Good Girl, Bad Girl(31)

“Yes.”

“Go away!”

She shuts the door. I put my finger on the bell, letting it ring constantly. This time a man answers, her husband, telling me to leave or he’ll call the police.

“I am the police,” I say.

“They all say that.”

“Who do?”

“Leave us alone.”

“It’s Rodney, isn’t it? I talked to you on the phone. Give me five minutes. Please. It’s important.”

The door closes and I can hear them arguing, whispering urgently.

“Sacha told us not to . . .”

“He doesn’t look dangerous.”

“What if it’s a trick?”

“But he’s a psychologist.”

“The card could be fake.”

After a few more moments, the chain is unlatched and the door opens. They’re standing side by side in the hallway like parents ready to scold a child for coming home late.

“We’re not going to tell you where she is,” says Mr. Hopewell.

“I understand. Can I come in?”

They look at each other as though trapped by their natural politeness. Mrs. Hopewell is a heavyset woman in a floral dress and cardigan. Her husband is tall and lean and hunched over, as if bent by some invisible weight.

He whispers to me as I pass him in the hallway. “Please, don’t upset Dominique. She’s not well.”

Their kitchen is cold. Used teabags have solidified in the sink and a dripping tap rings the same note over and over.

Mrs. Hopewell offers to turn on the heating. She’s in her midsixties with a fine head of chemically colored hair, swept back and held in place by a hairband. They sit close together. Shoulders touching. Arms crossed.

“I’ve been asked to look into a police cold case. I was hoping your daughter, Sacha, might be able to help me.”

“She can’t,” says Mr. Hopewell.

“She won’t,” echoes his wife. “Haven’t you done enough to hurt her?”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I wish Sacha had never found that Angel Face.”

“Why?”

“Because we lost a daughter,” says Mrs. Hopewell, her chest expanding and collapsing in a sigh.

I don’t know what these people are talking about, but their pain is real.

“Please start at the beginning.”

A look passes between them. They don’t trust me, but whatever has happened has gone on too long.

“When Sacha finished school, she applied to join the police force,” says Mrs. Hopewell. “I didn’t think it was a proper career for a woman—not like nursing or teaching—but she had her heart set on it. She tried twice to join the Metropolitan Police but missed out. She was too young the first time. Then they said she had to live in London to be eligible.”

“That’s why she became a special constable,” adds Mr. Hopewell. “She said it was a stepping-stone. The next best thing.”

They both fall silent. I wait.

He begins again. “That all changed when she found Angel Face. It made her famous for a while. Everybody wanted to talk to her—the newspapers, TV shows, magazines. She thought it might help her career, but it caused her nothing but grief.”

“Why?”

“It never stopped—the late-night phone calls and the people following her.”

“Are you talking about reporters?”

“At first, yes, but then other people came calling. Some wouldn’t take no for an answer. We had two burglaries and her car was vandalized.”

“Who did these things?”

Mrs. Hopewell erupts. “You tell us!”

I can’t answer her.

“Where is Sacha now?” I ask.

“Traveling.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Last week she was in France. A month ago it was in Germany. Before that we got postcards from Scotland, Italy, and Ireland.”

Mr. Hopewell motions to the fridge, which is entirely covered in cards. “She never stays in the same place more than a few days. That’s why they can’t find her.”

“Who?” I ask.

“The people who are looking for her.” He makes it sound so obvious.

“Have you ever met these people?”

“No.”

“Does Sacha know their names?”

“No.”

“Was she ever threatened?” I ask.

“Everything was a threat,” says her father.

We’re going around in circles.

“They didn’t leave their names,” says Mr. Hopewell. “Instead they waited outside the house, watching us, or followed Sacha to work or the shops or the gym. They thought she could lead them to Angel Face.”

“Did Sacha tell the police?”

“They thought she was paranoid or making stuff up. That’s why they wouldn’t let her join the Met, they labeled her as too unstable.”

“Can I phone her?” I ask.

“She doesn’t have a phone.”

The irony isn’t lost on me.

“She rings us,” says Mr. Hopewell. “We never know when she’ll call. Sometimes she contacts her brother or her aunt.”