the drawn curtains slightly parted, looking downwards.
‘I was right,’ she said. ‘Look.’
Phil looked. Down below them was the River Colne. And the lightship.
He looked at her. ‘Coincidence?’
‘No such thing,’ she said. ‘Not in cases like this.’
Phil looked at his new junior officer. Saw only sadness and concern in her eyes. And a copper’s hunger for answers. Good, thought Phil. The right stuff. Then looked again out of the window.
The white tent had been erected on the boat, a temporary barrier placed along the road. A small crowd of print journalists, photographers and TV cameras had gathered behind the barrier and Detective Chief Inspector Ben Fenwick was still down there giving an address. Or practising his clichés, thought Phil.
‘There he is,’ said Phil. ‘King Cliché rides again.’
Without looking at her, Phil felt Rose bridle and stiffen beside him. He had said that deliberately to see what her reaction would be. He knew now. She was sleeping with his boss. And no doubt telling him everything he said. Phil would have to watch himself. Or make sure he only said things he wanted to get back to Fenwick.
Phil sighed. ‘Time to pay the parents a visit, I think.’
‘We don’t know for definite it’s her, do we? Shouldn’t we wait?’
Phil gestured to the crowd of reporters below them. ‘And let one of them do it instead? I think we should at least talk to them.’
Rose nodded.
They would move in a moment. But for now they just stood there. The room still and tomb-like behind them.
16
T he bell rang again.
Suzanne stayed where she was, slumped against the front door.
Was it him? Back again? Had he hidden himself outside, waiting for the police to leave, to see Suzanne return alone? Was it?
The doorbell rang again.
Suzanne stared at the door, at the chains across, at the lock. Hoped it would be strong enough. She reached out a hand to open it, pulled it back. Just stared at it.
‘Leave me alone . . . leave me alone . . .’
The angry resolve of a few moments ago was dissipating. Panic was again threatening to overwhelm her. Her heart began pumping like sports car pistons, pounding the blood round her body. She stretched out her hand.
Her third-floor flat in the old Edwardian house had no entry phone or intercom system. If someone rang, they had to be let in manually. Down three flights of stairs to the front of the house.
No. Opening the door was one thing. Going down all those stairs - alone - was another. So she stayed where she was. Waited.
The bell didn’t sound again.
They had gone, left her in peace. Suzanne sighed.
Then her phone rang.
She jumped again. Looked around. The handset lay on the floor, the plastic and metal flashing and bleating.
‘No, just . . . just fuck off . . .’
It kept ringing, an insistent, piercing, metallic clang. She stayed where she was, eyes screwed tight shut. Wanting it to end, wanting to be somewhere - anywhere - else.
The phone kept ringing.
Until the answerphone kicked in, her voice telling the caller to leave a message, then the tone.
Then: ‘Hey, Suzanne, it’s me. I’m outside now, you—’
Zoe. Her best friend. She got to her knees, made her way into the living room, grabbed the phone.
‘Zoe?’ She was breathing heavily, like the last few minutes had given her an hour’s worth of gym workout.
‘You OK? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh . . . oh . . .’ Struggling to get her breath.
Zoe’s voice was full of concern. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s started again, Zoe, it’s started again . . .’
Suzanne stared into her coffee mug. It was one of her favourites, an Indian design in various swirling shades of turquoise, bought from The Pier before the shop crashed and disappeared.
Before her life did the same.
‘C’mon, then.’ Zoe sat in the same place Anni Hepburn had occupied earlier. She placed her mug on a side table and stray strands of perfectly coloured blonde hair fell, as if by design,
‘I was right,’ she said. ‘Look.’
Phil looked. Down below them was the River Colne. And the lightship.
He looked at her. ‘Coincidence?’
‘No such thing,’ she said. ‘Not in cases like this.’
Phil looked at his new junior officer. Saw only sadness and concern in her eyes. And a copper’s hunger for answers. Good, thought Phil. The right stuff. Then looked again out of the window.
The white tent had been erected on the boat, a temporary barrier placed along the road. A small crowd of print journalists, photographers and TV cameras had gathered behind the barrier and Detective Chief Inspector Ben Fenwick was still down there giving an address. Or practising his clichés, thought Phil.
‘There he is,’ said Phil. ‘King Cliché rides again.’
Without looking at her, Phil felt Rose bridle and stiffen beside him. He had said that deliberately to see what her reaction would be. He knew now. She was sleeping with his boss. And no doubt telling him everything he said. Phil would have to watch himself. Or make sure he only said things he wanted to get back to Fenwick.
Phil sighed. ‘Time to pay the parents a visit, I think.’
‘We don’t know for definite it’s her, do we? Shouldn’t we wait?’
Phil gestured to the crowd of reporters below them. ‘And let one of them do it instead? I think we should at least talk to them.’
Rose nodded.
They would move in a moment. But for now they just stood there. The room still and tomb-like behind them.
16
T he bell rang again.
Suzanne stayed where she was, slumped against the front door.
Was it him? Back again? Had he hidden himself outside, waiting for the police to leave, to see Suzanne return alone? Was it?
The doorbell rang again.
Suzanne stared at the door, at the chains across, at the lock. Hoped it would be strong enough. She reached out a hand to open it, pulled it back. Just stared at it.
‘Leave me alone . . . leave me alone . . .’
The angry resolve of a few moments ago was dissipating. Panic was again threatening to overwhelm her. Her heart began pumping like sports car pistons, pounding the blood round her body. She stretched out her hand.
Her third-floor flat in the old Edwardian house had no entry phone or intercom system. If someone rang, they had to be let in manually. Down three flights of stairs to the front of the house.
No. Opening the door was one thing. Going down all those stairs - alone - was another. So she stayed where she was. Waited.
The bell didn’t sound again.
They had gone, left her in peace. Suzanne sighed.
Then her phone rang.
She jumped again. Looked around. The handset lay on the floor, the plastic and metal flashing and bleating.
‘No, just . . . just fuck off . . .’
It kept ringing, an insistent, piercing, metallic clang. She stayed where she was, eyes screwed tight shut. Wanting it to end, wanting to be somewhere - anywhere - else.
The phone kept ringing.
Until the answerphone kicked in, her voice telling the caller to leave a message, then the tone.
Then: ‘Hey, Suzanne, it’s me. I’m outside now, you—’
Zoe. Her best friend. She got to her knees, made her way into the living room, grabbed the phone.
‘Zoe?’ She was breathing heavily, like the last few minutes had given her an hour’s worth of gym workout.
‘You OK? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh . . . oh . . .’ Struggling to get her breath.
Zoe’s voice was full of concern. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s started again, Zoe, it’s started again . . .’
Suzanne stared into her coffee mug. It was one of her favourites, an Indian design in various swirling shades of turquoise, bought from The Pier before the shop crashed and disappeared.
Before her life did the same.
‘C’mon, then.’ Zoe sat in the same place Anni Hepburn had occupied earlier. She placed her mug on a side table and stray strands of perfectly coloured blonde hair fell, as if by design,
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