I tied the friendship bracelet around her tongue before standing back to admire my own work; it was rather impressive. Then I borrowed a pen from the pot on the desk, to write a note on the back of my hand. A reminder to myself that I needed to make a quick call.
Her
Wednesday 06:55
“Put the phone down,” says the female detective.
She stares at me as though I just committed a hideous crime. Patel, I think he called her, and she’s not being nearly as nice to me as she was the first time we met. It was pretty easy to win her over in the woods yesterday. I didn’t really care about the shoe covers I asked to borrow, I just needed an excuse to talk to her. It’s amazing how much information I was able to extract. I may have repeated some of it; I suspect that’s why she is cross.
I swear she saw me reaching for the landline on the desk long before she said anything. I wouldn’t have picked it up in the first place if she’d told me not to, but I put the phone back down without further argument. I was never good at disobeying people in authority, even small ones. The two of us are cocooned inside the school secretary’s office, for reasons that make very little sense to me.
“I’m due on-air in ten minutes. Your boss has taken my mobile, and I need to make a phone call to let someone know where I am,” I say.
“DCI Harper took your mobile because you said that someone called you on it, tipping you off about the latest murder. I’m sure you can understand the reasons why we need to check out that call and who made it.”
I regret giving Jack my phone, but didn’t want to come across as being unhelpful.
“Fine, but I need to tell my news desk where I am.”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your cameraman is aware that you’ve been delayed.”
“Delayed or detained? Am I under arrest?”
“No. As I have already explained to you, you’re free to go at any time. You have been asked to stay here for your own protection, and to assist with our investigation.”
I stare at her and she doesn’t look away. She might be small and young, but she is surprisingly confident. No wonder Jack likes her. I can feel myself falling in hate. It’s a lot like falling in love, but tends to happen harder and faster and often lasts a lot longer, too.
She steps outside the room, leaving the door open. I can hear her talking to someone a little further down the corridor, so I reach inside my bag, open a miniature brandy, and down it. Then I find my little tin of mints and pop one in my mouth. When I look up, the detective is standing in the doorway staring at me. I don’t know how long she has been there, or what she has seen.
“Mint?” I ask, rattling the tin in her direction.
“No, thank you.”
“You do know I’m Jack’s ex-wife, don’t you?”
Her smile looks out of practice.
“Yes, Ms. Andrews. I know who you are.”
I’m not sure what makes me more uncomfortable, her words or the strange expression on her face. I told them both how scared I was when I got the call this morning, but it’s as though neither of them believe me. The fact that I contacted the newsroom before I notified the police didn’t go down particularly well either. I’m a journalist, so of course I followed up the tip-off and drove to the school. In hindsight, I can see how it might look a little foolish, dangerous even, but some stories are as addictive as success. Individual murders don’t make or save careers, but a story about a serial killer could keep me on-air for weeks.
I’ll never forget seeing Helen’s lifeless body for the first time though. The girl I went to school with had grown into a woman I barely recognized, but of course I had known who she was. Same hair, same cheekbones; for all I knew it might even have been the same stapler she used on the school newspaper sitting on her desk. It’s the kind of mental image you can never erase, and the sight of all that blood first thing in the morning would make anyone want a drink.
The young detective continues to stare at me, as though her big brown eyes have forgotten how to blink. I look away first, and feign interest in the pictures on the office walls. Staring at them brings back memories of being summoned to this room as a teenager. I was never in trouble at my first school, but when I moved to St. Hilary’s everything changed. Not that it was my fault. It was almost always down to Rachel Hopkins or Helen Wang, both of whom are now dead.
* * *
Rachel took me under her wing when I first arrived at the school, and I was so grateful. She was the most popular girl in our class, which made sense, because she was beautiful, clever, and kind. Or so I thought. She was always doing things for charity, even then—sponsored runs, bake sales, collections for Children in Need. I didn’t think it at first, but after a few weeks, I soon started to wonder if she just saw me as another one of her little projects.