The Girl Before(17)

Finally I understand. They’re not a gift, they’re a memorial gesture. Like the ones people leave at the scene of a fatal accident. Mentally I kick myself for being so wrapped up in thinking about Edward Monkford I hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Did she…Was it near here?”

“In that house.” He gestures behind me, at One Folgate Street, and I feel a shiver go down my spine. “She died in there.”

“How?” Realizing that might sound intrusive I add, “I mean, it’s none of my business—”

“It depends who you ask,” he interrupts.

“What do you mean?”

He looks straight at me. His eyes are haggard. “She was murdered. The coroner recorded an open verdict but everyone—even the police—knew she’d been killed. First he poisoned her mind, then he killed her.”

For a moment I wonder if this is all nonsense, if this man is simply deranged. But he seems too sincere, too ordinary for that.

“Who did? Who killed her?”

But he only shakes his head and turns away, back toward his car.





THEN: EMMA

It’s the morning after the party and we’re still asleep when my phone rings. It’s a new phone to replace the one stolen in the burglary and it takes me a while to wake up with the unfamiliar ringtone. My head’s groggy from the night before, but even so I notice how the light in the bedroom comes up in perfect sync with the sound of the phone, the windows gradually shedding their dimness.

Emma Matthews? a female voice says.

Yes? I say, my voice still hoarse from last night.

It’s Sergeant Willan, she goes, your support officer. I’m outside your flat with one of my colleagues. We’ve been ringing the bell. Can we come in?

I’d forgotten to tell the police we were moving. We’re not at that address anymore, I say. We’re in Hendon. One Folgate Street.

Hang on, Sergeant Willan says. She must put the phone against her chest to speak to someone because her voice goes muffled. Then she comes back on.

We’ll be there in twenty minutes, Emma. There’s been an important development in your case.

—



By the time they arrive we’ve cleared away most of the party debris. There are some unfortunate red wine stains on the stone floor we’ll have to deal with later, and One Folgate Street isn’t looking its best, but even so Sergeant Willan seems amazed.

Bit different from your last place, she comments, looking around.

I spent all last night trying to explain The Rules to our friends, and I don’t really have the energy to do it again. We got it cheap, I say, in exchange for looking after it.

You said there was news, Simon says impatiently. Have you caught them then?

We believe so, yes, the older police officer says. He’s already introduced himself as Detective Inspector Clarke. His voice is low and calm and he has the stocky build and ruddy cheeks of a farmer. I like him immediately.

Two men were apprehended on Friday night carrying out a burglary very similar in method to the one you suffered, he says. When we went to an address in Lewisham we recovered a number of items listed on our database as stolen.

That’s fantastic, Simon says, elated. He glances at me. Isn’t it, Emma?

Brilliant, I say.

There’s a pause.

Now that there’s a strong possibility of a trial, Emma, we need to ask you some more questions, Sergeant Willan says. Perhaps you’d prefer to do this in private.

That’s all right, Simon says. It’s great you actually got the bastards. We’ll help any way we can, won’t we, Em?

The sergeant’s still looking at me. Emma? Would you rather do this without Simon present?

Put like that, how can I say yes? In any case, there is nowhere private in One Folgate Street. The rooms all flow into one another, even the bedroom and the bathroom.

Here’s fine, I say. Will I have to go to court? To give evidence, I mean?

A glance passes between the two of them. It depends whether they plead guilty, Sergeant Willan says. We’re hoping the evidence is so strong they don’t see any point in fighting it.

A pause, then she says, Emma, we recovered a number of cellphones at that address we mentioned. One of them we’ve identified as yours.



Suddenly I have a very bad feeling about this. Breathe, I tell myself.

Some of the phones had photographs and videos on them, she continues. Photographs of women in sexual situations.

I wait. I know what’s coming now but it seems easier to say nothing, to let the words pass over me as if they aren’t real.

Emma, we found evidence on your phone indicating that a man matching the description of one of the men we arrested used it to record himself engaging in a sexual act with you, she says. Can you tell us anything about that?

I sense Simon’s head swiveling toward me. I don’t look in his direction. The silence stretches out like a thread of molten glass, getting thinner and thinner, until eventually it has to snap.

Yes, I say at last. My voice has shrunk to nothing. I can hardly hear myself, only the hammering in my ears. But I know I have to say something now, that I can’t simply blot it out.

I take a deep breath. He said he’d send the video out, I say. To everyone. Every single name in my contacts. He made me…do that to him. What you saw. And he used my own phone to record it.