Dead Man’s Daughter. Roz Watkins

drunk . . . ’

      ‘What did he say then?’

      ‘I couldn’t get much sense out of him. But something about doing penance, I think.’

      My ears twitched. ‘Penance? What did he mean by that?’

      ‘He wouldn’t say. But it seemed to have something to do with these.’ She nodded towards the stone children.

      Penance. That was a hot word. When anyone wanted to do penance, there was always a chance someone else wanted revenge. I wondered about the story behind the statues. ‘So, any more ideas why you were so worried when you arrived at the house this morning?’

      She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Because no one answered the phone earlier I suppose. I’m always worried about Abbie’s health. I’m sure he probably does know what he’s doing, but I always wonder if Phil gets her medication right when I’m not around.’

      ‘What medical problem does Abbie have?’

      Rachel rubbed her nose. There was something sticky in the air between us. Something she wasn’t saying. She didn’t seem numb and shocked any more – there was a new sharpness about her. She huddled into her coat as if suddenly aware of the cold. ‘You never think about your heart, do you, until it goes wrong? And then you think about it all the time.’

      ‘Does Abbie have a heart problem?’

      ‘Yes. It’s in Phil’s family.’

      ‘So, did Abbie have a sister?’

      ‘Jess. She died four years ago. She was only six. Not of the heart problem though. An accident.’

      ‘I’m sorry. Were they twins?’

      Rachel shook her head. ‘Abbie’s Phil’s daughter and Jess was mine. I adopted Abbie after Phil’s ex-wife died.’

      I turned to Rachel and looked at her dead eyes; weighed up whether to say anything; decided I should. ‘I lost my older sister when I was ten. She was fifteen.’

      Some of the tension left her body. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned my sister. It wasn’t exactly in the manual of recommended interviewing techniques. But Rachel Thornton was a person too, and I found if you shared with people, they often had a strong urge to share back. Sometimes they’d even share that they’d killed someone. Most murderers didn’t intend to kill – it was something that happened in a loose moment that slipped away from them, when they were so furious they weren’t really noticing what they were doing. Often it was a relief to explain and justify.

      Besides, my story was public now. Google my name and there it was. Poor me. Found my sister hanging from a beam, and I was only ten. Everyone knew. After I’d kept it to myself all those years. I felt like someone who’d fallen asleep drunk and woken up with no clothes on.

      We sat together on the freezing bench, touched by our own individual horrors.

      I hoped she might say more but she didn’t, and I decided not to push it for now. We’d need to get her in for a formal statement anyway.

      ‘Is Abbie’s heart okay?’ I asked.

      ‘She had a transplant last year.’

      ‘That’s why you can’t let her have pets?’

      ‘That’s right. She has a suppressed immune system.’

      I pictured the needle marks on Abbie’s arms. Remembered her hugging the dog, then wrapped in his blankets and Carrie’s scarf, after nearly freezing to death. Not ideal.

      ‘Is she okay though?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Was there a problem with the transplant? Is that what your husband’s artwork’s about?’

      ‘Of course not. This has nothing to do with Abbie’s heart.’

      I turned to look at Rachel’s face.

      ‘Do you mean your husband’s death?’ I asked. ‘Why would it have anything to do with Abbie’s heart?’

      She blinked a couple of times and shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t. I didn’t mean anything. Abbie’s heart’s fine.’

4.

      ‘I can’t take on a big case,’ I said. ‘I spoke to the victim’s wife at the scene, but I’ll have to hand it over to someone else. It’s really bad timing for me.’

      DS Jai Sanghera leant against the window in my room and hitched one leg up onto the sill in a bizarre yoga-style move. ‘Have you told Richard why you’re off next week?’

      I took a step towards the door and lowered my voice. ‘He wants to see me now. I can’t tell him. I said I was spending time with family and catching up on some DIY and stuff.’

      ‘If you don’t take it on, he’ll ship someone else in. DI Dickhead from Nottingham.’

      My stomach tightened at the thought of Abbie being grilled in one of our dispiriting interview rooms. ‘Maybe he’ll bring that woman in? She’s alright.’

      Jai shook his head. ‘She’s tied up on a big case already. Human trafficking. No chance.’

      I’d told Abbie I’d make sure she was okay. But I couldn’t let my family down. I swallowed. ‘I can’t delay my time off. You don’t know what it’s like.’

      ‘I know what it’s like to lose a grandparent. Tell him you can’t take the case. We’ll cope with Dickhead.’

       *

      It was only Monday afternoon, but I felt as if I’d had a full week at work. And I still hadn’t called Mum back. I shoved open the door to DCI Richard Atkins’ lair.

      ‘Ah, Meg.’ Richard’s customary greeting, whether he was bollocking or praising. ‘Sit down.’ He indicated his spare chair, famous for its ability to engulf the unwary. I suspected it housed the putrefied remains of previous DIs.

      I stayed standing. ‘I can’t take on this case. I’ve got time off next week.’

      Richard looked at me over piles of papers and the tiny cacti he used as paperweights. He rearranged them each morning and I was always looking for meaning in the arrangements, as if he was sending messages about his mood or the state of the world. He cracked his fingers. ‘You let the victim’s daughter fall into freezing water,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t be so careless. She could have been seriously hurt, and the evidence on her nightdress is compromised. What on earth were you thinking?’

      ‘It was an accident. She wanted to get the dog a drink, and – ’

      ‘The dog? You mustn’t let your love of animals affect your actions.’

      I opened my mouth, so stunned by the unfairness of this that I didn’t know what to say.

      Richard had put on weight, and was getting the look of a bulbous-nosed drinker. Did he know he was becoming a walking cliché? Eating unhealthily and turning to the bottle because his God-bothering wife had left him and was no longer providing healthy, vegetable-laden meals?

      ‘I’m very disappointed,’ Richard said. ‘And what’s this about the victim’s wife reporting a stalker and us ignoring it?’

      ‘We didn’t exactly ignore it, but she didn’t give us much to go on. And her phone calls stopped about six weeks ago. She hasn’t been in touch recently.’

      ‘It’s the last thing we need. Stalking’s hot at the moment. Pray to God it wasn’t the stalker that did for him.’

      This was modern policing. It wasn’t so much the brutal throat-slitting that was tragic as the fact that we might get blamed. ‘If we’re asking any favours from deities,’ I said, ‘maybe pray we catch