The Night She Dies, page 11
‘She’s already petrified of you. I can’t see anything being important enough for her to risk coming out for.’
‘She’ll come,’ Amber says, staring at her phone. ‘And she’ll have the bottle of vodka I’ve told her to bring. And that’s all you need to know for now.’
Jess bites her lip. But it’s always been this way, she reminds herself: Amber putting herself in charge. Treating Jess like a toy she can play with. It’s too late to kick up a fuss now. ‘What about Caden?’ she asks. When she met her sister at the bus stop on Wednesday night to walk back home, Amber couldn’t stop talking about him.
‘I don’t know. I’m kind of getting the ick.’
Jess feels a sudden spasm in her chest. She rolls back over her bed frame, looks down. ‘I thought you were totally into him?’
‘He’s too needy. Keeps going on about how beautiful I am and stuff. He reckons he’s going to try and gate-crash that party with some mates. If I see him, I might finish it. I don’t think Sean liked him either.’
Jess stares at Amber. Why does someone so heartless get Charli D’Amelio looks? It’s obvious now that her thing with Caden was just about making Sean jealous. Jess wonders again what Sean’s power is, why Amber is so enthralled by him. She wishes it was something romantic like chemistry, but deep down she knows it’s more depressing than that. That it’s because he’s dangerous.
A buzzing noise interrupts her thoughts. Then the sound of Amber typing.
‘What are you saying?’ Jess asks. ‘Is she going to meet you?’
‘Shit, she’s calling me,’ Amber says. ‘She must be crapping herself.’
Jess wonders again what Amber has of Lucy’s, but she doesn’t ask. She’s done with being patronised by her sister. Instead, she listens to Amber’s one-word answers. ‘So?’ she asks when Amber finishes the call.
‘We’re meeting her at ten,’ Amber says. ‘On the track that goes up to the Ridgeway. By the double gates next to the railway line.’ She unfolds from the bottom bunk and walks over to the mirror. ‘Better put some make-up on. This is stacking up to be an interesting night.’
‘What do you mean I can’t go out?!’ Jess squeals. ‘It’s Friday. We’ve got youth club!’
‘Yes, I know,’ Molly says, trying to pretend she feels bad about it. ‘But you’re grounded, remember? For trying to steal that bottle of wine from Mr and Mrs Gilbey.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Anger flares in Jess’s belly. Amber might get to treat her like shit, but Molly doesn’t. ‘I didn’t steal the fucking wine!’
‘Right, that’s enough,’ Bill says, taking a step forward, protecting his wife like he thinks he’d stand a chance. ‘You don’t speak to Molly like that. I want you to go to your room until you’ve calmed down.’
‘No,’ Jess spits out. ‘I’m going out.’ She folds her arms, glares at him. If he touches her now, she will swing for him, show Amber that she can be tough too. But it’s her sister’s hand that rests on her forearm.
‘She’s really sorry,’ Amber says, taking a micro step forward, the honey voice back. ‘But Jess was never going to steal that bottle. I dared her to grab it, just to see if she could. We were always going to put it back. But then the old man from your church saw her, and got the wrong impression, and, well, you know the rest.’
Jess looks at her sister. How can she be like this? Horrible one minute, then having Jess’s back the next? Indecision hovers on Molly’s face. Jess wills the old lady to relent.
‘It’s good of you to stand up for your sister, Amber,’ Bill says, stepping in again. ‘And I can see how that situation might have occurred. But there’s no excuse for swearing at Molly. And you girls need to learn that if we dish out a punishment, we follow through with it. It’s just one Friday night, Jess. You can watch TV with Molly and me or hang out in your room.’
Jess and Amber share a look. But for the first time, Jess can’t decipher her sister’s silent message. Does she want Jess to sneak out? She’s done it before. Or is this the night that Amber stops needing Jess’s help with her plans? Has Jess blindly become such dead weight that Amber doesn’t want to be dragged down anymore?
Either way, she needs to lower the temperature in the room. ‘Okay, fine,’ she manages. ‘And, um, sorry for swearing at you, Molly.’
‘That’s okay, love.’ Molly gives her a relieved smile.
‘Will you stay in with your sister, Amber?’
‘I would, but I promised Ellen that I’d braid her hair at youth club,’ Amber lies. ‘And we’re making up sweet bags for the fun day on Monday, I think.’
‘Of course, love. That will be fun.’ Molly looks at her watch. ‘My goodness, it’s coming up eight o’clock. You better be going.’
‘Thanks, Molly. I’ll text you when I’m back, but I’ve got my keys, so don’t wait up. See ya, Jess.’ Amber winks at Jess – somewhere between conspiratorial and triumphant – then waltzes out of the back door.
‘Want to watch Gardener’s World with us, Jess?’
‘No. Thanks,’ she adds. ‘I’m really tired actually, I might get an early night.’ Jess manages a half-smile, then walks up the stairs. She drops onto Amber’s bunk. Should she stay at home? Let Amber do to Lucy whatever it is that’s going to impress Sean?
Or should she shove pillows under the duvet and sneak out?
And would it be to help Amber, or to stop her doing something stupid?
AFTER
Wednesday 8th May
Rachel
Shit, shit, shit, shit. Lucy must have met Amber on Friday night. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise – her sneaking out without telling anyone, swiping the bottle of vodka from our drinks cabinet, two things she’s never done before. And possibly being caught on camera on Keens Lane. But she can’t have killed Amber. Lucy is a sweet, kind, well-adjusted 15-year-old girl, for fuck’s sake. Statistically speaking, there must be more chance of her winning the lottery than committing murder.
Jeez, where did the lottery analogy come from?
I shake my head, grip the steering wheel more tightly. The muscles in my hands ache with the effort, but I don’t ease off.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Lucy asks meekly.
‘What do you think?!’ I can’t help raising my voice, even though she’s the one who’s been through the stress of DC Bzowski’s questioning. I do stop myself from making eye contact though. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings, and one quick check in the rear-view mirror reveals how much I’m seething. ‘You met Amber on Friday night,’ I say, staring at the grey asphalt flying towards me through the windscreen, not willing to pose it as a question. ‘Did you not think to tell me that part before we walked into the police station?’
‘Mum, please.’ Her voice cracks and I can tell without looking that she’s crying. And with that realisation, my anger evaporates. Motherhood has always been like this for me. Swerving emotions, moments of fury that vanish in an instant. The heavy weight of love.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and allow myself a glance in Lucy’s direction. It will take me about half an hour to drive to school, and I’m grateful for the time. Lucy’s eyes are red-rimmed, and her chest is convulsing with swallowed sobs, but I can’t give her the space to recover yet. Not until I’ve found out exactly what happened on Friday night. ‘But can you please just tell me the truth?’
Lucy sniffs. ‘I did agree to meet Amber,’ she admits. ‘And I stole your vodka because she demanded a bottle.’
‘But why would you do that?’ I ask.
‘She took something out of my schoolbag,’ Lucy whispers. ‘I didn’t realise at first – I was too stressed about my sports bag. But when she texted, I checked, and it was gone. I needed it back.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t want to tell you,’ Lucy says dully.
‘A girl is dead, Lucy! The same girl who stole whatever it was you were so desperate to get back.’
‘It was a letter, okay?’ Lucy cuts in, suddenly exasperated. ‘From Bronwen. It was …’ She trails off, and we sit in silence for a few seconds until she finds the words. ‘It was for my eyes only.’
I want to ask exactly what Bronwen had written, but that would make me as bad as Amber, so I let it go. Silence settles between us for a while, but as we pass the signpost for Notley Abbey – a medieval building once owned by Laurence Olivier – I realise that time is running out. I think about the bottle of vodka, how it was broken, but still in Lucy’s possession when I found her. ‘And did you get the letter back?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she says mournfully. ‘I was supposed to meet Amber on the old railway line, by the gates we go through when we’re running. But I fell over on my way up there, I was so nervous, and I dropped the bag. The bottle of vodka smashed on the pavement. I figured Amber would never give me the letter without anything to exchange, so I didn’t go and meet her. I went to the church instead.’ She scoffs. ‘I decided praying was all I had left.’
I think back to finding Lucy folded up in the church porch. I want to believe her, but the detective’s final words repeat in my head. ‘If you didn’t meet her,’ I ask, ‘how come Amber had vodka on her clothes?’
I sense Lucy chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘I don’t know, Mum. Honestly. But I guess she got it from someone else. Teenagers drink vodka like your friends neck Prosecco.’
She’s right. It’s crazy that kids cut their teeth on forty per cent proof alcohol, but I know vodka has always been Milla’s staple drink. Then another thought hits me. If Lucy didn’t get the letter back, does that mean Amber had it in her possession when she died? And if so, why didn’t DC Bzowski mention it? Is she waiting for Lucy to incriminate herself? Unless Amber didn’t have it on her. She could have been lying about giving the letter back just to entice Lucy out. Does that mean it’s in her bedroom? Will the police search there?
My head is so full that I almost miss the turn-off for Lord Frederick’s, but luckily my muscle memory kicks in, and I swing into the car park just in time. ‘Will you be okay?’ I ask when Lucy doesn’t move. But then she dabs her lower eyelids, and picks up her bag with a small grimace.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, pushing open the car door. ‘At least I don’t have to hide from anyone anymore.’
I nod, force a smile, then watch her walk towards the school reception. But her newfound freedom isn’t something I can celebrate.
Matt is hovering in the kitchen when I get home. He’s flying to Geneva this afternoon, a short trip to the Lionheart school there, and I was secretly hoping he’d have already left. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Lucy’s blog last night, and now there are even more revelations. But I know I would have waited for him if our roles were reversed, so I suppose I can’t blame him.
‘Well?’ he asks.
I flip down the kettle switch and listen to it groan into life. Then I take a long breath and tell Matt everything. Lucy’s blog, her text exchange with Amber, Bronwen’s letter, and the aborted rendezvous.
‘Wow,’ he mumbles. He picks the dishcloth out of the sink and runs it along the oak countertop. His expression is so vacant that I wonder if he even realises he’s doing it. ‘But DC Bzowski seemed satisfied with Lucy’s answers?’ he finally asks. ‘If Lucy didn’t meet up with Amber, and the police believe that she didn’t, then things are okay, yes?’ He folds the cloth and places it back in the bowl.
‘But what if they decide that it is Lucy on the CCTV?’
‘Then she says she got confused about the timing because she’d left her phone at home. None of the kids wear watches these days, so it’s perfectly plausible.’
‘And if they’ve found Bronwen’s letter on Amber and haven’t mentioned it yet? I think Bronwen might be Lucy’s one follower on that blog,’ I continue. ‘The name looks like a Welsh word, and Lucy’s username is @ForBron. Which means she’ll know what Amber and Jess have been doing to Lucy. What if she refers to it in her letter? Or even encourages Lucy to fight back?’
‘Come on, Rachel. You’re not thinking straight. Bronwen is as unlikely to suggest anything violent as Lucy is to carry it out. If the detective didn’t mention the letter, it probably means they haven’t found it.’
‘So where is it?’
Matt runs his palm from his forehead to the back of his neck. ‘Maybe Amber threw it away. Or perhaps she never had it. And sorry to say it, but there’s always the chance an animal took it from her corpse overnight. What’s most important is that we don’t worry about something that isn’t yet a problem.’
I know he’s right, and it’s good to hear him say it. I manage a half-smile. ‘Why do you think Lucy didn’t tell us?’
‘About her text conversation with Amber?’
‘Yes. And going out to meet her. And the blog. It’s almost like she feels guilty about something.’
Matt’s eyes narrow. ‘Something like murder you mean?’
‘No, of course not.’
But Matt doesn’t let me off the hook. ‘On Saturday morning you as good as accused Milla of killing Amber, and what, now it’s Lucy’s turn? Just think about what you’re saying. That our wonderful daughter followed Amber onto the Ridgeway in the dead of night, then smashed her skull in with some makeshift weapon she happened to have on her person. Do you really think she’s capable of that?’
I look away. My legs buckle and I slide down the cupboards onto the floor. Matt stands over me with a rueful expression.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so graphic. I just wanted to make you see how crazy the idea is. Maybe Lucy had a motive, and yes, I suppose Milla had the opportunity. But that doesn’t mean anything without the means – which includes the mental capacity to take a life. And you know neither of our children have that.’
I look deep into his eyes. They’re so different to mine, dark and impenetrable, like Milla’s. I haven’t got the energy to speak, but I mouth ‘thank you’ and reach my arms out. He folds his own around me and pulls me up to standing. We stay like that for a while, me trying to infuse his unwavering belief in the innocence of our daughters, until he slowly disentangles himself.
‘I’m sorry I have to leave you with all this going on,’ he says, checking his watch and stepping away. He snaps up the long handle on his cabin bag.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We’ll be fine.’
He smiles. ‘I’ll be back on Friday, okay? Late morning. Tell the girls I love them.’ He gives me a quick kiss – perfunctory now he’s back in work mode – then heads outside. I follow him into the porch so that I can wave him off, and then watch his car disappear down our narrow drive.
As I turn to go back inside, I notice a plastic bag wedged up against the porch door frame. And when I look inside, I find four huge cooking apples. A gift from Mrs Jones next door – she must have dropped them off when Matt and I were talking. A rush of fear runs through me as I think back to our conversation, what she could have overheard. But I’m being paranoid. The walls of this old cottage are too thick for level voices to travel.
Our porch is the one place in the house – other than the girls’ bedrooms since the agreement was reached a couple of years ago – that Matt isn’t neurotic about keeping tidy. As a result, it’s a mess, with mud-caked wellies, tennis rackets, old flip-flops and other odds and sods cast around. I wonder if I should tidy it up as a gesture of goodwill. But as I pause to consider the task, I spot the torch on top of a box of old newspapers. Milla must have dumped it there when she got home in the early hours of Saturday morning. I roll my eyes, pick it up, and slide it under my arm carrying the apples. I walk through to the kitchen, and it’s only when I drop the bag on the worktop that I notice the stains on my jumper.
‘Great,’ I mutter under my breath. The torch handle is filthy. Milla must have dropped it in some mud when she fell asleep. With a sigh, I run it under the hot tap, and leave it on the drainer to dry.
AFTER
Wednesday 8th May
Rachel
I’m supposed to be working from home this afternoon, and I’ve got half a dozen reports to review, but I can’t concentrate. With a sigh, I lean back in my chair and flip down the laptop screen.
Maybe I need some fresh air.
Decision made, I pull on my trainers and head outside. The temperature is fresh, but the sun’s shining and there’s a sense of spring in the air. I suck it in. Amber’s death is a profound tragedy, and my heart goes out to her sister, who’s already suffered so much loss. But I have no reason to feel guilty. Because her death has nothing to do with my family.
By the time I reach The Crown, I’m warm and thirsty. We’ve been coming to this pub, off and on, for seventeen years, so I know most of the bar staff, and especially Steve and Jade who’ve been running the place for even longer than we’ve lived here. I push open the door and head to the bar. It’s relatively quiet – just a couple of tables filled with people I don’t recognise – and Steve comes straight over. ‘Hey, Rachel, don’t normally see you in here at lunchtime?’
I climb onto a bar stool. ‘Working from home today, fancied a change of scenery.’ I was planning to order a Coke, but now I’m sitting opposite the gleaming draught pumps, I hear myself order half a Moretti instead. I watch Steve pour the drink, then raise the glass to him when I take my first sip.
‘Terrible business, isn’t it,’ he says, nodding his head in the vague direction of the Ridgeway. ‘A murder in Chinnor. Hard to believe.’
‘Mmm,’ I murmur, taking another sip. I left home to get away from thinking about Amber Walsh, but I should have known better.
‘They’re journalists over there,’ Steve continues when I don’t bite, gesturing towards one of the tables where two men and a woman are hunched over empty coffee cups and oversized iPhones. ‘The Bucks Herald, the Oxford Mail and the Bucks Free Press,’ Steve lists, counting them off on his fingers. ‘Apparently a couple of the nationals were sniffing around at the weekend, but as soon as they heard that the victim was a foster kid dealing drugs, they lost interest. Like it’s not really news if someone like her gets killed.’
