He nods, but his expression morphs into awkwardness. As though he’s worried that I’m going to start crying on him. ‘Another half?’ he says hopefully. ‘On the house?’ But I need to get back outside, find the sunshine again.
‘No. Thanks though. I’ll see you soon, Steve.’ I drain my drink, give him a quick wave, then slide off the bar stool. I focus my gaze on the polished wooden floor in case any of the journalists try to make eye contact, but they seem more bored than curious.
Clouds have come over while I’ve been inside, and the wind’s picked up, but I still feel better than I did before I left home. If Steve’s right, someone is going to be charged with the murder soon, and we can all start to move on. I need a few things for supper, and I’m in no hurry to go back to my empty house, so I turn left instead of right out of the pub, and head towards the Co-op, inside Chinnor’s only petrol station.
I push open the door and bump straight into Annie holding a basket. I expect her to launch into conversation, but she doesn’t say a word. I worry for a moment that it’s awkwardness, the secret I’ve forced her to keep about Milla without saying a word. But then she angles her head towards the next aisle along and gives me a hard stare. A stare that says, DON’T LOOK OVER THERE. I automatically shift my gaze to where I’m not supposed to. Then wish I hadn’t.
Jess Scott stares back at me, her face ashen. I think it’s grief at first, but then realise it’s white-hot rage.
I want to turn away, pretend I don’t recognise her, leave the shop. But I can tell she knows who I am, Lucy Rose’s mother, and the woman who found her sister. I need to be braver. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘It’s Jess, isn’t it?’
She nods but doesn’t speak. Her red hair is loose on her shoulders and looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days. She’s tall, angular, and with a wildness about her that makes the shelves appear like the iron bars of a cage. She’s holding a bag of Skittles, but her grip is so strong, I worry that it’s going to burst.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I start. ‘About your sister. I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now …’ I trail off, and silence reigns once again, but Jess is staring so intently, that I don’t feel like I can break eye contact. I sense Annie backing away, and I’m both sad to lose her support, and grateful that she’s not witnessing this exchange.
‘Bill said you found her,’ Jess says suddenly, making me jump.
‘Um, yes, that’s right,’ I answer, nodding. ‘I go running up there.’
‘I know,’ she cuts in. ‘Amber used to watch you. With Lucy.’
I pull my bottom lip with my teeth. The thought of Amber watching us run causes a rush of nausea, even though she can’t hurt us now. But I shouldn’t take it out on her bereaved sister. Lucy always said that Amber was the real bully, Jess just her sidekick. ‘That’s right. We run together sometimes, but I was on my own on Saturday.’
‘So did Lucy tell you where to find her?’
My pulse rate ticks up. ‘Sorry?’
‘Where she left Amber’s body after she killed her?’
My heart is booming now. My skin fizzing. I’m aware this means my fight-or-flight mode has kicked in, but I don’t seem capable of either. ‘That’s, that’s not true,’ I stutter.
She takes a step towards me. She’s taller than me, but her face is still childlike. ‘Are you sure?’ she presses. Her eyes are blue, impossibly bright, and her face is covered in freckles. She’s beautiful, I realise. I hadn’t noticed at first.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ I whisper. I want to take a step back, but I’m already close to the shelves and I don’t want to knock anything off, give the other shoppers a reason to look over.
‘We’ll see about that,’ she says, then twists away from me and walks out of the shop.
AFTER
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.
