Wednesday 8th May
Rachel
I pull the door closed behind me and let out a sigh of relief. I was desperate to get out of the house earlier, but now it feels like my sanctuary. Shelter from Jess Scott’s wild stare. I wander over to the sofa, fold into the worn cushions, and close my eyes. Did Jess accuse Lucy of Amber’s murder to upset me? Lashing out because she’s in pain? Or does she really think Lucy killed her sister?
I think about what I’ve discovered over the last twenty-four hours. It makes sense that Jess knew about Amber trying to meet up with Lucy – the sisters were clearly close – so perhaps she assumed they did, and then decided Lucy must be guilty because she was the last person Amber saw.
But they didn’t meet up. That’s what Lucy said.
I drop my head back, open my eyes, and stare at the white ceiling. I heard via one of the WhatsApp groups that Jess was grounded on Friday night, so she won’t have seen anything herself. But she was Amber’s sister, and I remember DC Bzowski mentioning that they’d talked to her about Amber’s phone. Did she tell them that she thinks Lucy’s the murderer? And if she did, would they have taken any notice? The police know about the bullying, and how Jess and Amber didn’t like Lucy, so surely they wouldn’t take any accusations she might have made seriously?
But if that’s true, why did DI Finnemore insist on Lucy coming to the station, rather than waiting to talk to her at school? They didn’t know who Amber’s text conversation was with until they asked for Lucy’s phone number. And the CCTV of the blonde girl outside the post office could have been a couple of dozen different girls who live in the village. Was it something Jess said that singled Lucy out as a person of interest?
And while I can hardly bear to think about it, is there a chance they’ve also found Lucy’s blog? I wish she was dead.
I push off the sofa. I feel on edge now, like I need to expel some tension, so I start pacing, up and down the carpet. The mechanic that Steve told me about killed Amber, I remind myself. He was probably her drug dealer, like Steve said. Forensics will prove he did it and this will all be over.
I freeze. An image from Friday night blows up, high definition, in my mind.
The cuffs of Lucy’s jumper covered in blood.
Her blood. From the cuts on her hands. Wasn’t it?
I blink, then grab the banister and rattle up the stairs. I don’t hesitate before pushing open Lucy’s bedroom door – she’s lost all her privacy privileges. When we got back on Friday night, Lucy went straight upstairs to dress the cuts. And when she came back down for hot chocolate, she’d changed into her pyjamas. I haven’t seen the clothes she was wearing since then, not in the laundry, or hanging out to dry, so they must still be in her room.
For years, both girls’ bedrooms were always immaculate, because their pocket money was conditional upon it, and Matt has high standards. But two years ago, Milla negotiated a new normal. It was soon after Matt was charged with assault, but it wasn’t about Milla sensing vulnerability and taking her chance. She was old enough by then to recognise how Matt’s obsessive nature grew more and more extreme as his stress levels rose, and this was a way of protecting them both. She promised to stick to his strict rules in the rest of the house, if he gave her free rein over her own bedroom.
Lucy was given the same privileges, but she’s never taken advantage of them. I’m not sure whether that’s because she likes her things to be tidy too, or because she wants to please her dad, but either way, it doesn’t take me long to find the only item of clothing not folded away. A scrunched-up pair of jeans shoved under her bed.
Tentatively I straighten them out, then inspect them like I imagine a police officer would. There are muddy patches on the knee and shin areas, but that fits with Lucy’s explanation that she fell over on her way to meet Amber. There are a few darker stains higher up, and I ride a wave of nausea as I realise that it’s dried blood. Could Lucy really have bled this much from a few finger cuts? But I saw Amber’s wounds too, and these marks aren’t big enough to be from her injuries. With only the slightest stab of guilt, I drop the jeans by the door – they need washing after all – and carry on with my search.
I look through every drawer and along each hanger, but the jumper Lucy was wearing isn’t here. Has she taken it to school? Has she worn it even though the cuffs were filthy?
Does she have a reason to hide it somewhere?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I fish it out, I see that it’s a message from Matt. He’s arrived safely and is in a cab on the way to the Lionheart school in Geneva, excited to see it for the first time. He sounds so normal. So unburdened. Why can’t I be like that? With a deep breath, I pick up Lucy’s jeans and head back downstairs and into the kitchen. I put them on the hottest possible wash, with added stain remover, and watch as they curl around the drum for a few seconds before being engulfed by froth and bubbles. Washing the problem away. It feels like good advice.
A quick glance at the kitchen wall clock shows me that it’s almost 3 p.m., and I haven’t eaten lunch, or done any work yet. I push off my haunches and lift the lid off the bread bin. As I drop two slices into the toaster – Marmite on toast always my go-to comfort food – I notice the torch on the drainer. I may as well put that back in the shed while I wait for my toast to pop up. But when I reach for it, I realise I haven’t done a great cleaning job, because there’s a residue mark left on the white enamel. It’s a rusty colour – a mix of brown and red – and I inspect the torch for signs of erosion. But the black aluminium is as good as new. And it’s rechargeable so batteries can’t be the culprit. I frown. Maybe the mud is redder up by Kiln Lakes. It is an old industrial site so that probably makes sense.
With my confusion settling a notch, I carry the torch out to the garden. It’s heavy – a couple of kilos maybe – and I’m surprised that Milla agreed to take it with her. She’s never liked being weighed down by anything. But it’s lucky that she did, because her phone would have offered no help against the darkness once it ran out of power.
The shed sits against our back fence and it’s immaculate inside. There are shelves and cubbyholes, plus equally spaced hooks with different tools hanging down. The Maglite’s charging cradle sits just inside the door, so I drop the torch in and listen to the satisfying click as it connects. But the memory of Steve’s words, the forensic bags removed from that garage, makes me pause. Will the police come here one day? Stretch on latex gloves and pick through the items, searching for … what? A wrench? A hammer?
My stomach drops.
I will hunt those bitches down.
I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. Because all I can see is the faint rusty stain on my kitchen drainer. Rivulets of tarnished water drying before they have chance to escape.
Please make this stop. It was mud. Not blood.
Neither of my daughters are killers.
Without looking back at the torch – its heavy-duty handle now a possible murder weapon in my head – I walk out of the shed and close the door.
Back in the house, I drink in all the family photos on the garden room wall. A cycling holiday in the Pyrenees that Milla moaned about relentlessly, until she won the prize for fastest teenage cyclist in the group. Christmas at my parents’ house, their front room barely recognisable under all the decorations and presents. The girls in their school uniforms from year to year, stepping stones through their childhood. The view settles me. Reminds me that we’re just an ordinary family. Honest, responsible, and of course law-abiding.
My toast is cold, and I’ve lost my appetite anyway, so I slide both slices into the food waste bin. But I still can’t face working. I drum my nails against the work surface, until my eyes rest on Mrs Jones’s apples. I’ll make a pie for supper, I decide; something wholesome. Serve it with vanilla ice-cream from the freezer.
Fifteen minutes later, the pastry is a satisfyingly smooth solid ball. I cover it in clingfilm and put it in the fridge. The stirring and kneading has done its job, and I feel calm enough to fire up my laptop while I wait for the pastry to chill. I’ve got about fifty unread emails, so I spend the next forty-five minutes browsing through them, and thankfully dragging most of them to my ‘no action required’ folder. When the timer goes off, I get the pastry out of the fridge, scatter some flour on the work surface, and reach into the utensils drawer for the rolling pin.
I frown. Burrow my fingers beneath spatulas and wooden spoons. Start pulling out things I didn’t know we owned – bamboo chopsticks, an ornate cocktail stirrer, an old-fashioned carrot peeler – but no rolling pin. It’s not there. I close the drawer, lean against the curved edge of the worktop, and drop my forearms onto the thin layer of flour. I don’t want to question where it is. I don’t have any energy left to justify its disappearance. Instead, I let the images slip back in. The broken bluebells. Amber’s damaged face and bloodstained hair; her glassy, blank stare. How small and innocent she looked in death.
Then I pick up the ball of pastry and drop it into the bin.
AFTER
Wednesday 8th May
Rachel
‘Hi, Mum, loads of homework, going to my room.’ Milla pulls down the heel of her trainer with her toe, then kicks it into the porch. Lucy has photography club after school today, and won’t be back for an hour, so this is my best chance to talk to Milla alone. To remind myself that she’s not capable of murder, and nor is her sister. There will be an innocent explanation for the missing rolling pin – I haven’t used it since Christmas after all – and I’m almost sure the mud by Kiln Lakes is a reddish colour now I’ve had the chance to think about it.
I just need her to make eye contact.
Milla’s second trainer somersaults into the porch and she hoists her rucksack back onto her shoulder. She starts walking towards the stairs, still not looking at me. I exhale a breath of frustration. ‘Aren’t you going to ask how it went?’ I call out. ‘At the police station?’
She turns, assesses me. ‘I assume they asked Lucy some dumb-arse questions and then let her go?’
I replay the conversation with DC Bzowski in my mind. ‘I guess you could describe it like that.’
She nods wisely, as though she never doubted it. ‘Good. Can I go now?’
I bite my lip. I want to keep her downstairs with me. What I really want is to dunk sponge fingers into cups of tea with her, and have to get a spoon for the sugary dregs. But life moves on. ‘Why did you not want Lucy to go to the police station?’ I ask. ‘Last night, at dinner, you suggested she pretend to be sick. Why did you say that?’
Her eyes flit away from me, towards the stairs, and I wonder for a moment if she’s going to leg it. But she doesn’t move. ‘Lucy’s scared of stuff like that, isn’t she? I didn’t think she should have to go through it when she’s a victim too.’
I may be imagining it – my heightened anxiety makes that a distinct possibility – but Milla’s answer sounds forced, as though she’s acting. ‘Did you know that Amber texted Lucy earlier in the evening?’
Milla doesn’t answer immediately and in the quiet, I listen to her breathing. It’s regular but pronounced. ‘Yeah, Luce told me,’ she eventually mutters. ‘Messaged me when I was at Ava’s party, asking whether I thought she should go and meet Amber.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her no fucking way of course! I couldn’t believe she was even considering it. For what? A stupid letter?’
‘She didn’t take your advice though. Did she tell you that too?’
Milla looks down at her socked feet. ‘Not at the time. I was pretty firm in my message, so I assumed she’d gone along with it. Then I put it out of my mind. It was my best mate’s party, after all. But when I got home, and you said she was missing, well, it didn’t take a genius to work out where she’d gone.’
