your death. I can’t believe people came here to mourn you. She isn’t officially dead and there’s nowhere to mourn her, you bastard!”