And then she departs.
Hannah opens the water and pours it, more to have something to do than because she is really thirsty. And then, because she has the increasing feeling that if she doesn’t bring it up they will never get to the point, she says, “So. What did you want to ask me?”
Geraint flushes, and for a moment there is a flicker of almost absurd relief on his face, as though she has absolved him of something. He swallows his coffee with determination and speaks.
“So. Yes. First of all, thanks for agreeing to talk about this. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to revisit all this so many years on.”
Amen, Hannah thinks, but she says nothing, only waits for him to continue.
“So a bit of background about me—I first heard about the case when I was a teenager and I guess… well, I guess I was just fascinated really. I was a bit of a morbid kid and there was something about it, something about April…” He trails off.
I bet there was, Hannah thinks, but again, she does not say it. She knows, though, exactly what that something was that Geraint is talking about—the shots of April’s lovely, high-cheekboned face, the photographs of her lounging on the banks of the Isis, one shoulder bare as the strap of her top slipped down her arm. April was every spotty young teenager’s fantasy girlfriend, and the fact that she had been murdered probably only made her more unattainable and therefore safer to desire.
“So anyway,” Geraint is saying, “I kept reading accounts of the case, and earlier this year I did this long-form article about it—it was called ‘Death of an It Girl—Ten Years On, Ten Unanswered Questions.’ Maybe you read it?”
Hannah shakes her head. She’s unsure whether to be honest, whether to tell Geraint that she hasn’t read any press about April’s murder for years, but Geraint is still talking.
“The piece went kind of viral and, well, long story short, I’ve been commissioned to do a ten-part podcast on the case.”
“Okay,” Hannah says slowly. She’s not sure why, but a podcast makes her feel even more uneasy than an article. Then something occurs to her. “You’re not recording this conversation, are you?”
“Um, I mean, no,” Geraint says, a little awkwardly. “Not yet. That’s to say, I usually do record stuff just for my own records, but I wouldn’t broadcast anything from today. I’m still in the research stage. Would you rather I didn’t? I can just take notes if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
“I would prefer that,” Hannah says a little stiffly. She knows she’s being irrational—what’s the difference between a quote on paper versus recorded on a phone? And yet the idea of Geraint capturing her trembling voice talking about that night—it feels unbearable.
“Okay, sure,” Geraint says. He puts his phone away and takes out a pen and a notebook. “Look, I want to be really clear, I don’t want this to be a whitewash. I’m not out to prove Neville’s innocence if he really did it. In fact that’s why I wanted to talk to you, make sure I did justice to the case against him. I just—I just want to understand what happened. There’s gaps I’ve never been able to fill in.”
Hannah says nothing at that. She is holding the water glass so tight her fingers are white.
“Could you—would you mind just… going over what happened that night?” Geraint asks now. His expression is diffident, and he is twisting his fingers together, playing with his pen.
Hannah takes a deep breath. This is not new, it’s all stuff she has gone over a thousand times before; you would think the pain would have dulled, but it hasn’t, or not completely. Still, it’s better if she just gives Geraint chapter and verse, and then he can go away and get rid of whatever little conspiracy theory he’s dreamed up.
“It was late. I’d been in the college bar. Hugh was there, and so was Ryan. Emily was working on some problems in the library. Will wasn’t in college, he’d gone home for the weekend. It was the last night of April’s play, Medea, and we’d arranged this celebration—special cocktails and everything. And about three-quarters of the way through the evening, April went up to our room to change… and she never came back. So I went to find her.”
She closes her eyes, remembering. Remembering the feel of the grass beneath her feet as she and Hugh ran lightly across the Fellows’ Garden. The glow coming from April’s bedroom window as they crossed the quad.
And then, Neville. Slipping out of the opening to the number 7 staircase, his steps surprisingly quiet for such a big man. She had stopped, frozen, half expecting him to see her—but if he did he gave no sign of it. He just turned and hurried off into the night, and she had continued to the foot of the stairwell.