Greenwich Park, Katherine Faulkner [ereader android .txt] 📗

much needed triumph for the force and the Crown Prosecution Service, and I can see that the media glory is to be reserved for the top brass.

‘I would like to pay tribute to the courage of the victim in this case,’ Chief Constable Bannon is saying to the circle of outstretched hands holding booms and microphones. ‘That young woman has shown a great deal of resilience and strength in very difficult circumstances. I sincerely hope that the guilty verdict will provide some closure on her horrendous ordeal, and that she will be able to rebuild her life, which was shattered by these events.’

I’d already had the printed handout of what he was going to say, the press release with IN THE EVENT OF CONVICTION emblazoned on the top. I don’t need to hear the live version. Instead I slip away from the pack, get in my car and tap in the postcode of the hotel where I’ve arranged to meet both DCI Carter and Emily, the girl at the centre of what has turned into the biggest court case of the year.

Emily has brought her sister along for support. They sit together on a sofa in the hotel room I have booked, overlooking Parker’s Piece. The cake and drinks I nervously laid out sit untouched on the coffee table between us.

While I talk to her, DCI Carter sits at the back of the room, nursing a takeaway coffee. He throws me stern glances as I fiddle with the dictaphone, pour glasses of water. In the end, he needn’t have worried. Emily is clear and brave. She ignores the photographer, and he gets on with his job. She looks me in the eye, answers all my questions. She does not shed a tear. I notice that her spine is now straighter, her gaze unafraid to meet mine. And I learn, for the first time, what power there is in justice, in being believed.

By the time we have finished it is dark outside. There is a drizzle of rain. The paving stones are dark and wet, the headlamps of cars bright in the distance. DCI Carter holds an umbrella over Emily and her sister while I hail them a cab, pay the driver in cash.

‘Thank you,’ I tell Emily.

She nods. ‘Don’t forget to send me that copy, like you said.’

‘I won’t.’

Then, for the first time since I’ve met her, she smiles. ‘Thank you too.’

I watch as the brake lights on the taxi recede into darkness, the puddles on the pavement bright with the lights of cars. The wind picks up. I pull my scarf up over my chin, turn to my left. DCI Carter is still there, still holding the umbrella, staring after the taxi.

‘I have you to thank for that, I suspect,’ I say. I have to raise my voice over the rain.

‘Not at all,’ he mutters. ‘Entirely her choice.’

I smile. I don’t believe him.

‘Well, thank you anyway.’

He turns away, embarrassed. Then he pushes the umbrella into my hand. ‘Here you go,’ he says. ‘Don’t get wet.’ His fingers are warm against mine. He looks at me for a moment, and I can’t make out his expression. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, turns on his heel and disappears into the darkness.

As soon as DCI Carter has gone, I race back to the hotel room, slam the door shut behind me. I flip out my laptop, fire off an email to the desk, tell them the interview is in the bag, but that they will have to wait for copy. I hadn’t told them it was definitely happening until now – I’ve found it’s best to manage expectations. They call me straight away, but I ignore my vibrating phone. They just need to let me write. I skip back to the start of the sound file and hit play. I work fast, have a sense of writing well. The noise of the rain outside somehow seems to help my mind to focus. There is a lot here, I think to myself, relieved. More than enough.

When my phone vibrates for the third time, I hit pause, pull out my single headphone and snatch it up.

‘Hugh, I’m going as fast as I can,’ I snap.

‘Katie? It’s Sally.’

At first I can’t place the name. Then I remember. Sally in the flat below. Sally who is feeding Socks, my cat, while I’m in Cambridge.

‘Sally? Hi. Is everything all right? Socks OK?’ My stomach twists. Immediately I think of the screech of tyres, the joyriders who speed down Dartmouth Park Road at night. A splatter of blood across the tarmac.

‘Socks is fine.’ She hesitates. There is a silence on the line for a moment, a slight fizzing noise. ‘It’s just, um, there’s a couple of police officers here.’

‘Police? For me?’

‘Yes.’ She coughs. ‘They said something about a missing girl – Rachel something?’

I frown. ‘Rachel?’

‘They um …’ I can hear someone in the background, a man’s voice, his tone sharp, impatient. I hear Sally murmur something back, then clear her throat. ‘They were wondering when you might be back?’

HELEN

As they sit down at our kitchen table, the tall officer pulling his tie loose from his shirt, reaching his long fingers into his breast pocket for a pen, I feel a gathering sickness, a heaviness in the pit of my abdomen.

I clear my throat. ‘Can I get either of you a hot drink? I’m making a latte for myself anyway.’

Neither of them answers. I decide to start making coffees anyway. I feel it is important, somehow, that I make them. Establish myself in the role of helpful witness, respectable local property owner. Someone who is on their side.

‘Rachel has been reported missing,’ DS Mitre is saying. ‘A family member contacted us, concerned for her welfare. We’re keen to try and establish where she might be.’

‘Oh. I see.’

I can hear a waver in my voice. For God’s sake, I think.

I concentrate on steaming the milk, holding the jug at an angle, my hands trembling.