He nods. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’ Then he looks at me expectantly. I know this is a ploy to get me talking, but I’ve got nothing to hide, so I repeat what I told the uniformed officer. Through it all, Annie stands next to me, her hand resting on my back.
‘Thank you,’ he says when I fall silent. ‘And do you know the victim, by any chance?’
It’s the question I’ve been dreading. I stare at the detective, but his face blurs. Do I know Amber? We’ve never met. All the conversations I’ve had with her – the tolerance at first, then the pleas, and finally the furious threats – have been in my head, not in person. I only recognised her at all because Lucy took a clandestine photo of her once. I take a breath, swallow. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who she is.’
The look in his ice-cold eyes sends a shiver down my spine. But is that wrong? Is it my own lie that has caused this sense of foreboding? He’s turning to Annie, asking her the same question, but his voice sounds muffled now, like I’ve created a new distance between us. My role within Children’s Services is around early intervention, so direct contact with the police is rare. But I attend monthly Multi Agency Safeguarding Hub meetings alongside specialist police officers, and I have always felt that we’re part of the same team. Even when Matt was charged with a crime he didn’t commit, I blamed the boy, and the fake witness, not the detectives involved.
But what about now? By denying I know who the victim is, have I broken that trust? Crossed a line?
‘I didn’t recognise her either, I’m afraid,’ Annie says. ‘Not that I looked. Well, once I realised it wasn’t Milla.’
I jerk my head towards Annie, then back to the detective. A new level of panic hits me.
‘Milla?’ he asks. He says it nonchalantly, but his nose lifts a few millimetres, like a gun dog picking up a scent.
‘Just a misunderstanding,’ I blurt out. But I need to rein it in, for Milla’s sake. I force a smile. ‘Milla’s my daughter,’ I explain in a more measured voice. ‘But she’s at home, in bed. She’s 18 so, you know.’
‘Sleeps until lunchtime,’ he offers. ‘Yes, I’ve got a couple of those myself.’ He rolls his eyes in solidarity, and I hope it’s enough to distract him. But the scent is clearly too strong. ‘And sorry if I’m missing something,’ he continues, turning back to Annie. ‘But why would you initially think the victim was Ms Salter’s daughter?’
My friend hesitates before answering, and I can sense her connecting the same dots that I’d linked much earlier, and even without knowing who the victim is. I’m grateful for it – Annie’s instinct to protect Milla – but also horrified that she feels the need. ‘I don’t know really,’ she finally says. ‘Panic, seeing Rachel, making some illogical association. But it was only for a moment.’
‘Okay, I see, that can happen,’ the detective says nodding. I hope he can’t read the relief on my face as he turns back to me. ‘Thank you for explaining everything,’ he continues. ‘We will need to formalise that into a statement for you to sign. Is that okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I’ve read plenty of police statements over the years, but having my own stored on their database makes me feel nervous.
‘And we also need your fingerprints and a DNA swab, plus your clothes, all for elimination purposes. We’re based out of Aylesbury, and I don’t want to have to drag you over there. Perhaps I could drop you back home and we can do all the necessaries there?’
I imagine walking through the door with a policeman. The shock and fear that would emanate from Matt. But I don’t feel like I’ve got a choice, and I am desperate to get home. ‘Okay, but could I just call my husband? Warn him that you’re coming?’ I wonder if that makes us sound guilty, like Matt needs prior notice because we have something to hide. But DI Finnemore just nods.
‘Of course, absolutely you should.’
‘Use my phone,’ Annie says, thrusting it towards me. I take it out of her hand, tap in Matt’s number, and wait for him to pick up.
AFTER
Saturday 4th May
Rachel
I close my bedroom door and lean against it. I feel bad leaving Matt alone with DI Finnemore – for both their sakes – but I needed a moment to breathe without police scrutiny. I only earned this reprieve because the detective asked me to bag up my clothes, so I force myself to push away from the door, then peel off my leggings and running top. I fold them into a square pile – perhaps my way of apologising to Matt – and slide them into the evidence bag. I add my socks and hairband and fasten it closed.
My trail runners are already sealed away – DI Finnemore taking them off me as soon as we got to his car – and the detective has also taken my fingerprints and a DNA sample, as well as getting me to e-sign my statement. Going through the different tasks with Matt silently watching on was excruciating, his expression never veering from wary. But I couldn’t risk engaging with him, giving him more than a few bare words, in case the whole truth of my discovery spilled out. I’m only grateful that the girls haven’t surfaced yet.
I pull on some fleece joggers and grab a hoodie from the top shelf of my wardrobe. I’m desperate for a shower, to wash off the horror of finding the body, but that will have to wait. I steel myself for a few more minutes of tension and head back downstairs. Both men are wearing relieved expressions when I reappear, and I try not to wonder how they’ve been passing the time. I proffer the bag.
‘Thank you,’ DI Finnemore says. ‘These will go to the lab, but you should get them back eventually, might be a few weeks.’
‘No problem.’ I know I’ll never wear those clothes again, that they’ll go in the bin, too contaminated even for the charity shop. But I don’t need to explain that to him.
‘Well, that’s everything for now, so I’ll leave you in peace. But remember you’re a victim of this crime too. I’ll get a family liaison officer to email you, and you can contact them if you ever need any support.’ He hesitates for a moment, as though wondering if he should end our conversation with something more heartfelt, but then gives me a small nod and turns towards the door.
Matt and I stand at the window and watch the detective’s car reverse out of the drive. I’m free to talk now, but my mouth is too dry for words to form. Images of bruised skin and tangled hair keep flashing in my mind. Matt must sense my discomfort – I suppose thirty years together can do that – because he brushes the small of my back and then takes a step away. ‘Why don’t you go for a shower,’ he says. ‘And I’ll make us breakfast, banana pancakes maybe, something sweet for the shock. And we can talk then,’ he adds more gently.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. As I watch him retreat into the kitchen, adjusting the doormat with his foot as he walks past, I think again that it was a good decision to work at our marriage when it became difficult. Because look where we are now. Solid.
I push away from the window and head for the stairs.
‘Amber Walsh?’ Matt asks incredulously, dropping his cutlery with a clatter. ‘Are you sure? How did you even recognise her?’
I sigh, push my plate away. I managed to eat the first pancake, but my second is untouched, and I stare at the syrup-slavered banana glistening in the weak sunshine filtering through the window. Ever since I found the body, I’ve been questioning whether I might have made a mistake about her identity. I’ve only ever seen Amber from a distance, or on that photo Lucy showed me. And the victim’s face was smeared with blood. But I was certain in that moment, so it’s hard to believe I got it wrong.
‘I’ve seen her around,’ I say quietly. ‘I didn’t tell the police anything, because, you know, I could be wrong.’ I look up at him, seeking redemption maybe, but he’s still processing the bombshell. ‘But I think we should assume it’s her,’ I finish.
‘Oh Jesus, Rachel.’ Matt pushes his empty plate into the middle of the table and leans on his folded forearms, head hung low. ‘A teenage girl killed in our village is crazy enough, but for it to be one of the girls who was bullying Lucy …’ He lifts his chin, shakes his head. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with that, of course,’ he adds quickly.
‘No, of course not,’ I mumble in agreement. I take a few breaths, try to calm my thoughts. ‘But there is something we need to consider.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Milla went missing last night, didn’t she? For hours.’ I automatically turn towards the doorway, as though saying her name might make her appear.
‘Yeah, so? She came back safe and sound.’ Seconds tick past and I watch comprehension spread across Matt’s dark features. ‘Hang on, you can’t think?’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s ridiculous. She fell asleep on a bench. She drank too much at Ava’s party. My God, Rachel, what are you suggesting?’ With my words fully embedded, he gives me a look of disgust and pushes up out of his chair. As I listen to the sharp clang of him dropping dishes in the sink, shame engulfs me. Because he’s right – what was I thinking? Milla is amazing – a regular teenager in some ways, a formidable tour de force in others. But not a killer.
I will hunt those bitches down.
Just words. Nothing more.
But it’s not about what I’m thinking – which is why I don’t need to admit to myself that I’m almost sure Milla was wearing a jacket when she left, but not when she got home – it’s about other people. Felix. Annie. Our neighbours might have heard me shouting at Milla when she finally came home in the early hours. Yes, Annie kept it to herself when DI Finnemore asked, but will she be so discreet when the gossip starts?
‘I’m not saying that Milla did anything,’ I plead. ‘Of course not. I just mean that she was out, wasn’t she? Alone. And there’s motive, I suppose, with all the bullying Amber and her sister have been putting Lucy through. I’m scared that the police will find all this out and then think Milla’s involved.’
‘From what Lucy’s told me, Amber was trouble, hanging out with older boys, selling drugs maybe. A teenager in social care. People won’t make a connection with Milla.’
I ride the sting of his words, the prejudice that I’m sure he never used to feel. ‘This is a sleepy village, Matt. Amber’s murder will ricochet through this place like a force-five cyclone. Everyone will be talking about it, sharing multiple theories over a pint at The Crown. We’ve got to assume that Milla going AWOL will feature at some point.’
Matt curls his hands into fists and pulls his face tight. ‘So what do we do? Warn her?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I sigh. ‘It feels cruel, telling her she might be a suspect in a murder when there’s not even been a formal identification. But on the other hand, maybe it would give her a chance to get her head around it before anyone says anything.’ I stare out of the window, but when my phone buzzes on the table beside me, I automatically look over at it. It’s a message from Charlotte to our mums’ group. For a moment, I assume the news of my discovery has filtered through, but her message has a different angle.
Saw Bill Wainwright this morning. His foster child Amber didn’t come home last night. Wants people to keep an eye out. Xx
PS @RachelMilla is that Lucy’s bully?
Tears form over my tired eyes. ‘It’s definitely her,’ I whisper. ‘It’s started.’
‘It’s who?’ A sleepy voice curls around the doorway. ‘What’s started?’
I turn to look at my daughter. Lucy is more patient than her sister, so I know I have a few seconds before I need to answer. A moment to consider how my youngest will take this news. However much she’s got the right to be pleased that Amber is no longer around to bully her, I hope that she isn’t. That the death of a teenager is more devastating to her than the joy of discovering her personal battle is over. ‘We’re all fine, but something terrible happened this morning,’ I say. ‘Come, sit down.’
