and a shape to: around twelve, he would guess.
There must have been more. Two teams of five-a-side meant there must have been more. Were the ones he remembered some kind of nucleus of the group, or was his memory a sort of random affair at the moment, which might swell out and clarify later on? Lily Fitch had apparently mentioned an Eddie Armitage, who was dead. That could be a red herring: he could have been part of the group at some stage of its existence other than the summer of sixty-nine. In any case, at the moment the name rang no bells of any kind.
He realized suddenly that there was something in his memories of that second day that rang warning bellsâsomething that could have led up to the feelings of unease or foreboding that he was later to take home with him when his mother was recovered. Going through those memories he realized it was the mention of money, of there being other ways of getting it than demanding more pocket money. He had known footballers who had found interesting ways of making money, often involving Asian betting syndicates. He sensed behind Marjieâs loaded remark an allusion to a figure, a person, someone in the shadows yet connected to, or presumably known to, the group.
That afternoon Isabella rang him at Radio Leeds. There was a film on they all wanted to go and see, and they could easily get their homework done before they had to take the bus into town. Matt gave them permission to take the money from the stock in the scullery cupboard, which they knew about and were to use in emergencies. Then he leaned over and took down the Leeds telephone directory. Fitch, L., was at number 8, Lansdowne Rise.
His television duties were finished by seven oâclock. It was twenty past when he cruised slowly down Lansdowne Rise, looking for number 8. The little street, on the border of Bramley and Kirkstall, was a mixture of turn-of-the-century houses very like the one his auntie Hettie had lived in two streets down, and the between-the-wars ones that had been fitted in between them. It was the latter sort that Lily Fitch inhabitedâlower and more cramped-looking than the earlier ones. Smaller families meant more cramped houses. He got out and locked the car: he intended staying awhile. Then he slipped through the little gate and rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door was not holding a glass, but that looked to Matt to be her natural stance. The impression was enhanced by a whiff of juniper berries that a draft from the hallway wafted out onto the evening air. She had switched on no light, so Matt could not get a look at her face.
âYes?â
âMrs. Lily Fitch?â
âIf you like.â
âAh . . . My name is Matthew Harper, and Iâmââ
âWait a minute.â She switched on the outside light, though the sun had not yet gone down. She peered at him. âIâve just been watching you on the television.â
âThatâs right. Iâm the sports correspondent and general dogsbody for Radio Leeds and âLook North.ââ
âWell, I never! What can you want with me?â
There was no coyness in her words, though may be a desperate hope.
âIâm wondering if your maiden name was Marsden.â
An indefinable lookâwas it caution?âwafted over her face.
âYe-e-es.â
âI think we may have known each other many years ago.â
âOh?â
âI wonder if I could come in. Thereâs something Iâd very much like to talk to you about.â
There was a definite moment of hesitationâno reason why there shouldnât be, with a strange man asking admittance, even one who in a sense had just been in her living space by the wonder of television. The hesitation, though, was momentary and was succeeded by a decision. She stood aside and let him in. Matt thought it probably was the status generated by his television appearances, combined with his suggestion that they had
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