“Say my name” was the only thing she ever said during sex, so I did.
Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.
* * *
“You all right, sir?”
Priya is staring at me, and I wonder if I’ve been talking to myself again. Even worse, she appears to be looking at the scratch on my face, where Rachel left her mark. I’ve never understood why women do that during sex, scratching with their fingernails like feral cats. Hers were always the same: long and pink with fake-looking white tips. I didn’t mind marks on my back that nobody could see, but she caught me on the face last night. I stare down at Rachel’s fingers again now, the nails roughly cut to the quick, and the two words painted on them: TWO FACED. Then I look back at Priya. Seeing my colleague staring at the faint pink scar on my cheek makes me want to run, but I turn away instead.
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
I make my excuses and sit in my car for a while, pretending to make calls while trying to warm up and calm down. I turn and stare at the backseat, quickly double-check the floor, but there are no visual signs of Rachel being in here, even though her prints must be everywhere. I lost count of the times and ways we did it in this car. Frankly, it’s as filthy as we were. I’ll get it cleaned later, inside and out, when a suitable time presents itself.
I don’t know what I was thinking getting involved with a woman like her. I knew she was trouble, but perhaps that’s why I couldn’t say no. I guess I was flattered. Meeting up with Rachel was always preferable to going home; there was nothing much there to look forward to after a long day at work. But if people found out, I could lose everything.
It’s still raining. The constant pitter-patter on the windshield sounds like drums inside my ears. I have a headache at the base of my skull, the kind that can only be cured with nicotine. I’d kill for a cigarette right now, but I gave up smoking a couple of years ago, for the child, not wanting to inflict my poor life choices on an innocent human being. A nice glass of red would make the pain go away too, but drinking before lunchtime is something else I gave up. I consider my options and realize that I have none—best to stick to the plan.
Priya knocks on the window. I contemplate ignoring her, but think better of it and get out of the car, back to cold and wet reality.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir. Were you talking to someone?”
Just myself.
“No.”
“The big boss said he couldn’t get through on your phone,” she says.
If she meant the words to sound like an accusation, she was successful. I take out my mobile and see eight missed calls from the deputy chief constable.
“Nothing showing. Either he’s calling the wrong number or I’ve got a bad signal,” I lie, slipping it straight back inside my pocket. Lying is something I’m pretty good at, to myself as well as others; I’ve had plenty of practice. “If he calls back just tell him everything is under control, and I’ll update him later.” Having some hotshot superior officer, who is half my age, shit all over my show is the last thing I need right now.
“Okay, I’ll let him know,” Priya says.
I see her add that to the invisible list of things to do she always writes inside her head. There is clearly something else she wants to tell me, and her face lights up like a pinball machine when she remembers what it is.
“We think we’ve got a print!”
What?
“What?”
“We think we’ve got a print!” she repeats.
“Finger?” I ask.
“Foot.”
“Really? In this mud?”
The rain has already made a series of mini rivers across the forest floor. Priya beams at me like a kid who wants to show a parent their latest painting.
“I think Forensics are super excited to be allowed out of the lab. It looks like a large recent boot print, right next to the body, initially hidden by dead leaves. They’ve done an incredible job! Do you want to see?”
I briefly stare down at my own muddy shoes before I follow her.
“You know, even if they have managed to find a footprint, I predict it might belong to one of the team. The whole scene should have been properly cordoned off straightaway, as soon as you arrived,” I say. “Including the parking lot. Any tracks we come across now will be worthless in court.”
The smile fades from her face and I breathe a little easier.
I don’t think anyone knows I was here, or has any reason to suspect my involvement with the murder victim. So as long as it stays that way, I should be fine. My best course of action is to act normal, do my job, and prove that someone else killed Rachel before anyone can point the finger at me. I try to clear my head a little, but my mind is too busy and my thoughts are too loud. The one I hear the most plays on repeat, and right now it’s true: I wish I’d never come back to Blackdown.