‘Nice offices they have over there.’ I point to The Therapy Rooms across the road.
‘I saw you come out,’ she says.
I nod. ‘Have you ever been in there?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I used to work there.’
‘Oh!’ I wasn’t expecting that. ‘What did you do?’
‘I worked forA Meeting of Minds.’
I shift in my chair. ‘I went to one of their conventions at the weekend.’ I tap my fingers on the table. ‘Down in Brighton.’
‘Really? I used to help out at those conventions.’
‘What did you do for them?’
‘Admin, mainly. In reality – you could say I was a general dogsbody.’
‘Why did you leave?’
She twists her lips. ‘I was told my services were no longer required. That was it. Crazy. Totally crazy. I really enjoyed working there.’
‘That’s not very helpful.’
‘I have my suspicions. I got too close to the owner, and my manager didn’t like it. Well, it’s not that she didn’t like it. The owner’s wife didn’t like it. She works there, too.’
‘Justin?’ I say.
‘Steady on.’ She holds up both hands in mock horror. ‘It’s Marcus, always Marcus in the workplace. We have to use his alter ego during work hours.’
I laugh. ‘Really?’
‘You’d better believe it. So, you know him?’
‘He was speaking at the weekend.’
‘He used to come in here all the time, but I heard his wife is ill now. Cancer, I believe. And the coffee-shop grapevine tells me that his mother went to live with them, so he doesn’t come into the office so much these days.’
‘What’s wrong with his mother?’ I ask.
‘Dementia.’
I think of Granny. ‘That’s tough. Where does he live?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. Outside of London somewhere.’ She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing a name tag: Immy.
22
SCARLETT
The police station smells of stale coffee and years of regret. The man with smooth skin and slicked-back hair at the front desk takes my details and points to the packed waiting area.
I scan the people around me. Such a mix of attitude and emotions. A pale-faced woman with long, greasy hair cries into a tissue. An old guy is bent forward, staring into nothingness at the floor, elbows on his knees, hands clamped together. Another lies back in his chair, legs sprawled out in front, scrolling on his phone, seemingly totally unaffected by his surroundings. I wonder what all these people are doing here. What they’ve done, or what they’ve had done to them.
Detective Sergeant Tim Porter appears. I first met him when he came to visit me and Mum at her house. He’s fresh-faced and seems younger than I recall, or have I just aged in the past month? He recognises me straight away. ‘Scarlett. Come through.’
He takes me to a room with two chairs positioned for conversation rather than interrogation around a coffee tableholding two plastic cups, a jug of water and a box of tissues. He gestures to one of the chairs. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He’s a good-looking guy, late twenties, with the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen. ‘Can I get you a hot drink?’ He gives a small laugh. ‘If you fancy one in this stifling weather. This heat’s unbearable.’
