“I’m not really inviting you over for you—although you do look like you could do with a drink—it was more for myself, really. This is all a bit … new for me, and I don’t know anyone here. I’m living on my own at the moment, so there’s nobody for me to talk to when I get home. I guess I just didn’t fancy walking into the house alone, after seeing two women brutally murdered. That’s all.”
She stares at me, then examines her short fingernails, as though it is imperative that they are as neat and tidy as the rest of her. Women baffle me on a daily basis. That said, I do feel a smidgen of guilt. Priya is alone in a town where the locals aren’t always friendly to new faces. It isn’t as though I have anyone to rush home to either.
I weigh up my options and conclude that my colleague needs me more than my sister. Even though a nagging voice in my head tells me I should go home and check on Zoe, a louder one tells me not to. She’s always been able to take care of herself. Besides, all we ever do when we’re together is argue about money, or what to watch on Netflix. It’s not so different to when we fought over toys or the remote control as children. I’m sure Zoe would rather have the place to herself for the evening. Accepting Priya’s invitation would just mean having a friendly drink with a colleague; a perfectly normal and innocent thing to do. The right thing to do.
One hour and two beers later, Priya is cooking homemade burgers and sweet potato fries. Her house is on the edge of town. It’s a new build—one of those estates where the houses are on top of one another and all look the same, with red brick walls and PVC windows—but it’s nice enough. Rented, of course, but decked out in stylish furniture, and painted in a series of inoffensive neutral colors.
Everything is spotlessly clean, with low lighting and zero clutter. I note the lack of family photos, or anything remotely personal. If I’d ever given any thought to Priya’s home before now—which I hadn’t—I think I might have predicted Ikea or chintz, but I would have been wrong. Everything I thought I knew about her seems to have been a little off base. The only thing that looked out of place was my scruffy jacket when she hung it on the fancy-looking coatrack, and my shoes, which I took off in the hall. I was a little paranoid that she might notice they were a size ten.
“I just need to pop out for something I forgot,” she says, handing me another beer. “Make yourself at home and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
The expression sounds too old for her young voice, and it seems a little strange to leave me alone in her house. She turns on the small TV in the kitchen to entertain me, and I drink another beer while watching my ex on the BBC News channel. I’m unable to tell if Anna is live this time, or whether this is just a repeat of what she said earlier.
I do something stupid then. I don’t know whether it’s the beer, or the tiredness, or frankly whether I’m just losing my mind, but I switch on Rachel’s phone. I canceled the trace on it this afternoon—being in charge does have some benefits—and I need to know how her mobile got in my car. Feeling like someone is watching me and trying to set me up is starting to take its toll.
Her passcode is her date of birth—people can be so predictable—and as soon as the phone is unlocked I regret it. There are a mind-boggling number of selfies in her photos, endless suggestive texts to numbers and names I don’t recognize, and her most recent e-mail exchange was with Helen Wang. The subject of which appears to be me. I keep reading the final message Rachel wrote before we met that night.
I know Jack is a loser, but a friend in the force could have been useful. You’re right though, I’ll end it tonight. Maybe a good-bye shag to soften the blow?
So Rachel planned to dump me, and Helen knew.
The front door slams. I slip the phone back into my pocket, just before Priya reappears in the kitchen. A jiffy is by no means a specific length of time, but she must have been gone over half an hour. Longer than I expected, at any rate. She doesn’t appear to have bought anything either. A lifetime of living with my mother, my sister, and Anna has taught me to know when a woman doesn’t want to be asked any questions. So I don’t.
“This looks and smells delicious, thank you,” I say, as Priya puts a plate of food down in front of me. I’m not lying, it really does look great, and I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal. “I wasn’t expecting this,” I add.
“Were you expecting me to cook a curry?”
“God, no, I just meant that…”