16
All of this went through my mind as I rang Rita Monroe’s bell. The house was neat, tidy, respectable. Two storey with fresh net curtains. From her laundry days, I thought. The door opened. A tall, thin woman with steel-grey hair, tied in a severe bun. I guessed her age at seventy, but she was very well preserved. An almost unlined face. She retained traces of an impressive beauty. Dressed all in white, she could have been a ward matron. She asked,
“Yes?”
“Rita Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Jack Taylor…I.”
“Are you a guard?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
Led me into a sparse living room. Bare, except for the books, thousands of them, neatly lined in every conceivable place. She said,
“I like to read.”
“Me, too.”
Gave me an odd look, and I said,
“Guards do read.”
She glanced at my brown paper ba
