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‘It wasn’t him, sir,’ Priya interrupts.
‘I wouldn’t have expected you to be guilty of ageism, Priya. Someone being over sixty doesn’t disqualify them from being a suspect. You know as well as I do that it’s almost always the husband.’
‘He’s eighty-two, bedbound and has twenty-four-hour live-in care. He can’t use the bathroom without assistance, so chasing a woman through the woods seemed like a bit of a stretch. Sir.’
The pathologist clears his throat a second time, and I turn my attention back to him.
‘I was told that you found something?’
‘Inside her mouth, yes,’ he says quickly, as if we have already taken up too much of his time. ‘I thought you might like to see it before I run some tests.’
His apron makes a shh noise as he walks to the side of the room. He removes his dirty gloves with an unpleasant thwack, washes his hands for an uncomfortably long time, dries them on a towel, then slips on a new pair, before flexing his fingers repeatedly. To say the man is strange would be an understatement. He picks up a small rectangular metal tray, and comes to stand on my side of the table, like a ghoulish waiter serving an unpleasant appetiser.
I stare down at the red-and-white object.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
The question is a lie because I already know the answer.
‘It’s a friendship bracelet,’ Priya says, coming closer to get a better view. ‘Girls make them for each other out of different coloured thread.’
‘And this was inside the victim’s mouth?’ I ask, ignoring her now, and looking at him.
The pathologist smiles, and I see that his teeth are unnaturally white and a little too big for his face. Once again, he looks as though he is enjoying his job more than he should.
‘It wasn’t just in her mouth,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The friendship bracelet was tied around the victim’s tongue.’
Her
Tuesday 11:30
I wrap my coat around my shoulders, feeling the cold now, before turning on the engine. I’m about to drive away when I see a white van pull up behind me. A small, thin woman gets out, wearing a baseball cap and dressed in black clothes that are too large for her tiny frame. She’s young, but a worried expression is pulled across her face and casts a series of premature lines.
I watch as she carries a large box to my mother’s front door, before dumping it on the porch. She doesn’t knock, or even try to close the gate behind her when she leaves.
I lower my window as she passes me by.
‘Hello, I—’
The words slip out of my mouth as though by accident, and the woman gives me an odd look and a slightly wide berth instead of a reply. She’s gone before I get to ask what was inside the box. It reminds me of another time when I arrived home to find people I did not recognise coming in and out of our garden gate.
I left school at lunchtime the day the headmistress said that my fees hadn’t been paid. I just walked out without a word. It felt like the whole school was staring at me, and I couldn’t take it any longer. We weren’t rich – far from it, living in our little old house with its damp-infused rooms, draughty windows, and homemade everything – but my parents believed that education could overcome anything. I had attended private school from the age of eleven, and the year when I was due to sit my GCSEs was not a great time to stop. So, I hurried home, hoping that my mother had a secret stash of cash somewhere.
She didn’t.
When I got there, far earlier than I should have, strange men were coming out of our house, carrying boxes. I stood on the lawn in the garden allowing them to pass me on the path, and only started to panic when two men came out of the front door with our TV. Unlike a lot of homes those days, we still only had the one. I rushed inside to find my mother standing in an empty room.
‘Why are you home?’ she said. ‘Are you sick?’
‘Why are they taking all our stuff?’
I was always good at answering questions with questions. It was one of the many skills I learned during childhood that has come in handy as a journalist.
‘Things have been a little difficult, money wise, since your father… left us. A lot of our things were bought on credit cards and I can’t pay for them on my own.’
‘Because you’re a cleaner?’
I hated myself for the way I said it, not just the words themselves.
‘Well, yes. My job doesn’t pay as much as your father’s used to.’
I knew she had only started cleaning other people’s houses because we needed the money. She wasn’t really qualified to do anything else – that’s why she wanted me to finish school; because she hadn’t.
‘Can’t we just call Dad and ask him to send us some money?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
‘I only know that you said he was gone and was never coming back, and now we can’t afford to have a TV.’
‘We’ll get a new one once I’ve managed to save up, I promise. Word is starting to spread and I’m getting more and more work. It won’t take long.’
‘And what about my school? They pulled me out of class today, said that my fees hadn’t been paid. Everyone stared at me.’
She looked like she might cry and that wasn’t what I wanted to see. I wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be all right, but I didn’t get to hear that either.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, and took a step towards me. I took a step back. ‘I’ve tried everything that I can think of, but we’re going to have to find you a new school.’
‘But that’s where all my friends are…’
She didn’t reply, perhaps because she knew I didn’t really have any.
‘What about my exams?’ I persisted; she couldn’t deny those.
‘I’m sorry, but we’ll find somewhere good.’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry! That’s all you ever say!’
I stormed past her and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I noticed that it was the only room in the house where nothing had been taken, but I didn’t say anything about that. Instead I yelled loud enough for her to hear before slamming my door.
‘You are ruining my life.’
It was only years later that I understood how wrong I was; she had been trying to save it.
I stare at the box delivered to my mother’s porch just now, then use my phone to Google the name written on the side. It’s a cheap and nasty meals on wheels company. The idea of my mother – a woman who for years would only eat organic food or things she grew herself – eating ready meals makes me want to cry. But I don’t.
Holding my phone in my hand has sparked something in me, the beginning of an idea that I already know isn’t good, but sometimes bad ideas turn out to be the best. I’m aware that Jack didn’t tell me that the victim was Rachel Hopkins so I could broadcast it, but if I’m going to save my career I need to get back on-air. I call the newsroom. Then I dial my cameraman’s number and Richard answers immediately, almost as though he had been watching and waiting for my call.
A couple of hours later, I’m hooked up and about to do a live two-way on the programme I used to present. Rachel’s social media accounts were public and also, unsurprisingly, full of photos of herself. I selected a few and sent them to the producer back at base to build a graphic. Richard filmed a couple of shots outside her home, and then we gathered some short interviews with local residents – none of whom really knew her, but were more than happy to speak as though they did.
