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“Miss Daniels,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. Gianni has moved closer. I see him standing with his hands in his pockets, his suit making him appear as if he’s arrived for another day at work.
“I’ve watched the CCTV footage, and what transpired at the back of the shop is pretty clear. But I still need you to go through exactly what happened.” His voice is full of authority, with no bedside manner. He wants the job done. Ideally, half an hour ago.
I explain what happened, trying not to miss anything. I don’t want to relive it. I want to block it out and pretend it never happened, but this guy isn’t going to leave any stone unturned. He jots down my words, scribbling in what I imagine to be messy handwriting, his eyes analyzing my every word. He’s working out how trustworthy I am, and I’m wondering how good he is at his job.
“We have a clear shot of him on the CCTV for height, clothes, etcetera, but I need you to think about his face. What did he look like? Was there anything that made him stand out? Anything that would make him identifiable?”
I pause, with my mouth slightly open. I know what I must do, but I must get it right. I have a duty to Lewis and his family. This isn’t about me anymore. I can also see Gianni listening out of the corner of my eye.
“Miss Daniels, this is a murder investigation. Your witness statement could mean the difference between catching the guy who did this and him walking away a free man. Do I need to remind you of this?” I shake my head. I want to pick at my nails, a habit that comes with nerves, but I don’t want to look at my hands. “I need a description.”
“I don’t need to give you a description,” I begin. The inspector is open-mouthed and ready to argue. “I know who the man is.”
Silence swarms the ambulance. Klein regards me in a whole different light. This isn’t what he expected. Maybe he’d chalked it up to a robbery gone wrong. A junkie, maybe, hanging out by the bins, ready to jump a young staff member to make away with a bit of cash. But now I’ve thrown a curveball his way. I’ve also gotten Gianni’s attention. He’s staring at me, his hands still deep in his pockets.
“When you say you know him, Miss Daniels, I presume you mean you have a name?”
“Yes, I know his name. He has two. He has been going by Richard Grant for the last few months, but that isn’t his real name.” I allow Klein to write this down before I continue. “His real name is Carl Hardaker.” The silence is still buzzing in the background, Klein lining up the questions in his head.
“What you are saying, Miss Daniels, is that you know this man?”
“Yes.”
“In what respect do you know him?” Klein eyes me. He’s busy formulating a new theory. A love triangle. A domestic argument. An old boyfriend who bears a grudge.
I gulp. I don’t want to tell Klein. It reveals too much about my past, a time I don’t relish reliving, but I think of Lewis, and I have no choice.
“I met Carl Hardaker when I was fourteen. He lived with my family and me for one year when my mom and dad were foster parents.” Gianni stares at me. He doesn’t yet know what this has to do with Cora. Maybe he thinks this is simply another man I have under my belt.
“So, he came to your family through the foster system?”
“Yes, my parents were fosters for many years, but Carl was the last child they fostered.”
“Was there a reason for that?”
I falter, hoping they don’t notice my hesitation. “Carl was a very troubled child. My mom was great with the kids we fostered, and my dad had the patience of a saint, but Carl was different. I’m not sure what Carl’s childhood was like. My mom and dad were probably told, but they never shared anything about it with us. We were always taught to treat the foster kids like one of the family.”
“And how old was he when he came to your family?”
“He was fifteen.”
Whatever he’d endured in the past, when he came to us, he was polite, courteous, and well-mannered. He was thoughtful, talkative at times, and appeared grateful for the sanctuary my parents had offered him.
But he wasn’t like all the others. It was as if something descended upon the house, something unnatural and unnerving, and it seemed as if I was the only one who had sensed the change.
I didn’t see the scarred young man doing everything he could to put his past behind him. I didn’t hear the rational speech of a young adult trying to forget his former life.
I saw the stony look in his eyes when he raised his forced smile.
I heard the cracks in his proficient dialect like an old building set upon uneven ground.
I saw beneath the hooded guise.
But no one else seemed to see it. So I began to doubt myself. Was I the one with the problem? Was I seeing things that weren’t actually there? No.
I knew.
