the bed and looked inside. There were the wigs the neighbour had seen: the Dolly Parton; the black one-long and straight, designed to make her look ghoulish; and the dark red one. And this was the reason that little Jennifer Wilson was dead. For owning a black wig and, one gloomy day, modeling it as a joke for her neighbour, to cheer her up when she wasnât feeling well.
The sun, sulking behind some ineffectual clouds, had almost set before Lucas got back to his desk. His head ached, his hands were shaky, his stomach rebellious. Guilt and misery and total bafflement, that was why he felt this way. Guilt because it was his inefficiency that had caused a harmless girl to be killed, and guilt because his first reaction when he saw that silky blond hair and realized that the victim had not been
his
Jennifer Wilson was profound relief. After a momentâs consideration he added hunger. There had never seemed to be a moment in this day when going off to eat lunch had been even a slight possibility.
The interview with Mrs. Wilson had been acutely painful and completely useless. She was confused and baffled, unable to understand why anyone could want to harm her Jennifer. As he listened, a nagging voice in his head was muttering, No one did want to kill her; he wanted to kill an over-made-up, perfumed little whore, who for some reason borrowed your daughterâs name. For a horrified instant, he thought he had said the words aloud, but Mrs. Wilson had continued to stare helplessly at him, tears sliding down her cheeks unheeded, with no change in expression. It wasnât going to help the woman bear her grief to hear that Jenniferâs death was just a mistake. And perhaps it wasnât. There are, after all, many painfully familiar reasons for pretty, fragile-looking, harmless girls getting themselves killed. He had ventured to ask her if her Jennifer had known another Jennifer Wilson, a girl with black hair, and Mrs. Wilson had silently shaken her head. She had no time for such irrelevant questions, she seemed to be saying. Not now.
She had come to the conclusion, finally, that Jenniferâs death had been caused by a demented person, not responsible for his actions, and that, curiously enough, she did find comforting. Miserably, Rob Lucas agreed that this could very well be what had happened, and assuring her that they were doing everything in their power to find whoever it was, he fled from the scene.
He had sat in his car a block away from the Wilsonsâ house and thought. It was possible, of course, that the man in the green hat had had nothing to do with the Wilson girlâs death. He hadnât believed it when he first heard about him; he didnât believe it now, but he still had to behave as though the possibility existed. So now it was time to look at the boys in the band.
Kevin was tiresome. He bounced between playing the aggrieved juvenile, defensive and hostile, and the horrified adult, ready to string sex murderers from the highest tree. For just as Mrs. Wilson had clung to the notion that Jennifer had been the victim of a poor demented creature, Kevin clung to an image of sex-crazed pervert. He did, however, provide a rational explanation for the bandâs disappearance. This had been the first time that they had had a full week off since before Christmas, and they had spent three days in a borrowed chalet, skiing and eating and drinking and sleeping. And which of them, Lucas had asked, had been sleeping with Jennifer? None of them, Kevin swore. Not since Ryan left. She had said she would never mix work and sex again. And she hadnât. What had happened with Ryan had almost broken the group up just when they were getting somewhere. Rob filed that away for future reference and left Kevin to cope with his grief and how to find another girl singer.
The rest of the groupâSteve, Scott, and Bradâhad all been huddled together in Scottâs apartment, looking nervous, confused, and
The sun, sulking behind some ineffectual clouds, had almost set before Lucas got back to his desk. His head ached, his hands were shaky, his stomach rebellious. Guilt and misery and total bafflement, that was why he felt this way. Guilt because it was his inefficiency that had caused a harmless girl to be killed, and guilt because his first reaction when he saw that silky blond hair and realized that the victim had not been
his
Jennifer Wilson was profound relief. After a momentâs consideration he added hunger. There had never seemed to be a moment in this day when going off to eat lunch had been even a slight possibility.
The interview with Mrs. Wilson had been acutely painful and completely useless. She was confused and baffled, unable to understand why anyone could want to harm her Jennifer. As he listened, a nagging voice in his head was muttering, No one did want to kill her; he wanted to kill an over-made-up, perfumed little whore, who for some reason borrowed your daughterâs name. For a horrified instant, he thought he had said the words aloud, but Mrs. Wilson had continued to stare helplessly at him, tears sliding down her cheeks unheeded, with no change in expression. It wasnât going to help the woman bear her grief to hear that Jenniferâs death was just a mistake. And perhaps it wasnât. There are, after all, many painfully familiar reasons for pretty, fragile-looking, harmless girls getting themselves killed. He had ventured to ask her if her Jennifer had known another Jennifer Wilson, a girl with black hair, and Mrs. Wilson had silently shaken her head. She had no time for such irrelevant questions, she seemed to be saying. Not now.
She had come to the conclusion, finally, that Jenniferâs death had been caused by a demented person, not responsible for his actions, and that, curiously enough, she did find comforting. Miserably, Rob Lucas agreed that this could very well be what had happened, and assuring her that they were doing everything in their power to find whoever it was, he fled from the scene.
He had sat in his car a block away from the Wilsonsâ house and thought. It was possible, of course, that the man in the green hat had had nothing to do with the Wilson girlâs death. He hadnât believed it when he first heard about him; he didnât believe it now, but he still had to behave as though the possibility existed. So now it was time to look at the boys in the band.
Kevin was tiresome. He bounced between playing the aggrieved juvenile, defensive and hostile, and the horrified adult, ready to string sex murderers from the highest tree. For just as Mrs. Wilson had clung to the notion that Jennifer had been the victim of a poor demented creature, Kevin clung to an image of sex-crazed pervert. He did, however, provide a rational explanation for the bandâs disappearance. This had been the first time that they had had a full week off since before Christmas, and they had spent three days in a borrowed chalet, skiing and eating and drinking and sleeping. And which of them, Lucas had asked, had been sleeping with Jennifer? None of them, Kevin swore. Not since Ryan left. She had said she would never mix work and sex again. And she hadnât. What had happened with Ryan had almost broken the group up just when they were getting somewhere. Rob filed that away for future reference and left Kevin to cope with his grief and how to find another girl singer.
The rest of the groupâSteve, Scott, and Bradâhad all been huddled together in Scottâs apartment, looking nervous, confused, and
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