‘I don’t know her.’ His eyes dare me to contest his lie, and for a moment I wonder if I should let it go, walk away. But I need to get to the truth.
‘She was the witness to your assault claim,’ I say. ‘And I know that you know her.’
‘Claim?’ he says, his voice rising. ‘I was smacked to shit by my teacher and he got away—’
‘I was told that you and Jess were friends at the time,’ I cut in.
‘You’re fucking kidding …’ He stops, changes tack. ‘She’s not here,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen her.’
It’s a double denial. I consider his clothes again, his raw knuckles. How defensive he appears. That he won’t open the door. ‘But you know that Jess is missing?’ I press.
He blows out air, then clicks his tongue. ‘Okay, yeah, I heard,’ he admits. ‘But I haven’t seen her, all right? I said that already.’
I’m running out of rope. And I’m no closer to working out whether he’s done something to Jess, or it’s just my imagination running wild, trying to find a suspect to replace my husband. I take a deep breath, then slide my foot between the door and its frame. ‘It looks like you’ve been in a fight.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
I gesture towards his hand, still curled around the door. ‘That you’ve hit someone.’
‘I reckon you should move your foot. Before my door cripples it.’
‘Was it Jess?’ My heart is pounding inside my chest, my muscles taut with conflicting urges – to push harder, and to run away.
‘You’re crazy, you know that?’
‘Did she come to you for help? And then you took advantage of her vulnerability?’
‘Her vulnerability! Hah! You’ve no idea what that selfish bitch is capable of!’
His words trigger memories. Jess’s fierce blue eyes. Her threats and demand for money. Colleen’s belief that Amber’s death has toughened her. Have I underestimated Jess in all of this? Is she more than the distraught sister of the victim?
I find my soft social worker voice. ‘So tell me then. I’d really like to hear your thoughts on where Jess might have gone.’
But it doesn’t work.
‘No. You need to leave. You can’t force your way in.’
He’s right, I don’t have that power – legal or otherwise. But Sean Russo is hiding something. Maybe it’s to do with the money. If he’d found out Jess had ten grand in her pocket, I bet he’d want it. And I doubt she’d have made it easy for him to take it.
She could be in there now. Lying unconscious on the floor. There’s clearly something in there he doesn’t want me to see.
I lean forward a few centimetres, shift left. Our faces are close now, I can smell his sour breath, but I keep my eyes away from his, and towards the slim pickings of view beyond the curve of his neck. I can see the shadows of living-room furniture, but the curtains are drawn across the back window, so it’s too dark to see much more.
‘Fuck me,’ he hisses. ‘Do I need to call the feds?’ Spittle lands on my face, and I instinctively tilt backwards. My foot is stopping him from shutting the door, but it’s also tethering me to him. He could reach out and grab my hair in a second, slam my head into the door frame. Suddenly I think of the policeman who first talked to me on Chinnor Hill. The red light on his chest that told me he was recording our conversation. That’s what I need, I think. If I film this, Sean won’t be able to hurt me. I turned my phone off when I left my office – in case Matt called – but it’s in my pocket. I turn it on as I pull it out.
But my fingers haven’t got full purchase. I fumble, feel the smooth surface of the phone case slide away from my grasp. It lands on the concrete floor, on its back, with a thud. The screen lights up.
Shit. I fling my head up, look at Sean. His eyes widen even more as he stares at my phone, then they narrow.
In an instant, he scoops up the device, then grabs my arm above the wrist and yanks. There’s no time to resist his pull, and a second later I’m tumbling inside his flat. The door slams shut behind me. I turn, lunge for the handle, my instinct to find Jess switching instantly to a desire to get away. But he’s too quick. There’s a second lock, a bolt, and he slides it across before grabbing me again and shoving me away from the door.
I need to remember my training. I’ve done a two-day workshop on crisis management; I should know how to resolve this, persuade him to let me go, for his own sake. But I can’t think straight. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out, and then it’s too late. He pitches forward, pushes one hand over my face, and grabs the back of my head with the other. I gag, but he doesn’t release the pressure. My mouth is still partly open; I can taste his sweat, blood.
‘Why did you lie to me?’
‘I didn’t lie,’ I try to say, but it comes out as a muffled bray.
‘You’re his wife!’ he spits out. ‘Not a social worker. You’re married to that fucker who hit me. I saw his face on your phone, with you and those girls. And I know they’re his daughters, so don’t deny it. Why did you come here? How do you know about Jess? What the fuck do you want with me?’
He’s rambling, caught off guard, but what does it matter? He’s ten times stronger than me.
Why the hell did I come here? Did I not realise it would be dangerous? I’d never take such a risk if Sean was a client; I’d bring a colleague, maybe even ask for police backup with his record. But the only person who knows I’m here is Lou, and of course no one would think to ask her. How soon will it be before someone notices I’m gone?
‘Sit down,’ Sean orders, although he doesn’t give me any choice, just pushes down on my head, which forces my knees to bend. I drop onto a wooden chair. Suddenly his hand disappears from my mouth, but as soon as my head computes that I’m free, I feel a sting of pain at my temple.
And a second later the room goes black.
AFTER
Monday 13th May
Milla
Milla hears the knock on the front door. She lifts her head, drops her pen onto the still-unread textbook on her desk. A heartbeat later, the sound of a man’s voice. It’s DI Finnemore, the detective who dropped round on Friday night to talk to her mum. There’s someone else with him today, a woman, introducing herself as DC Bzowski. The detective who interviewed Lucy at the station.
Fuck.
Her dad will be petrified. Ever since they arrested him for that fake assault, her dad’s lost all trust in the police. And today, he’ll be scared for Lucy. Milla is almost certain her dad suspects she might be Amber’s killer, just like Milla does. Not intentionally, but reaching breaking point; a flaring of anger with tragic, unintended consequences. Milla pushes her chair away from her desk and stands up. She can’t let her dad deal with this alone.
