A couple of hours later, I’m hooked up and about to do a live two-way on the program I used to present. Rachel’s social media accounts were public and also, unsurprisingly, full of photos of herself. I selected a few and sent them to the producer back at base to build a graphic. Richard filmed a couple of shots outside her home, and then we gathered some short interviews with local residents—none of whom really knew her, but were more than happy to speak as though they did.
I’ve always been good at getting people to talk to me. My methods are very simple, but they work: Rule Number One: Everyone likes to feel flattered.
Two: Establish trust. Always be friendly, regardless of how you really feel.
Three: Start a conversation that suggests you have plenty in common with the subject.
Four: Get them to say what you want fast, before they have time to overthink it, or you.
Works every time.
Finally, we recorded a piece to camera in the woods where Rachel died, as close as the cordon would allow, with the police tape fluttering in the background. It was very atmospheric. After popping in a brief clip of Jack speaking at the press conference earlier, we had a two-minute package for me to talk around. Not too shabby for a morning’s work.
The sat truck arrived just in time, and now I’m standing at the closest and best position we could find at the edge of the woods. We need a clear view of the sky in order to see one of the satellites and broadcast live. Trees and tall buildings can be problematic in this business. So can ex-husbands.
I’m wired up and ready to go when I see Jack’s 4 × 4 pull into the parking lot. He’s too late. I stare down the barrel of the camera when I hear the director in my ear, then Cat Jones—sitting in the chair that used to be mine—reads the intro for the story.
“The body of a young woman has been discovered in woods owned by the National Trust in Surrey this morning. Police have now named the victim as Rachel Hopkins, founder of the homeless charity…”
Jack steps into my eyeline. If looks could kill, I’d have flatlined.
“… Our correspondent, Anna Andrews, joins us now with the latest.”
I top and tail my package with twenty seconds of memorized words, doing my best to ignore Jack’s persistent glares and arm waving. By the time I throw back to the studio, he is standing so close to the camera that he could easily have turned it off or knocked it over. Luckily Richard was in the way. I wait for the all clear, then remove my earpiece.
“Is this thing off?” Jack asks.
“It is now,” Richard replies, lifting the camera off the tripod and joining the engineers in the truck.
He didn’t need to be asked to leave us alone.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack says.
“My job.”
“What if we hadn’t already informed the next of kin?”
“You told me the name of the victim, I reported it.”
“You’re fully aware that isn’t why I told you.”
“Why did you tell me?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
He looks over his shoulder at the sat truck, then leans in a little closer, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Why were you here yesterday?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The parking lot ticket with yesterday’s date on. You still haven’t explained—”
“Wow, that again. You think I had something to do with this?”
“Did you?”
Jack accused me of a few bad things when we were married, and a few more when we weren’t, but never murder. It makes me wonder whether he always had a negative view of me, even when we were together. Perhaps he was just better at hiding it then.
“I was presenting a network bulletin to millions of people yesterday, so I have a few alibis who can confirm I wasn’t here if you need to check.”
“Then how do you explain it?”
“I don’t know, maybe the machine is broken?”
“Sure. Why not. That’s a plausible explanation.”
Jack marches over to the pay-and-display machine, then reaches inside his pocket for a coin. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until his hand comes out empty. He looks over his shoulder at me, as though I might offer to give him some spare change. When I don’t, he turns his attention back to the meter. I watch the familiar way he strokes the stubble on his chin, a habit that never bothered me when we first got together, but caused unfathomable irritation by the time we parted.
I’m expecting him to walk away without another word, but he stands perfectly still, staring at the ground as though in deep thought. All of a sudden he bends down, brushes some dead leaves away, then picks up a silver-colored coin from the forest floor. He holds it in my direction before putting it in the slot. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest as he stabs the green button with his finger. I have a crazy urge to run but stay exactly where I am.