I know this is a sign he’s struggling, but I can’t deal with the news about Jess by myself. ‘She’s gone missing,’ I tell him. ‘Jess. She wasn’t in bed this morning, and no one’s seen her.’
Matt keeps wiping. Then he pulls the bench out and starts wiping that down too. ‘She’ll have done a runner. Taken the money and gone. I mean, what’s left for her in Chinnor? Two old people and a personal tragedy that people will never stop talking about?’
‘You’re right,’ I say nodding. ‘She’s got a lot to run away from. But I spoke to her social worker just now – I met her at work on Thursday – and the police think something bad might have happened to Jess. Her disappearing so soon after Amber’s murder, and also because she doesn’t seem to have taken any stuff with her. Her foster carers didn’t know for sure, but wouldn’t she have taken all her things if it was planned?’
‘Who knows how the mind of a troubled, grieving teenager works,’ Matt says, his tone prickly. He straightens up, pushes the bench back. ‘Look, I’ve got to work this morning. My bike ride yesterday afternoon went on longer than planned, and my inbox has piled up.’ And before I get a chance to respond, he brushes past me, his gaze averted, and leaves the room. I listen to the study door close behind him.
AFTER
Saturday 11th May
Rachel
‘When will you get your car back?’ I ask, picking at the Moretti bar mat. It was my idea to come out for a drink this evening. Matt’s black mood has continued all day and I thought a change of scene might help. But now I’m here, I feel on edge.
‘They couldn’t say,’ he says tightly. Then he clears his throat, and his voice softens. ‘There’s not much damage, but the garage is busy next week, so they need to fit it in around their existing schedule.’
‘What about work?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Most of the team are away this week, various school visits, so I’ll just work from home.’ He falls silent again and then takes another gulp of beer. He scans the room and I wonder if he feels exposed, like I do, or if it’s because he doesn’t want to look at me.
‘You don’t seem yourself today,’ I try.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Is it about Jess disappearing?’
He gives me a disappointed glare, then looks away. ‘Why would I be worried about that? She’ll have used the money to run away, just like we predicted. Like we hoped for, remember?’
I think back to our stilted conversation as we counted down the hours before the drop last night. Our hope that Jess would take the money and then vanish from our lives. Is Matt right? Should I be celebrating rather than catastrophising? Then I think about the Waitrose bag, the note Milla typed. My dad will kill you.
Why the hell can’t he even hold eye contact with me?
I take a gulp of my gin and tonic. ‘Are you worried about the police then? That detective coming round with more questions for Lucy?’
He closes his eyes, lets out a deep sigh. ‘I know what being falsely accused of a crime can do,’ he murmurs, his voice stretched by emotion. ‘I couldn’t bear it if Lucy suffers the same fate as me, and for something much more serious. She’s been through enough already.’
‘She’s got us,’ I say. ‘She knows we’ll always be there for her.’
‘And what 15-year-old girl is satisfied with that? Lucy’s best – and let’s be honest, only proper friend – left her. Whether there’s something romantic going on between Lucy and Bronwen or not, those two girls have been practically joined at the hip for a decade. Losing her must have been devastating.’ He pauses, his features soften a notch. ‘Hey, do you remember them doing that blood-sister ceremony?’
I nod. Smile at the memory of two 8-year-old girls. A solemn ritual of friendship until Milla made them both cry with stories of cross infection and vampire diseases.
‘But instead of having time to adapt to life without Bronwen,’ Matt continues, his face hardening again. ‘Lucy was suddenly being picked on, relentlessly, by two fucking nasty teenage girls for no reason at all. And then manipulated into meeting Amber on the very night the girl’s killed.’
It’s all my fears echoing back to me. But I can’t let them drag me down, otherwise everything we’ve done so far – all the lies we’ve told, the ransom demand we’ve met – will be for nothing. ‘It being a more serious crime should work in our favour,’ I point out. ‘Murder is investigated with much more depth than assault. Even if they find out that Lucy met Amber, it’s only circumstantial. They’ll need more evidence than that to charge her with murder. Real forensic evidence.’ I push away the image of Lucy’s jeans; the blood spatters that I did my best to wash away. The missing jumper. The denim jacket she supposedly lost.
Matt’s face clears slightly. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he says, exhaling. ‘And I’m sorry.’ He reaches for my hand, grazes my fingers with his. ‘I’m probably just tired.’ Then he shifts backwards, picks up his pint glass and drains the remaining beer. ‘Another drink?’ he asks, standing up.
I watch him walk to the bar, then make conversation with Steve’s wife Jade. He’s smiling, nodding, and to anyone else he might seem totally at ease. But I can see the muscles in his jaw tremoring. His fingers drumming against his side.
Is this really fear for Lucy? Or is something else making him stressed?
My dad will kill you.
I think about the badger he hit, the damage to the car, his lost hour crying by the roadside. But that’s all it was, I remind myself, a string of unfortunate events. And he’s explained why he’s acting strangely.
‘Here you go,’ he says, handing me a fresh gin and tonic. I take the goblet from him – the ice clinking as my hand shakes – and watch him sit down. He eyes the Moretti bar mat I’ve ruined, then slides it across the table and puts it in his pocket. Needing its scrappy edges out of sight.
He was tidy even when we first met, back when we were two uncool students at one of Oxford’s most elite colleges. I remember the cleaner calling him her golden boy because his room would always be spotless. But in those days, I could tease him about it, and he wouldn’t mind; he’d just raise his eyebrows and look at me sheepishly. That changed when his dad died, and the carefree side of him has never fully returned. I know if I referenced his discomfort with the bar mat now, he’d snap at me.
‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you about Milla’s journey home last night,’ I say instead.
He narrows his eyes. ‘I saw Milla this morning, she said everything went smoothly.’
‘She was cross with you; she didn’t fall for your story about hitting the badger in daylight.’
‘Too smart, that one,’ he murmurs. ‘So what happened on her journey?’
‘I don’t have the full story,’ I admit. ‘But she didn’t get back until ten to one. And she’d been crying, which is not like her at all. She said that she’d seen someone when she was walking past the derelict carriages and had to hide from them, presumably until they left.’
‘Poor kid,’ Matt mutters. ‘On top of everything else. But she didn’t tell you who it was?’
I shake my head. ‘She was exhausted last night so I didn’t push it. And then she was mad about you following her this morning, so I didn’t try. And she’d gone to the library by the time I came back downstairs after my shower. I haven’t seen her since.’
He stays quiet for a while, rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Do you think it could have been Felix?’ he asks eventually.
I look up, surprised. Milla hiding from her ex-boyfriend hadn’t crossed my mind.
