Dead Man’s Daughter. Roz Watkins

could have driven from her mother’s house,’ I said. ‘At three-ish. Then killed him, and driven back, taking the route round the lanes that avoids the CCTV, either deliberately or for some other reason. Her mother could have remembered wrong. Or she could be lying about the loo visit. You know what mothers are like where their children are concerned.’

      ‘But why would Rachel go back there at half seven, and then leave again?’

      ‘Maybe she remembered she’d left some evidence. Or maybe she wanted to check Abbie was okay.’

      ‘I suppose she could have gone off to dispose of the knife and her clothes and then come back to Abbie. But then she left again.’

      ‘She might have realised there was something else she needed to get rid of,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to talk to Abbie. She was covered in blood when I found her so she must have gone into the bedroom and found her father while Rachel was out, poor kid. But she might have seen something. Maybe she remembers now.’

      ‘At least we’ve got a couple of good leads. Maybe it’ll work out okay with your gran.’

      I twitched and glanced into the corridor. Nobody was around but I still whispered. ‘Richard doesn’t know what I’m doing, remember. But yes, fingers crossed.’

      Jai leant closer to me and spoke quietly. ‘Are you okay? It must be pretty shitty.’

      I smiled. ‘That’s an accurate analysis of the situation.’

      He jumped up and pushed my door shut, then came back and actually sat on the spare chair. ‘When are you going to Switzerland?’

      ‘Thursday. I’ll spend Wednesday helping Mum get ready. And trying to spend some time with Gran.’

      Jai looked down and laced his fingers together. ‘Craig said something about a brutality accusation? What’s that about?’

      ‘Oh, I know. It’s all I need, with Richard already on at me about my professionalism.’

      Jai examined his fingernails as if they held the answer to the meaning of life. ‘But you’d done nothing wrong, had you?’

      ‘Of course not. Bloody woman. If anyone was brutal, it was her. She punched me.’

      ‘Why didn’t you report it?’

      ‘Because I’m an idiot. I suppose I didn’t want Craig to know she hit me.’ I looked at Jai’s despairing face. ‘I know, I know, he knows now anyway. And I shouldn’t let him get to me.’

      Jai sighed. ‘It’s best to ignore him.’

      A complaint was bad news for us, even if it had no basis, especially with the worry about us ignoring the stalker. Besides, the thought of someone complaining about me gave me a hollow, depressed feeling inside. I reached into my drawer for my stash of organic chocolate. ‘Here.’ I broke off a couple of chunks and shoved the rest at Jai.

      I could see Jai coveting the whole bar, but he glanced at the price label. ‘Jesus.’

      ‘It’s cultivated by happy, fairly paid people in far-off lands,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t come cheap.’

      Jai took a couple of squares. ‘Okay. I won’t take much. I’ll get an exploitative Yorkie bar from the machine on the way out.’ He jumped up. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

       *

      After another hour of researching, pondering, chocolate eating, and general fretting, I finally drove myself home and got in around ten, letting myself in to the accompaniment of an extremely loud commentary from Hamlet. He jumped onto the shelf in the hallway, knocked a pile of books and the phone onto the floor, and fell on top of them.

      ‘Jesus, Hamlet, aren’t cats supposed to be graceful? Nature’s supreme athlete or something.’

      He righted himself, gave me a contemptuous look, and stalked off in a cloud of black and white fur, as if it had all been part of his plan. He was sulking at my lateness, but I’d arranged for a neighbour to feed him at six, so he hadn’t missed out.

      I reached to pick up the phone, and saw the answer-phone light flashing.

      Mum. I’d forgotten to call her back. With a hollow feeling, I pressed the button. Her voice was shaky and upset. ‘Love, I don’t know if we’re doing this too soon. She seems better today. Can you phone me?’

      I dialled Mum’s number. She picked straight up. ‘Where have you been?’

      ‘At work, Mum. There’s been a murder. How’s Gran?’

      ‘You’re not taking on a big case, are you, Meg? We talked about this.’

      ‘It’ll be fine.’

      ‘Because you said you’d definitely take that time off. You specifically said you wouldn’t take on any big cases.’

      ‘Don’t worry. What’s going on?’

      ‘Oh Lord, she’s started eating again. Maybe it’s because she knows she doesn’t have much longer, but she seems to have rallied. Are we doing the right thing?’

      I sank onto the stairs.

      This was the nightmare of the situation. If we left it too long, Gran could end up in agony, permanently sick, vomiting twenty times a day. And it would be too late – she wouldn’t be able to travel. But if we did it too soon, Gran could lose weeks or maybe even months of life.

      Hamlet butted his face against my knee. I got up and walked to the kitchen; put Mum on speaker-phone while I fed him.

      ‘What does she want to do?’ I asked.

      ‘She says she’s had enough. But she doesn’t want to get you into trouble.’

      ‘Look, Mum, it’s all booked. Let’s just see how she is. If we end up not going, it’s only money, isn’t it? I think it’s too late to cancel the plane tickets anyway. I’ll get over to see you as soon as I can.’

6.

      I dreamt of Abbie Thornton. She was running through the woods, blonde hair streaming behind her, hidden by trees, almost out of sight. When I caught up with her, it was Gran who’d been running away, not Abbie.

      My alarm shrilled into the dream. The images faded away.

      I smacked the clock and lay for a moment listening to the rain pummelling the window. The duvet was twisted round my feet. I kicked it clear and imagined what it would feel like to stab a knife into someone’s throat, to feel the resistance of the flesh, the moment when the artery burst and blood exploded into the bedroom. It would be quick. It would be better than the agonising, nauseous decline that was probably in store for Gran, if we didn’t get her to Switzerland.

      I dressed and breakfasted quickly in my freezing kitchen, Hamlet curling around my ankles and demanding three breakfasts before retreating to his ridiculously indulgent heated bed. Sleet battered the windows that never shut properly, and a small dribble of water had seeped inside and plopped onto the tiled floor.

      I donned boots and my best coat, gave Hamlet a backward glance, wondered why I couldn’t be a cat, and opened the front door. A blast of sleety air whipped into the hallway, lifting unread bills and flipping the pages of books I’d left on the hall shelf. The weather was so bad, it was almost invigorating, allowing me to feel slightly heroic just by leaving the house. I stepped out and pulled the door firmly shut behind me.

       *

      Abbie looked even younger than her ten years, skinny in too- baggy clothes, dark shadows under huge eyes. We’d put her in our special interview room – made officially child-friendly through the presence of smaller chairs, a couple of pictures so completely lacking in content that no human could be upset by them, regardless of the traumas they’d suffered, and walls where the shade