‘Not at all,’ he mutters. ‘Entirely her choice.’
I smile. I don’t believe him.
‘Well, thank you anyway.’
He turns away, embarrassed. Then he pushes the umbrella into my hand. ‘Here you go,’ he says. ‘Don’t get wet.’ His fingers are warm against mine. He looks at me for a moment, and I can’t make out his expression. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, turns on his heel and disappears into the darkness.
As soon as DCI Carter has gone, I race back to the hotel room, slam the door shut behind me. I flip out my laptop, fire off an email to the desk, tell them the interview is in the bag, but that they will have to wait for copy. I hadn’t told them it was definitely happening until now – I’ve found it’s best to manage expectations. They call me straight away, but I ignore my vibrating phone. They just need to let me write. I skip back to the start of the sound file and hit play. I work fast, have a sense of writing well. The noise of the rain outside somehow seems to help my mind to focus. There is a lot here, I think to myself, relieved. More than enough.
When my phone vibrates for the third time, I hit pause, pull out my single headphone and snatch it up.
‘Hugh, I’m going as fast as I can,’ I snap.
‘Katie? It’s Sally.’
At first I can’t place the name. Then I remember. Sally in the flat below. Sally who is feeding Socks, my cat, while I’m in Cambridge.
‘Sally? Hi. Is everything all right? Socks OK?’ My stomach twists. Immediately I think of the screech of tyres, the joyriders who speed down Dartmouth Park Road at night. A splatter of blood across the tarmac.
‘Socks is fine.’ She hesitates. There is a silence on the line for a moment, a slight fizzing noise. ‘It’s just, um, there’s a couple of police officers here.’
‘Police? For me?’
‘Yes.’ She coughs. ‘They said something about a missing girl – Rachel something?’
I frown. ‘Rachel?’
‘They um …’ I can hear someone in the background, a man’s voice, his tone sharp, impatient. I hear Sally murmur something back, then clear her throat. ‘They were wondering when you might be back?’
HELEN
As they sit down at our kitchen table, the tall officer pulling his tie loose from his shirt, reaching his long fingers into his breast pocket for a pen, I feel a gathering sickness, a heaviness in the pit of my abdomen.
I clear my throat. ‘Can I get either of you a hot drink? I’m making a latte for myself anyway.’
Neither of them answers. I decide to start making coffees anyway. I feel it is important, somehow, that I make them. Establish myself in the role of helpful witness, respectable local property owner. Someone who is on their side.
‘Rachel has been reported missing,’ DS Mitre is saying. ‘A family member contacted us, concerned for her welfare. We’re keen to try and establish where she might be.’
‘Oh. I see.’
I can hear a waver in my voice. For God’s sake, I think.
I concentrate on steaming the milk, holding the jug at an angle, my hands trembling. I bet they’ll be grateful for a nice coffee. They’re probably used to machine coffees, strip-lit waiting rooms, scaly communal kettles. Or the houses of criminals, I suppose, where no one thinks to offer them a drink. When I try to imagine what those places might look like, my mind draws a bit of a blank. Council flats with brick balconies, lines of wheelie bins, walls with anti-climb paint. Signs that say ‘No Ball Games’。 Places I only ever see from the outside.
‘You said that Rachel had been living with you?’
I sense their gaze on my face. I have a strange, anchorless feeling, as if I am not in my kitchen at all, but adrift on a vast sea, being carried further and further from the shore.
‘Yes, she had been staying here,’ I say eventually. My hand is trembling on the jug. The metal of it makes a slight vibration against the coffee machine. ‘Just for a couple of weeks,’ I add. I place the jug down, wipe my hands on my maternity jeans. They feel clammy.
‘And how did you know her?’
I take a breath.
‘We met recently,’ I say. ‘At an antenatal class.’
‘An antenatal class?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ DS Mitre’s expression suggests this was not within the range of answers he had expected.
I place the coffees down. DS Mitre thanks me. The female officer doesn’t.
‘So, how can I help?’ I ask, easing myself into a chair slowly, trying to look casual. ‘Is Rachel OK? When you say missing – she’s not in any trouble or anything, is she?’ I try to make my voice sound normal.