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Helen was hit by a car and died at the scene. Police were unable to trace the driver.
‘No one wants to listen. It’s like they just want to forget Helen ever existed.’
Lara looked at Stella.
‘What’s the date? When did Helen die?’
Stella scrolled to the top of the news item.
‘Two weeks before Sandrine died.’
Their eyes met.
‘We have to speak to her parents.’
‘They’re in Edinburgh,’ said Stella, who had already found them online. ‘I can look up their number.’
Lara looked at her watch. Then she strode over to a cupboard and grabbed her spare helmet.
‘Do it on the way,’ she said, shoving the helmet at Stella. ‘If we hurry, we can just make the sleeper train.’
Chapter 22
At ten to seven in the morning, Edinburgh felt deser
ted. The sleeper train had delivered them like magic into the centre of the Scottish capital and as Lara and Stella rode up the escalators onto Princes Street, it had the air of a place which had yet to wake up. Lara could sympathise. A combination of their spontaneous dash up to Euston, the excitement of being in an actual cabin with an actual shower cubicle – and the whisky selection in the dining car had meant that they had stayed up far too late. Lara squinted in the grey light and raised a hand to cover her eyes. Stella had, with her customary efficiency, arranged to have a hire car delivered to the Balmoral Hotel right next to the station and the moment she had the keys, Lara slid gratefully into the driver’s seat and flipped the sun-visor down.
She was running on empty, drained physically and emotionally; Lara knew she was close to the edge. Her skin felt thin, her eyes raw, but even through it all, Lara was struck by the bleak beauty of the city, the sun shining off the grey granite, all the buildings tall and thin, crowded together, spooky burrows in between.
They drove the hire car out towards Merchiston, a suburb to the west of the city. It was made up of large stone houses, affluent and respectable.
‘This is the place,’ said Stella, checking the map. As they pulled up, Lara caught a face at the window, pale, fleeting, before it pulled back.
‘D’you think we’ll get a warm welcome?’ asked Stella, catching the movement. It wasn’t something they’d really had time to consider before they’d bought their tickets.
‘Too late to back out now,’ whispered Lara, taking a breath, reminded of her early days as a reporter doorstepping. Hammering on doors, trying to get exclusive interviews – it was grim, unpleasant work, but it was a rite of passage when you were a young journalist trying to impress the editor and win your spurs. Lara knew she’d been sent out onto the streets more than most, however. They were testing her mettle, seeing if Nicholas Avery’s niece was up to the job. Hoping she would fail.
The door opened as they walked along the path. A woman stood there, early fifties, shoulder-length beige hair, flecked with grey. She looked as tired.
‘Lara?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Lara, showing her press card. ‘Mrs. Groves? This is my colleague Stella. Thank you for seeing us.’
A man appeared at her shoulder. He was tall and lean, older than the woman, but not by much. His was a more genial face. In happier times, Lara supposed you’d find him at Wimbledon, a panama on his head and a Pimm’s in his hand.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said with more warmth than his wife, ‘I’m Ian, this is Callie.’
They were ushered into a pin-neat living room. Lara found herself picturing a teenage Helen sitting on the sofa, flicking through a magazine or her phone, wishing she were miles away from here.
‘So you said on the phone that you were looking into Helen’s…’ Mrs. Groves stumbled on the word, then recovered. ‘…Her passing?’
‘Yes,’ said Lara. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me what happened?’
‘You don’t know?’ said the woman, glancing at her husband.
‘We assumed you had some information for us,’ said Ian, jumping in.
‘I am investigating the circumstances of Helen’s accident. It’s part of a bigger piece about the dangers of young women abroad, but yes, we’d also like to find out more about what happened to your daughter specifically.’
