Someone You Know. Olivia Isaac-Henry

I press it flat against the wall and hold it to the light. I can just about make out a till receipt from Topshop dated April 1998. I screw it up and throw it back then pull the drawer out completely, turn it over and shake its contents on the floor to make sure I’ve not missed anything.

      I start pulling out the other drawers, rifling through them, spreading old birthday cards, mismatching earrings and desiccated cough sweets across the carpet. Nothing.

      I go to the wardrobe. Her faux suede jacket is still hanging there and her dress with the fitted body and full skirt, that was unfashionable back then but everyone wanted when they saw it on Edie. I go through the coat pockets and a couple of bags: more receipts and a few bus tickets. Flinging the clothes on the floor, I then run my hands in the corners to make sure I haven’t missed anything. It’s empty.

      I start pulling books from the shelves. She could have hidden the missing pages from the ‘Cakemaker’ scrapbook in their leaves. I flip through the pages then hold their spines and shake each one out. A couple have magazine clippings slipped inside, mostly about bands, but no loose pages from the scrapbook. I try her school exercise books. A little hope. A phone number and address I don’t recognise. No names, though. I take a photo with my phone anyway.

      The last things left are her records. I don’t touch them. Edie wouldn’t have written anything on those or stuffed something inside the sleeves. They were too important to her.

      I sit down in the pile of clothes, books and junk in the centre of the room. Is this all that’s left of Edie? This and the necklace I’m not allowed to have because it’s evidence. I pull my knees to my chest, lay my head on them and start to cry. I can’t believe she’s gone. Every last thread of hope has been pulled from me. DS Craven told us the DNA and dental records are a match. This is all there is, a pile of clothes and some junk.

      ‘Here you are.’

      The door opens and Auntie Becca comes in.

      ‘I was worried when you weren’t in your own room.’

      She kneels down next to me and I raise my head; her eyes, too, are puffy from crying. She takes my head in her hands.

      ‘At least you know now. You won’t have to keep wondering forever.’

      ‘I don’t want to know. I always thought we’d find her. I always believed that.’

      ‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. When’s Max coming?’

      ‘He’s not.’

      ‘I didn’t think he’d leave your side at a time like this.’

      I could not tell her, but she’ll just keep asking questions until she knows the truth. Dad hasn’t asked me about Max, which is why I know he’s already spoken to him.

      I curl up tighter.

      ‘Has something happened?’ she asks.

      ‘He’s met someone else.’

      I can’t be bothered with the details. Somebody else is easier to blame than my failure to meet his ultimatum, and what other conclusion can I draw from another woman’s perfume clinging to him?

      ‘Oh, Tess, and at a time like this.’

      ‘I don’t care any more,’ I say, and it’s true. What is Max to me? He’s been a support system. Well, now there’s nothing left to support. Whoever slung Edie into that reservoir may as well have thrown me in, too. Becca seems to read my thoughts.

      ‘Tess, your dad needs you. He’s not strong and you’re all he’s got.’ My own misery has made me oblivious to his. ‘Vince is looking sick. I don’t think he’ll get through this without you. Especially when the press turn up.’

      ‘Are they here?’ I ask.

      ‘Not yet, but they’re coming. Maybe you could come and stay at ours for a bit.’

      ‘They’d only follow.’

      ‘Parasites,’ she says. ‘Look, Tess, why don’t you have a shower and come downstairs, try and eat something, talk to Ray. He’s taking this hard; you know how close he and Edie were. And most of all, you have to pull through this for your father.’

      ‘I’ll try,’ I say.

      ‘And there’s a police officer downstairs, Tess.’ She looks at me nervously. ‘I came straight up and didn’t speak to him. What’s he doing in the house?’

      ‘He’s the family liaison officer.’

      ‘I think you should get rid of him.’

      ‘He’s alright, Becca, he’s trying to help.’

      She shakes her head.

      ‘You weren’t here, Tess, you’ve no idea how bad it got. The way the police treated Vince, the way they questioned him, as if he’d ever hurt Edie. You need to go downstairs and support him. Don’t let that liaison officer trick you into saying anything about Vince or Ray. The police are not our friends, Tess.’

      *

      I go through the mechanical routine of undressing and showering, and arrive downstairs bare-footed and with wet hair. DS Craven’s in the lounge sitting on the sofa next to Dad, his arms in a triangle on his thighs. Ray’s perched on the side, his chin resting on his hands. When he looks up his eyes are red. He comes over and hugs me and I rest my head on his shoulder.

      ‘Christ, I’m glad Gina didn’t have to go through this,’ he says.

      Mum. Throughout all of this we’ve not mentioned her once. And my short-lived resolve at being strong for Dad crumbles. My legs go limp and I fall into Ray. He supports me and pulls me into the armchair. I want Mum, I want her to take me in her arms and tell me everything’s going to be OK, like she did when I was a little girl.

      Ray kneels next to me.

      ‘You’re so much like her, Tess,’ he says.

      Have I become like Mum? I try to picture her face compared to mine. Then I get it mixed up with Edie’s and become confused.

      She and Edie were so alike, not just in looks, but they were also both animated and excitable. With no effort, people were drawn to them and wanted to be friends. Often, I’d arrive somewhere with Edie and people would say to her, ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ when they’d met both of us before; only Edie was remembered. And she’s never coming back.

      Craven’s hovering in the background. Ray sees him looking at Becca.

      ‘This is my wife, Rebecca,’ he says. There’s barely disguised animosity in his voice. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Craven.’

      ‘Tony,’ Craven says. ‘I’m the family liaison officer.’

      He offers Becca his hand. She gives it a cursory shake and purses her lips in substitution for a smile.

      ‘When can we have Edie back? We want the funeral to be as soon as possible,’ she says.

      Craven’s on edge. Dad’s made it clear he doesn’t want him here and his manner is exaggeratedly calm, as if permanently fending off an overwhelming panic; he’s new to the job, I think.

      ‘The coroner will release the body once a second post-mortem has been carried out. It’s just a formality, so in about a week.’

      ‘Do they have an exact cause of death?’ Becca asks.

      I ball my fists tight to brace against the answer.

      ‘The pathologist noted she’d received a blow to the head,’ Craven says. ‘Significant enough to render her unconscious, though she doubted it would have been fatal.’

      ‘So she drowned.’

      ‘We can’t be certain.’

      ‘You’re telling me they don’t know?’ Becca says.

      ‘The