Page 93 of The Stranger in Room Six

Belinda

I find Mabel sitting by the French windows in the lounge.

She’s wearing a vivid turquoise jumper and sleek black slacks.

Her elegance sings out across the room. From a distance, I can see the young girl she’s been describing to me.

The girl who has been through so much. All I want to do is help her find Antonio and her child, but I know I have no choice.

If I want to save my loved ones, I need to find out more about the past.

‘Shall we go outside for a walk?’ I suggest.

She shakes her head. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’d rather go back to my room if you don’t mind.’

I’m not surprised. The music is hurting my head as well.

Everyone takes turns at choosing the radio channels in the community lounge.

It’s usually a mixture of sixties and present day.

But today it’s rap, chosen by a seventy-two-year-old resident called Dylan who claims to have once sung on Top of the Pops.

I wheel Mabel back to her room. Someone has opened the window, letting in a nice summer breeze. But the old feel the cold in their bones. ‘I’m freezing,’ says Mabel. ‘Can you shut it please?’

There’s a lovely vase of freesias on the table. ‘They’re from my brother Harry,’ says Mabel. ‘Well, he’s actually my half-brother. He’s a lovely man.’

‘I had wondered when you’d tell me more about him.’

‘Later,’ says Mabel. ‘It’s your turn.’

I’m aware that if I don’t get something to Mouse soon, she’ll run out of patience.

‘Mabel, have you ever heard of the BUF?’

I see her stiffen.

‘Of course. Why?’

‘Did you know anyone who was a member? I believe they were known as Blackshirts.’

I see a colour rising in her cheeks.

‘No. I didn’t.’

She’s obviously lying, but I’m not sure where to take it from here. It’s clear already that the police suspected her family of working with the BUF, but I need proof, names, conspirators. I have a feeling Mabel knows exactly what I’m after.

Then, as if someone has flicked a switch, her mood changes.

That earlier nervous demeanour is replaced by sparkling, mischievous eyes and she claps her hands, as if waiting for a performance to start.

‘Belinda, I’m no fool. I can see you’re not ready to tell me about Karen yet.

But I will respect that and ask instead that you tell me about the day you left prison.

Did you get into the car with Imran or not? ’