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?’
‘They stole my sports bag,’ Lucy explains softly. ‘And then emptied it.’
‘That must have been upsetting.’
Lucy nods, pulls at her bottom lip.
‘And did you manage to recover all of your items?’
Lucy looks ashen for a moment, the trauma of remembering, then her expression clears. ‘Yes, eventually.’
‘I explained to DI Finnemore that Ms Munroe was dealing with the bullying,’ I say. ‘She asked me to go in after school on Friday, and when I left that meeting, I was confident that it was the beginning of the end. We both were, weren’t we, Lucy?’ I look at my daughter, willing her to agree with me, but she just stares back blankly.
‘Lucy, do you have a phone?’ DC Bzowski asks. Lucy gives her a small nod. ‘Would you mind telling me your number?’
I lean forward in my chair. Why is she asking this? Is she allowed to? Lucy looks at me but I’m no help. I stare back mutely, then give her a small nod. It’s fine; you’ve done nothing wrong. That now familiar trope.
I listen to Lucy whisper the eleven-digit number and watch as the detective checks it against a printout. I can see that she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but a slight softening of her features gives her away. ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ she says, looking up at her. She waits a moment, then opens the file in front of her. ‘I have Amber’s phone records for Friday night here,’ she says. ‘They show that Amber sent you a text message at—’ she checks the printout ‘—7.22 p.m. And that you responded a couple of minutes later.’
Lucy blinks. My ribcage expands as I hold my breath. A text conversation? With the girl who was making her life a misery?
‘We are hoping that Amber’s sister will be able to give us the code to unlock Amber’s phone when she’s ready to talk to us, so that we can check the content of those messages, but in the interests of time, could you tell me what they said?’
Lucy catches my eye, silently begs for my help. But I don’t know what to say. I was primed to defend a threatening blog, not an exchange of text messages. I want to believe that Lucy just told Amber to leave her alone, but this is the second time she’s kept something from me, and I’m starting to question my grip on the situation. Eventually Lucy turns back to the detective.
‘She asked to meet me,’ she admits in a whisper.
‘Okay. And what did you say?’
‘Um.’ Lucy looks at me, the overhead light flickering against her blue irises. ‘I said no.’
The detective nods, like she believes Lucy. I hope she does, but I’m not sure I do anymore. ‘According to the records,’ she continues gently, ‘there are a further three text messages between you in quick succession, followed by an incoming phone call from your number. What else did you and Amber talk about?’
‘I don’t remember.’
The detective crinkles her brow, an exaggerated gesture, clearly for effect. ‘Really?’ she asks. ‘It wasn’t that long ago.’
‘Um …’ Lucy’s eyes skitter as she tries to find a coherent response. ‘I just told her to stop texting me,’ she finally offers.
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to block her instead?’
