I shake my head, still a little worried about how this is going to sound.
“It was a picture of a group of us.”
“Okay…”
“I left the bedroom, just for a few minutes, and when I came back there was a black cross drawn over Rachel’s face.”
He frowns and doesn’t say anything for a while.
“Can I see it?”
“No. It was in my bag, the one that got stolen from the car.”
“Who else was in the photo?”
I still feel uneasy about telling him this part. I wonder if he’ll think I was drunk and did it myself, then lost the picture. That explanation certainly crossed my mind. He takes a step closer. Too close.
“Anna, if other women might be in danger, I need to know about it.”
“It’s just a picture from twenty years ago. It might not mean anything. But it’s of me, Rachel Hopkins, Helen Wang, a girl you wouldn’t remember, and…”
“Who?”
“Your sister.”
Him
Wednesday 09:30
I call Zoe as soon as Anna has gone.
I watched my ex-wife being driven away by her cameraman, with an uneasy feeling I can’t explain. She looked more vulnerable just now than she has for a long time. Sometimes I forget who she really is, underneath the tough exterior. The version of herself she presents to the rest of the world isn’t the same as the woman who was once my wife.
Zoe seems amused by her older brother’s sudden concern for her safety and well-being. I don’t explain why I’m worried, or mention the photo. Instead, I just listen to the familiar sound of her voice, as she insists for the third time that she is safe and that the house is completely secure. I ask her to turn on our parents’ old burglar alarm—I’m fairly sure we are the only two people who know the code—then I do my best to get back to my job. I’ve always been a bit concerned that Zoe’s past might catch up with her one day. My sister got in with the wrong crowd for a while when we were young. I know, because I did too.
It turns out to be another long and tedious morning, consisting of my second trip to the pathologist, new reports to write, lengthy briefings with an inexperienced team, more unanswered questions as well as questions to answer. Along with the worst part of my job: telling a parent that their child is dead. Age is never a factor in the pain that particular news inflicts. Everyone is somebody’s child, no matter how old they are.
“Who did this?” asked Helen Wang’s elderly mother, as though she thought I knew the answer.
I sat in her front room, not drinking the Earl Grey tea she insisted on making, or touching the tin of shortbread biscuits open on the table. Her gray hair was cut in the same Cleopatra style as her daughter’s, and her immaculate clothes looked like something a much younger woman would wear. There was no longer a Mr. Wang, and she lived alone in an orderly but unremarkable house. She started crying as soon as we arrived, and I think she already knew something was wrong.
I spared her the majority of the details regarding how Helen was found at the school, but I won’t be able to stop her from reading them in the press. She’ll know about the drugs we found at her daughter’s home soon too. I can already imagine the headlines: The Headmistress with a Habit.
I normally let junior detectives inform next of kin, just like I had to when I was working my way up. But I missed knowing about Rachel’s husband, and her mobile phone, when I sent Priya last time. I don’t plan to make the same mistake twice.
I’m instructed by those on higher salaries than my own to give another scripted press statement. Preparing for the performance eats into my afternoon. I choose to do it outside Surrey Police HQ this time, in an attempt to keep journalists away from the school, and although I see Anna standing there among the other reporters, she doesn’t ask a single question. When I retreat back inside, someone has turned on the TV in the office—presumably to watch the press conference on BBC News—and I see my ex-wife on the screen. It’s as though she is staring right at me.
I don’t know what to say at first when Priya invites me for a drink after work.
“Thanks, but with Blackdown being like it is, there’s nowhere we could go without the locals or the media trying to eavesdrop every word of our conversation.”
“I did think of that, sir. Perhaps a drink at my place, where it would be more private?”
I don’t know what face I pull, but from her reaction I’m guessing it can’t be good. She starts to speak again before I can form a response, and I dread to think what she might say next.