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  I am shown to the interview room by a young woman in uniform who chats inanely to me as we walk through the corridors. We cover a lot of very British topics – the weather, traffic jams, the merits or otherwise of one-way systems. I can’t work out if this is a calculated way of relaxing me before I get pounced on, or if she’s just really boring.

  Under the harsh lights, I perch on the edge of the moulded plastic chair, turning my cardboard cup around and around on the beige tabletop. I look around surreptitiously, trying to work out if there’s a secret two-way mirror hidden somewhere like on TV, but I guess the CCTV camera on the wall is doing that job.

  DI Reynolds is talking on her phone when she opens the door, but she finishes the conversation quickly and smiles at me. She is bigger than I remember, although everything is amplified in this tiny room. I notice a raised mole on her cheek and red patches on her eyelids.

  ‘Louise. How are you doing?’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ ‘Very well’ would be pushing it.

  ‘This is DS Stebbings.’ She gestures at the suited man who has followed her in, a tall man in his fifties who sits down next to her, opposite me. I recognise him as the man who was with Reynolds the day I saw them driving away with Pete outside the offices of Foster and Lyme.

  Reynolds plunges straight in with her questions; there’s no chitchat about the weather with her. We go over the ground we’ve already covered, but this time I’m prepared for the questions about Pete. Yes, I spoke to him earlier in the evening. He seemed perfectly fine, in a good mood. I saw them argue, but then I don’t think I saw him again after that; he must have left. She’s clearly pursuing this as a line of enquiry, but when she realises she’s not getting anywhere, she gives up and moves on.

  ‘OK. We have witnesses who mentioned that Sophie spent a lot of time talking to Sam Parker and Matt Lewis. Would you agree with that?’

  ‘Yes. They were good friends of Sophie’s at school.’

  ‘More than friends, do you think? With either of them?’

  ‘Matt had a crush on her back then but I don’t know for sure if anything ever happened between them. They used to flirt, you know, but I think that was all it was, on her side anyway.’

  ‘And Sam?’

  ‘No,’ I say instantly. ‘Definitely not Sam.’

  Too quick. Reynolds looks alert, interested. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know if you already know this, but Sam and I were married. We split up two years ago.’

  ‘So you were… childhood sweethearts?’

  ‘No.’ What a repulsive phrase. She seems to think so too, the words foreign on her tongue. ‘I didn’t see him for years after we left school. We met again by chance in London ten years later, in ninety-nine.’

  ‘So what makes you so sure that Sophie never had a relationship with him?’

  ‘Well, I…’ What is it that makes me so certain? Because she knew I liked him? Do I honestly believe that would have stopped her? Because Sam never mentioned it? Maybe he wouldn’t have done; after all, it would have been ancient history by the time we got together.

  My silence clearly speaks volumes to Reynolds and she moves on.

  ‘And what about in the years since school – had Sophie kept in touch with Matt or Sam, or anyone else at the reunion?’

  ‘I think she was in touch with some people – she told me when I saw her before the reunion that she still saw Claire Barnes, and Matt Lewis. Maybe some others too.’

  ‘Was there any hint that she had had any sort of sexual relationship with Matt as an adult?’

  ‘No, she didn’t mention anything like that. Just that she saw him from time to time.’

  ‘And Sam? Had she seen him since your school days?’

  ‘He didn’t see her while he and I were together, as far as I know. But I wouldn’t know about the last two years. He… he’s married again, with a baby. We only speak because we have to now, about our son.’ Bringing Henry into the conversation draws the knot in my chest a little tighter. Our son, who might be in danger because of me. Part of me wants to break down, to tell Reynolds everything, beg her to protect my son. But I try to rationalise it. How much danger can Henry be in? I won’t be letting him out of my sight again after yesterday. He’s safe at school. Sam’s got him tonight, so I texted him this morning to ask if he had plans to take Henry out anywhere tonight, and he said he would be picking him up from after-school club and going straight home. He’s four years old, so he’s never alone. I can protect him.

  Reynolds is still looking at me enquiringly.

  ‘Things didn’t end all that well,’ I say. ‘Between me and Sam.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He left me for someone else.’ Even now I hate saying those words; hate the bald, hard fact of them. I wasn’t enough for him, even though I gave him everything I had. ‘Look, this hasn’t got anything to do with what happened to Sophie.’

  She makes a face that says she’ll be the judge of that.

  ‘OK. So how did Sophie seem, the night of the reunion? Is there anything that gives you pause, in the light of what happened subsequently?’

  ‘She was fine. Happy, apart from the argument with Pete, although I have no idea what that was about. But to be honest, I wouldn’t know whether she was her normal self or not. Like I said, I hadn’t seen her for over twenty-five years, except for that one night a few weeks ago.’

  ‘And you – you weren’t in touch with anyone from school? Apart from Sam?’

  ‘No. They weren’t exactly the happiest days of my life.’

  ‘What about Sam? You said he wasn’t in contact with Sophie. What about other old school friends? Was he in touch with anyone?’

  ‘He went out occasionally with Matt Lewis, but not often. I’m afraid I wasn’t that interested. Happiest days and all that.’

  I am prevaricating. It’s less that I wasn’t interested, more that I wanted nothing to do with Sharne Bay or our school days, and couldn’t understand why Sam didn’t want to cut the ties as well. On the nights he met up with Matt, I’d pretend to be asleep when he came in, mutter at him to tell me in the morning, and then when morning came find an excuse to be out of the house early.

  ‘And what about the other people at the reunion? We’re talking to the bar staff and the cleaners, of course, but there was a teacher there too, Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I believe he was a teacher there when you were at school?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Surely they don’t suspect him?

  ‘Did you speak to him at all, or see him at any point in the evening?’

  ‘Mr Jenkins? Only when I arrived. He was on the door. Look, has someone said something?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her face is inscrutable.

  ‘Well… when we were at school there were all these rumours about him. That he was… you know… a pervert. Liked sneaking around, watching the girls get changed, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I see.’ She’s not giving anything anyway.

  ‘But I’ve no idea if there was any truth to them. He certainly never did anything to me, and I never heard anything first-hand. It was always someone who knew someone. You know what teenagers can be like, how things get around. I wouldn’t want to suggest that he… you know…’

  ‘Of course.’

  Reynolds looks intently at me, her hands face down on the table.

  ‘I appreciate that you hadn’t seen Sophie for many years, and that you didn’t know much about her adult life, and of course we are pursuing various lines of enquiry,’ she says. ‘But we can’t ignore the fact that she was killed at her school reunion, an occasion loaded with significance at the best of times. Was there anything that happened in your school days, anything at all, that you think may have a bearing here?’

  I think of Maria’s face, glaring defiantly at me from my computer; of Sophie silhouetted against coloured glass, gathering herself for what was to come; of Tim at the top of the schoo
l drive, gesticulating at a figure in a black coat; of a golden necklace, twisted around a sixteen-year-old girl’s finger a lifetime ago.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Chapter 30

  2016

  Outside the police station, I walk steadily at a medium pace, in case Reynolds is watching me from an upstairs window. My car is parked in a nearby multi-storey, but I continue walking past the entrance, the rhythm of feet hitting pavement soothing me. Cars zoom past me with hypnotic regularity, a backdrop to my racing thoughts.

  How have I ended up here, lying to the police again? I remember the other detective, a kind man. I never knew exactly how much Maria’s mum Bridget had told him about me, but I don’t think he ever suspected any foul play. Esther’s testimony that Maria had been drinking was enough for him to conclude that a tragic accident was the most likely explanation. The rain that had begun to fall as we left the hall that night had continued all night, a relentless downpour that would have washed away any hope of physical evidence. Only Sophie, Sam, Matt and I knew exactly how tragic, and how far you would have to stretch the word accident, to make the official verdict anywhere close to accurate. At least, I think we were the only ones who knew.

  Even though I have left the police station far behind, I still have the feeling that someone is watching me. I can feel the heat on my back, like the glare of the sun, ostensibly benign but with the potential to burn, to scald. I walk faster, hyper-alert, trying to look like someone in an ordinary hurry, perhaps with a train to catch, or late for an appointment. When I reach Norwich town centre, I duck behind a crowd of tourists and swerve into Marks & Spencer, its familiarity a soothing balm. How do they make all their shops smell the same? In the food hall, standing in front of the sandwich counter staring unseeingly at the tuna sweetcorn and chicken salad, I slowly become aware that someone is watching me. I try to keep my eyes on the sandwiches, but cannot stop the heat that rises to my cheeks. There’s a harassed woman with two small children whinging for treats to my right, and next to her a greying man in a tired suit looking miserably at the low-fat section. My eyes slide beyond him and land on Tim Weston. He smiles and gives a half-wave, coming around behind the businessman and the woman with the children.

  ‘Louise, hi. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Buying a sandwich?’ I give a breathless laugh, trying to conceal my discomfort. Has Tim been following me?

  ‘Right. You came all the way to Norwich for a sandwich? They do have Marks & Spencers in London you know.’ His tone is light but there’s an accusation behind his words.

  I give in. ‘I’ve just been at the police station actually. Talking to them about Sophie Hannigan.’ There’s no point trying to avoid the subject.

  ‘Oh God, yes of course, I heard.’ His face falls. ‘It’s so awful. Do you… know any more about what happened to her?’

  ‘No, not really. They just wanted to talk to me, as someone that was there, you know. Someone that spoke to her at the reunion.’ Why am I trying to justify myself to him?

  ‘Right, right. It’s just such a horrific thing to have happened.’

  We stand there awkwardly for a moment.

  ‘Which one are you getting?’ he asks eventually.

  I look down at the sandwich in either hand, shove one of them blindly back into the fridge, and we walk to the tills together. We pay for our sandwiches in silence, and walk out of the shop together and along the pedestrianised street.

  ‘Which way are you going?’ he says.

  ‘Back to my car. It’s parked near the police station.’ I wave my hand in the general direction of Bethel Street.

  ‘I’ll walk with you, if that’s OK?’

  It’s not OK, really. There’s so much that’s unspoken between us, not just on my side but on his too. I am uncomfortably conscious of how little I know him, and how I don’t want him to know too much about me. We stand on the pavement waiting to cross a one-way street. Unfamiliar with the roads, I am looking the wrong way and as I step out, a car rockets towards me. My brain is moving slower than the car and as I hover in the road, I feel Tim’s fingers close on the top of my arm and haul me back to safety.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, seeing me rubbing my arm. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I give a shaky laugh. ‘I think I’d be worse off if you hadn’t grabbed me.’

  ‘They’re nutters, some of the drivers round here. Think they’re at Brands Hatch.’

  We cross carefully, and continue on our way in silence. I can’t help thinking of the figure at the top of the school drive.

  ‘So, you decided against going to the reunion then?’ I ask eventually. I see Tim in my mind’s eye, waving his arms and shouting, and then leaving with his arm around the small figure in black. Tim’s face closes down.

  ‘Yeah, I realised it would be a really bad idea. I’ve got my own life now. Best left well alone.’

  Then what was he doing at the top of the drive? And who was he with?

  ‘All that Facebook stuff,’ he goes on. ‘People from the past contacting you… it’s so easy to get sucked in, but what does it all mean, really? You’re better off focussing on your actual life, the one you’re living. Our family was never the same, after what happened… to Maria.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I don’t trust myself to speak, certain my voice will betray me.

  ‘I felt like I’d be dragging it all up again for no reason, if I went. So you’ve… have you got no idea what happened to Sophie?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘I heard she brought some bloke to the reunion? Someone she hardly knew?’

  ‘Yes, she was with a man. I’m not sure how well she knew him.’ There’s something about his interest in the details that makes me reluctant to share more than I have to with Tim.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I was gossiping, or making light of it,’ he says as we walk, having clearly picked up my signals. ‘I didn’t realise you and Sophie were still close.’

  ‘We’re not. I mean, we weren’t. I hadn’t really seen her since school.’

  ‘Oh, OK. It’s ironic, I didn’t go to the reunion because I didn’t want to drag up the past, and then this happens and I feel like the past has given me a big old slap in the face anyway.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I say. However this situation is resolved, I cannot see how I am ever going to feel any differently to the way I do now. I’ve spent a lifetime with this weight on my shoulders. It has shifted and turned, been heavier at certain times than at others, but it has never lifted completely and I can’t see how it ever will.

  ‘I know what Mum thinks,’ Tim says, ‘but I’ve never believed that Maria killed herself. She was stronger than that, you know? Even when she had all that trouble at her old school in London, I never thought for a moment that she’d give up.’

  For a heart-stopping moment I think he means that he suspects someone else had a hand in her death, but he continues speaking. ‘I’m sure the police were right. She must have drunk more than she was used to, and got confused about where she was, or maybe she went to the cliffs to get away from everyone for some reason, to be alone. And then she must have stumbled or… I don’t know. I thought I’d been able to stop turning it over and over in my mind, but this thing with Sophie, it’s got it all churned up again.’

  ‘What did happen, in London?’ I’ve still never got to the bottom of this. Maybe it’s time I did.

  ‘Did she never tell you?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She had tried, but I hadn’t let her. I knew if I let her get too close I’d never be able to pull back if I needed to.

  ‘There was this boy in her year who she was friendly with. But then he started to want more, told her he was in love with her. She told him she wasn’t interested, just wanted to be friends. But she felt a bit uncomfortable around him after that and pulled back, started spending less time with him. That’s when it started.’

  ‘When what started, exactly?’
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  ‘Notes in her bag at first, things like that: “Why won’t you see me any more?”; “I know we’re meant to be together”. Then he started waiting outside our house in the mornings before school, wanting to walk with her, and then when she wouldn’t he’d walk a few metres behind us all the way.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone? Your parents?’

  ‘Not at first. I mean, we used to laugh about it when it began. Also, I don’t know, teenagers didn’t tell their parents things in the eighties, did they? Not like they seem to now. The idea was that we got on with things ourselves. I hope my daughter’s not like that when she’s older.’