Moonscorn

Chapter Eight

Delia hadn't sat down in her chair, as Raven thought Cold would immediately suggest. Didn't they all? In every cop show in the world, when they turned up at the door, the line was 'I think you should sit down, miss.' Instead, she was talking Cold through the photographs on her mantlepiece.

"That's Taylor there, right at the back. Year 7 photograph. Just a few years ago now. You can see him there, trying to hide. He's always been camera shy. Even when he won at sports day. Good runner, is my Taylor. Very shy, though. Doesn't like to be in the centre of things."

Oh, if only you knew how much the centre of things he was, Raven thought. If only you knew.

He set the tray down on a coffee table and joined them at the mantelpiece. Dozens of photographs, mostly of Taylor. Lanky black curly hair covered most of his face. In the few where they'd pushed the shaggy mop away to see him, his eyes smiled with his face. Happy enough kid, if a little lonely.

The photograph on the end showed a young Taylor, only four or five years old, with his parents stood behind him. They were at a beauty point somewhere in the hills, probably the French Alps. A river wound its way through the canyon down below, and a few chocolate-box houses sat deep in the verdant slopes. They were smiling.

Delia saw him looking at it. She picked it up with reverent fingers and stroked the silver frame. "That's the last photo I have of all of them," she said softly. "Maybe it's the last one of them all together ever. They died, you know. Got back off their holiday, dropped Taylor off with me, and went to get groceries to stock the house up again. Drunk driver ran a red, smashed into the side of the car. They said it was instant. Probably for the best."

She looked deep into the photograph, spellbound like Narcissus at the pool. All images are illusions, a mere pretence of reality. Photographs and reflections are no different.

"Mrs Purse," Cold said quietly.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Delia's eyes never left the photograph, and her tone of voice was so flat, so matter-of-factly, that the question was rhetorical. She had known as soon as she'd opened her front door.

"Who is?" Cold asked.

"Taylor. He's always running off in the night. Not a delinquent, mind. Taylor's not that kind of boy. But he gets broody, you know. Always been like that. Guess it happens when you lose your parents so young. Been to counselling for mental health, I guess they call it now. Helped a bit, but he still went for his nighttime walks. I started locking the doors at night, nobody locks their doors around here at night, you know. No point. Nobody'd rob anyone here. And I locked them then because it was so dangerous, but he found ways out. Just wandered round, so he said." There was a tear at the corner of her eye but it wobbled and stayed there, refusing to drop down her cheek. It was as if, should it not hit the ground, reality wouldn't take hold. It was all a lie, in that grey area of possibility, until that first tear fell.

"Yes, Mrs Purse. I'm afraid that Taylor is dead."

Cold waited for Delia to break down, but the elderly lady was made of stern stuff. She looked at the photograph, then put it back on the mantlepiece square with its line of dust. "Was it quick? However... it happened?"

Cold nodded. "Yes, Mrs Purse. It was."

Raven went to side-eye Cold but held it. If Delia saw, the illusion would shatter.

"Would you like to call anyone? I understand you were his only relative."

Delia sighed long and deep. "I am. I mean, I was. I..." the illusion wavered, teetered on falling and smashing on the cold ground. "I guess I should." She looked over at the table. "Please, drink the tea. I'll go to the landline now."