‘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.
The blog – hidden from public view rather than deleted – made for uncomfortable reading. There are no names, but it’s easy to work out who Lucy’s referencing. The evil ringleader and her flame-haired sidekick. She describes her gnawing fear, but that she doesn’t know what’s scarier: the physical threat of a blade or the relentless humiliation. The blogposts hold plenty of self-criticism too. How she feels weak, cowardly, pathetic for not being able to stand up for herself. But it’s the final piece that turned my discomfort into nausea. Posted on Friday afternoon. Describing how Amber had gone too far this time, that Lucy wouldn’t stand for it anymore.
And from the safety of her bedroom, what she craved.
I wish she was dead.
The only wisp of good fortune is that none of Lucy’s blogposts have hashtags, and she only has one follower – @cariad15, a profile without a photo. She explained to me that the purpose of the blog wasn’t to find a community, but just to expel her frustrations. And that of course she didn’t really want Amber dead.
I wrote a journal all the way through my teenage years, so I understand the need, but I wish she’d just put pen to paper like I did rather than upload it to the web. Because then we could have destroyed her writing, burned it on the fire or something. It sounds dramatic, but it’s the opposite. It would keep life simple, and make sure the police could concentrate on finding out who actually killed Amber.
‘I know how bad it reads,’ she murmurs. ‘But I never thought that something like this would happen.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ I say, too quickly. I take a breath. ‘But I really don’t think the police will have come across it, so you have nothing to worry about.’ I think I believe it too. After all, it was just a silent cry for help into a virtual black hole. ‘Remember, you’re not a suspect.’
She nods, then gives me a half-smile. I squeeze her hand, then we both climb out of the car.
‘Thanks for coming in, Lucy, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m DC Bzowski.’ The detective drops into the chair opposite and places a thin cardboard file on the laminate table between us. She looks to be in her mid-twenties. Her dark hair is tied back, and her lips are glistening under a fresh layer of plum-coloured lipstick. She smiles at Lucy but doesn’t offer her hand, and I’m grateful for the lack of formality. I was expecting DI Finnemore to appear, but this is better; someone more junior. It makes the whole thing feel less important.
‘That’s okay,’ Lucy says. Her voice is singsong, and it highlights how young she is.
‘I won’t keep you long,’ the detective promises. ‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions and give you a chance to tell me anything you know that might help with the investigation.’ She pauses. I wonder if Lucy might ask for clarification, a fuller explanation of what might help uncover a killer, but she just nods.
As my mind wanders to the crime dramas I watch on TV, I realise something is different. ‘Don’t you normally record interviews?’ I ask.
‘It depends on the type of interview,’ the detective explains. ‘Lucy isn’t being interviewed under caution; this is just a chat, which is why we’re in here.’ She opens her palms and I glance around the room. Grubby white walls, thin carpet squares, and no recording equipment. ‘We’re actually hoping to set up an informal interview room at the school to talk to other students who knew Amber,’ she goes on. ‘But there’s some reluctance from the governors, and we were keen to get started while memories are still fresh.’
I smile, but it’s tight. It’s a relief to know Lucy’s words won’t be stored anywhere, but she must be high on their priority list if they’re not waiting to talk to her at school with the others.
‘Okay,’ DC Bzowski says, turning her attention back to Lucy. ‘Lucy, we spoke to Ms Munroe, and she explained that you’d told your teachers that you were being bullied by Amber and her half-sister Jessica Scott.’
‘Yes,’ Lucy whispers. ‘But …’ Her voice trails off. Thank goodness. I don’t want her blurting out another denial about murdering Amber.
‘And did things improve at all with Amber at any point before her death?’
‘No,’ Lucy murmurs, her shoulders hunching up.
‘Okay.’ DC Bzowski nods, moves on. ‘I understand there was a specific incident last Friday at school. Could you tell me what happened?’
