“If you think of anything else, you’ve got my card.”
“And if you find her, give her my number, I’d like to hear from her. I bet we’d get on just as well as ever.”
As she saw me out I realised Lisa had made no mention of the press attention that she’d alluded to on the phone. I felt it would be crass to ask her about it at that point. It wasn’t any of my business. My business was to trace Jennifer Pickering and I wasn’t exactly hot on the trail.
The journey home was straightforward. The towns and villages either side of the motorway were clusters of lights. The major roads defined by ribbons of light like strings of beads spilt across the black fields.
I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere fast talking to Jennifer’s old friends. OK I had established that she’d been pregnant but that brought me no nearer knowing how to contact her. I reckoned my best bet lay with anything that Keele University could tell me. I’d still go ahead and see the remaining people on my list, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them see if they could shed any more light on the mystery. She’d left home before the induction week at Keele, had she been to a clinic to have an abortion during that gap? Had she confided in any of her friends? Lisa claimed she and Jennifer were very close, if she’d not told Lisa would she have told Frances Delaney or Caroline Cunningham? Could there be any other reason for leaving home sooner than expected? I rolled my shoulders back, becoming stiff from the driving, noticed my hands were gripping the wheel a touch too tight for comfort, I made an effort to relax them. I pushed a tape into the cassette player, Ladies of Jazz, sang along to the smouldering lyrics, let the smoky voices lead me home.
The next morning was glorious. Sky like fresh paint, sun full of warmth. The sort of day for walking up hills, climbing on top of the world and marvelling. I made it to school, Tescos and the Health Food Shop in Withington. And spent most of the rest of it at the office connecting up with people who could tell me more about Jennifer Pickering circa 1976.
I got through to Caroline Cunningham who sounded to be lost in a heavy cold. I explained who I was, how I’d got her number and what I wanted to talk to her about.
“Honestly?” Her voice rose to a squeak.
“Yes, I’m talking to all her old friends and neighbours. Whereabouts are you?”
“Sheffield, are you coming from Manchester?” She began to cough.
