The Night She Dies, page 9
She slips through the gate, swipes the wine, and is back on the pavement in seconds. It’s even a screw top. She smiles in triumph and turns back towards the park – the swing much more inviting now she’s got something age-appropriate to do on it.
‘You little toerag, I saw you pinch that bottle!’
Jess sighs, louder on the inside. Of course someone would see her. She’s the unluckiest person alive. She turns around, faces the bearded man in an army-green fleece gilet with his finger pointed at her. Wonders fleetingly if she should crack the bottle over his wrinkly head. ‘No, I didn’t.’ Because denial is always the best option. ‘You’re seeing things, Grandad. This is my bottle.’
‘You stop with Bill and Molly, don’t you?’ he says, narrowing his eyes and ignoring her claims of innocence. ‘I thought I recognised you. They are the salt of the earth, those two, and this is how you thank them?’
Suddenly she’s tired. Exhausted. ‘Oh, take your fucking wine,’ she says, thrusting the bottle into the old man’s hand. ‘Sounds like you’re more in need of getting loose than I am.’ Then she stalks off, towards Mill Lane, and another dead end.
AFTER
Tuesday 7th May
Rachel
‘Rachel?’
At the sound of my name, I snap back into focus. But I didn’t hear what came before it, so I have no idea what my manager – Hugh – is asking me. I was hoping a change of scene would take my mind off Amber Walsh, but even in this magnolia-walled open-plan office, her image is everywhere. Alive, and dead. Luckily Hugh scratches his greying beard and tries again. ‘I was just asking if you’re sure you’re going to be okay this week?’ His voice is deep, but gentle. ‘After the incident on Saturday?’
If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have told Hugh about finding Amber. I just want to put it behind me and get back to normal life. But with the job I do – making decisions that will affect society’s most vulnerable children – it would be unprofessional not to make my team aware. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It was a shock, and very sad, but it’s not like I’ve lost someone I know. The victim went to my daughters’ school, but she wasn’t in either of their years.’ I haven’t told anyone at work about Lucy being bullied – it’s always felt a bit too close to home – and I’m grateful for that now.
‘Such a tragedy,’ Elaine murmurs, shaking her head. ‘And so awful for you.’ Her sympathy makes me want to cry. Elaine is my job double – we divvy up cases based entirely on workload – but she’s so much wiser than me, and I’m always discussing my more nuanced cases with her. She gives inspired advice, and I wish I could confide in her now. Tell her everything – and ask why I feel guilty when no one in my family has done anything wrong. But that feels disloyal somehow, to my girls, so I just smile my gratitude and mouth thank you.
‘Is it right that she’s one of ours?’ Victoria asks, the newest member of the team, and only recently out of university. She’s impossibly glamorous, and I wonder why she makes so much effort for a team meeting when the rest of us are dressed in cheap suits from Next.
‘Yes and no,’ I say. ‘Amber Walsh was a looked-after child, so she was with the foster team upstairs.’
‘Who’s her assigned social worker?’ Elaine asks gently. ‘Do you want to introduce yourself? I’m happy to come with you for moral support?’
I shake my head, push my lips together. I don’t trust myself to speak.
‘Of course,’ Elaine murmurs, clocking my distress in an instant. ‘There’s no need for you to do that. I’m sure he or she will have their hands full with the police today anyway.’
‘And I’ve got a no-names consultation this morning,’ I add, still feeling like I need to explain my reluctance to Elaine. ‘A teacher who’s got some concerns about a child in her class. She’s phoning at eleven, so I need to be on hand for that.’
Hugh looks at his watch. ‘It sounds like we should wrap this up, and I think we’ve covered everything,’ he says. ‘Thanks, everyone, my door is always open, et cetera, et cetera.’ He pushes out of his chair, picks up his pad of paper and a lever arch file, and leaves the meeting room. I watch him walk across to his office – the only one of us to have one – and pull the door closed behind him. I smile at the image, the first I’ve managed in days, then head over to my desk.
My office phone rings almost straight away. It’s only ten to eleven, but I don’t get many calls these days – replaced by fifty times as many emails – so I assume it’s the teacher, Miss Sampson. We had a short conversation last week, but I could tell she was struggling to open up. Teachers know their responsibility is always to the child, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy exposing parents’ shortcomings, stirring up a possible hornets’ nest. That’s why a no-names consultation is a good starting place – a chance for teachers to air their concerns without any repercussions – but they know that anonymity can’t be protected forever.
‘Good morning. This is Rachel Salter.’
‘Good morning, Ms Salter, this is DI Finnemore.’
My heart switches from a standing start to a gallop. I cover the mouthpiece and take a breath. But why am I reacting like this? Because I didn’t name the victim, when I wasn’t even sure who it was anyway? It’s not exactly a crime. At least I hope it isn’t.
‘I wanted to check how you are,’ he continues. ‘And see whether a family liaison officer has been in touch?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Someone called PC Yates.’ I deleted the email as soon as I saw it. I knew Matt wouldn’t like me getting support from the police.
‘That’s good.’ A short pause, then he continues. ‘You might have heard, on the news, that we’ve got an identification for the victim.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘You said you didn’t know her.’
There’s a mix of accusation and disappointment in his voice, but that’s not fair. I didn’t know Amber Walsh. ‘That’s right, I didn’t,’ I say, trying to inject some authority into my words. ‘But I knew her name when the news came out.’
‘Because of your daughter Lucy?’
I close my eyes. But Lucy’s bullying complaint was common knowledge among the senior leadership team at school; of course this connection was going to surface. It doesn’t mean she’s guilty of anything. ‘Yes, that’s right. Amber was bullying Lucy. The school was aware and the head teacher was dealing with it.’
‘I’ve just come off the phone with Ms Munroe. She said that you last spoke to her about the issue on Friday. Because there’d been an incident earlier in the day.’
I pause, starkly aware of the timing. ‘And in that meeting, Ms Munroe confirmed that she was going to speak to the girls’ social worker,’ I explain. ‘She thought that would do the job of stopping them.’
‘And how was Lucy?’ he asks. ‘After Friday’s incident? Ms Munroe gave me the details. I imagine she was very upset, angry too no doubt.’
I choose my words carefully. ‘It was distressing. But she was grateful that Ms Munroe was escalating things.’
He doesn’t respond immediately, and the silence is excruciating. ‘We’re talking to a few students from the school who knew Amber,’ he finally says. ‘And it would be helpful if we could have a chat with Lucy.’
‘Do you really need to?’ I blurt out before I can stop myself. If Lucy couldn’t make eye contact with people at the fair yesterday, I can’t see her coping with a police interview. ‘It’s just that Lucy is quite shy. The idea of talking to a police officer will petrify her. And it’s not like she knows anything about Amber’s life – in fact, she avoided her as much as was humanly possible.’
‘I understand,’ DI Finnemore starts carefully. ‘But this is a murder investigation, Ms Salter, which means we need to cast our net very broadly. I’m not suggesting Lucy is a suspect, but if we can talk to her, we might be able to get a better picture of who Amber was. See if she knows anything that might help. If you bring her to the station for nine tomorrow morning, you can stay with her throughout the interview, and we’ll have her back in school by ten.’
I close my eyes again. I wonder for a mad moment if I should get a lawyer. Would Drew Torrance come if I called him? Throughout it all – the anonymous witness, the CPS deciding they had enough evidence to charge – he always believed in Matt’s innocence. At least he said he did.
‘Of course it is entirely voluntary,’ DI Finnemore adds.
I flick open my eyelids. Lucy doesn’t need a lawyer. She’s done nothing wrong. ‘That’s fine,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll be there.’
AFTER
Tuesday 7th May
Rachel
‘I’m not going, Mum.’ Lucy shakes her head. ‘No way. You can’t make me.’ She drops onto the sofa, starts to pull her knees into her chest – a familiar position for her – then changes her mind and slides them away. ‘Please,’ she begs. ‘Tell them I’m sick or something.’
I drop into the opposite sofa. ‘I can see how talking to the police seems scary, but lots of kids from school are being asked. It’ll be a ten-minute chat, max. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.’
‘But what if they think I killed her?’
‘Oh, Lucy!’ I lean back against the sofa cushion. ‘You keep saying that, but why on earth would people suspect you? Yes, Amber bullied you. But you were doing something about it via the proper channels. Lucy, you are the kindest, most gentle girl I know. Totally incapable of any type of violence, let alone murder. And the police will realise that as soon as they talk to you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ There’s hope in her voice and I latch on to it.
‘I know so,’ I say in my most confident tone. ‘Just tell them the truth and it will be fine.’
‘Even about being out by myself on Friday night?’
I fall silent. I can’t believe I’m not reacting instantly, saying yes, of course, you’ve got nothing to hide. Is this because of what happened to Matt? Knowing that innocent people can be labelled guilty if the circumstances stack up against them? ‘I don’t think you need to mention it,’ I mumble, not managing to hold her gaze. Then I remember the girl who goaded Milla at the fair yesterday, what she knows. ‘And if they ask directly, just say that you went out for some fresh air at about quarter to eleven, then I found you about half an hour later, and we walked back home together. Just so that DI Finnemore knows for certain that you couldn’t have been on the Ridgeway.’
Her face drops. ‘But I was in the churchyard the whole time, I promise!’
‘Oh, I know.’ I reach for her hand, to reassure her, and realise that she’s shaking. The cuts on her fingers are still healing, and they feel ragged against my skin. ‘You must know that there isn’t one cell in my entire body that thinks you could have killed Amber Walsh,’ I say. But the words ignite a flame of guilt. Because I didn’t feel quite so certain about Milla at the weekend, before news of Amber’s drug dealing filtered through.
‘Will you come with me to talk to the detective?’ Lucy asks.
‘Of course.’
‘And step in if he asks any difficult questions?’
I want to ask what she means by that, what questions she’d consider difficult. But I don’t want to risk losing any ground I’ve made, so I just nod and smile instead. ‘Listen, dinner’s almost ready. I’ve made a green Thai curry.’ The Asian dish is Lucy’s favourite, and I’ve cooked it on purpose because she’s hardly eaten since the incident at school on Friday. Or since I found Amber’s body, it’s hard to tell what sparked her lack of appetite.
‘Amazing, thank you.’ She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and I ride a wave of sadness. Then I smile too – perhaps if we all pretend everything’s fine, it will become so – and I head back into the kitchen.
‘Nearly as good as it tasted in Bangkok,’ Matt decrees, taking another mouthful.
‘Ignore him,’ Milla cuts in. ‘It’s delish.’ She swirls her fork through the dish, mixing the curry sauce with the rice, then takes a large mouthful. Both of my children have a healthy relationship with food, and I’ve always been grateful for that. Except it doesn’t look that way anymore.
‘Are you not hungry, Lucy?’
Lucy looks up, startled, as though her mind was elsewhere. ‘What? Sorry. I guess I’m just a bit nervous about tomorrow.’
‘What’s tomorrow?’ Milla asks, shovelling another mouthful in.
‘Oh, DI Finnemore – that’s the detective who’s leading the investigation into Amber Walsh’s death – has asked me to take Lucy into the police station for a quick chat,’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Just because she knew Amber, and they’re trying to get a fuller picture of who she was.’
Milla puts down her fork. Her face suddenly drains of colour. ‘But Lucy hardly knew Amber – she stayed as far away from her as possible.’
‘I know, I did mention that.’
‘So what can she add to the investigation? I think you should tell him she can’t do it. Say she’s sick or something.’
I narrow my eyes, shift my gaze between my daughters, who seem to be purposely not looking at each other. Have they already talked about this? They can’t have discussed it face to face – Milla was upstairs until I called her down for supper – but Snapchat is their preferred form of communication these days. ‘I’ve already been over this with Lucy,’ I explain. ‘It’s just a chat. Lucy can explain that she never really knew Amber, and that will be it.’
‘But Amber was bullying Lucy. The police might think that gives Lucy motive to kill her. And you know what they’re like – once they decide someone’s guilty, they twist the evidence to prove it.’ Milla turns to Matt. ‘Don’t they, Dad?’
Matt’s smooth head has a new shine, a glean of sweat. ‘Milla, you can’t apply what happened to me to every police investigation.’ He sounds guarded, like he’s hiding whatever emotions are bubbling underneath. ‘I know you’re just looking out for your sister, but Lucy would appear more guilty if she didn’t go.’
‘But you were innocent,’ Milla throws back.
‘True. But for some unknown reason, there was a witness claiming I wasn’t. No one is going to say they saw Lucy killing Amber Walsh, are they?’
Milla stares at Matt but doesn’t answer straight away. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘No, of course not,’ she finally mutters. ‘I just don’t like that the evil little bitch is still causing her grief, even when she’s dead.’
‘Milla!’ I snap. Lucy is sitting opposite me. Her head is down, but I can hear her breathing become more ragged.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ Matt suggests, lining his cutlery up on his empty plate. ‘How was school today, Milla?’
‘It was fine.’
‘Care to expand on that?’
Milla lets out a loud sigh. ‘We had a talk about dealing with exam stress. It’s all about breathing apparently.’
‘And good preparation,’ Matt reminds her, still a teacher at heart.
‘Can I leave the table?’ Lucy asks, pushing to standing. ‘I’m not hungry and I’ve got loads of homework to do.’
I sigh, nod, and watch my daughter disappear through the doorway. When I’ve finished my meal, I push my plate towards the centre of the table.
‘Why don’t you go and sit down,’ Matt says. ‘I’ll clear up.’
‘We could both go, leave the dishes until later?’ I know Matt doesn’t like walking away from a messy kitchen, but I’m impatient to talk to him about tomorrow, get his advice on how to handle the police. But he gives me one of his disparaging looks, then reaches for my plate.
I shake my head in defeat and walk through to the living room. I had planned to stop there, switch the TV on. But Matt’s inflexibility has annoyed me, and the industrious banging and clattering from the kitchen is hurting my ears. So I climb the stairs and push on Lucy’s bedroom door. She’s not in there, but the sound of a toilet flushing from behind the bathroom door explains her absence. I’m about to step back, to wait for her to appear, when some words on her laptop screen catch my eye. After a split second of indecision, I walk into her bedroom.
The website is familiar – Google’s search engine is endemic across the world – but the search request sends a shiver through my whole body. Poor Lucy. The words she’s typed don’t incriminate her in Amber’s murder, of course they don’t, but they do explain why she’s scared about talking to the police. Why she’s worried they’re going to ask some difficult questions.
I feel a shadow behind me. Lucy, standing in the doorway. I turn, and our eyes connect for a moment, before we both shift our gaze to the computer screen, and the question Lucy has typed.
How do you hide a blog from the police?
AFTER
Wednesday 8th May
Rachel
I cut the engine and lean back against the headrest. ‘Are you ready?’ I ask gently.
‘I’m scared, Mum. What if they’ve found the blog? All the stuff I’ve been writing about Amber and Jess?’
‘It will be fine, I promise.’ When Lucy realised that I’d seen her search criteria last night, she’d wavered for a moment, angry with me for invading her private space, but relieved that she could finally open up about what’s been eating away at her since Saturday morning. And relief won out because she’d sunk onto her bed and told me everything. How she’d set up the blog a couple of months ago, in an anonymous name, but using her regular email address which is linked to our IP address at home. That she’d taken it down as soon as she heard about Amber’s death but is paranoid that the police will still be able to find evidence of it.
Lucy loves to write, and while she’s always got physical notebooks to hand, I know that blogging is the modern-day equivalent of journaling, so I wasn’t exactly surprised. But I dreaded what private thoughts she might have shared online, and the impact they could have on the murder investigation. She refused to let me read her posts at first. But when I explained how I needed to know what we might be dealing with, that if the police ever found it, it was better for me to be forewarned, she’d eventually relented and opened up her WordPress account. Her blogger name is @ForBron and seeing it had brought Lucy’s loss into focus once again. And how gutting it is, that at the point when Lucy most needs a best friend, Bronwen isn’t here.
