Silent Voices

night about all sorts. But the antibiotics seem to be starting to work this morning.’
    ‘What sort of hallucinations?’ Might be the temperature, Vera thought. But it could be guilt or fear. Nothing like guilt to bring on nightmares.
    ‘Oh, you know, monsters and devils. The usual stuff.’ And the sister had laughed. She’d seen it all before.
    Mattie seemed to be dozing now. Vera called her name and she opened her eyes, blinked, confused.
    ‘Where’s Sal?’
    ‘She the prison officer?’
    Mattie nodded her head.
    ‘Gone to get a fag. I just need a few words. My name’s Vera Stanhope.’
    ‘You a doctor?’ She had a little-girl voice too. You’d never think she was old enough to have had a child at school.
    Vera laughed. ‘Nah, pet. I’m the fuzz.’
    Mattie closed her eyes again, as if she just wanted to shut Vera out, as if she preferred her dreams of monsters and devils.
    ‘I’m not here to cause bother,’ Vera said. ‘Just for some information, for a bit of a talk. I think you can help me.’
    Mattie looked at her. ‘I told the police everything the first time.’
    ‘I know you did.’ Vera paused. ‘Have you seen the news lately?’ There was a television on a stand on the wall, but it was coin-operated, the NHS making money where it could.
    Mattie followed her gaze. ‘Sal got it to work for me. She used her own cash. But we haven’t watched the news.’
    Of course, Vera thought. Mattie would like the kids’ cartoons, and for Sal it’d be Britain’s Next Top Model and Wife Swap .
    ‘Jenny Lister is dead,’ Vera said. ‘You remember Jenny?’
    Mattie nodded. Her eyes seemed very big. ‘She came to visit me in prison.’ A tear rolled down her face. ‘What happened?’
    ‘She was murdered.’
    ‘Why are you here?’ Mattie seemed wide awake now, even tried to sit herself up a bit. ‘That had nothing to do with me.’
    ‘You knew her,’ Vera said. ‘I’m talking to the people who knew her. That’s all.’
    ‘You can’t blame me.’ Now the words were hysterical and so loud that Vera was worried they’d attract attention from the nurses’ station. ‘I was locked up. I couldn’t get out if I’d wanted to.’ And Vera saw that she probably wouldn’t want to. She would feel safe in prison, segregated probably on a wing for vulnerable offenders, comforted by kind prison officers like Sal and by the daily routine of education and meals. Besides, it seemed Mattie didn’t even know the date of Jenny’s death. She’d been in hospital, not in prison, when it had happened.
    ‘No one’s blaming you,’ Vera said. ‘I need your help. That’s why I’m here.’
    Mattie looked confused. The idea that someone might need her was obviously alien. She’d always been the needy one.
    ‘I liked Jenny. I wish she wasn’t dead.’ A pause followed by another wail, an outburst of self-pity. ‘I’ll miss her. Who’ll come to visit me now?’
    ‘When did you last see her?’
    ‘Last Thursday.’ The answer came quickly.
    ‘You’re sure?’ Vera had expected some vague date in the past.
    ‘She always came on Thursday.’
    ‘Every week?’ Vera was astounded. For a busy woman, this was surely above and beyond the call of duty.
    ‘Thursday. Afternoon visits.’
    ‘What did you talk about on Thursday afternoon when she came to visit?’ Vera thought it couldn’t have been much of a conversation. Whatever had dragged Jenny to Durham jail every week, it hadn’t been the scintillating chat. Was it guilt? Had the social worker blamed herself for the death of the boy and Mattie’s imprisonment?
    ‘The same stuff as usual,’ Mattie said.
    ‘And what was that?’ Vera found her sympathy was running out. She felt like shaking the lass, telling her to sharpen up her act, that Vera had a murderer to catch. Next time, she thought, she’d send Joe Ashworth to interview Mattie Jones. Vera had managed to toughen him up a bit over the years, but he was still a soppy bugger.
    ‘About me,’ Mattie said with a touch of pride. ‘About my childhood and that.’
    ‘A sort of therapy session?’ Vera wondered what had been the point of that. This woman was locked up. She wasn’t going to murder anyone else in the near future. Why hadn’t Jenny Lister saved whatever skill she had in poking around in other folk’s brains for the clients who needed her?
    Mattie looked puzzled. The concept of therapy had passed her by. ‘It was for her book,’ she said.
    ‘What book?’
    ‘Mrs Lister