Greenwich Park(33)

The girl’s hair falls in front of her face. She pushes it straight back behind her ear, crossly, with a small, pale hand. When she hasn’t said anything for a few moments, I reach inside my bag, feel for the sharp edges of my business cards. I take one and slowly reach towards her, holding it between my thumb and forefinger.

‘I’m Katie,’ I say.

She stares at the card, the black-and-white logo. She doesn’t take it.

‘My dad doesn’t like your newspaper.’ She sniffs. ‘He says it’s a rag. That it twists things.’

I nod, shoot her a rueful smile. ‘It does sometimes,’ I admit. ‘But I don’t.’

‘He reads the Guardian.’ She eyes me carefully, goading me, wanting to see if I’ll react.

‘My dad reads the Guardian too,’ I say truthfully. ‘I’m a bit of a disappointment.’

She considers this. Looks down at my card.

‘You’re here every day.’ She sighs. ‘And all the others are blokes.’

I nod. Finally, she takes the card. Holds it between her fingers, as if she isn’t sure how it works.

‘Listen,’ I say. I take another tiny step towards her. ‘You need to concentrate on the trial. But afterwards, if you did want to … tell your story, I could help you do it in a way you were happy with. We could write it together.’

She looks up, a sceptical expression on her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I could send you the whole thing. Before we published. You could read it, and if you didn’t like it, we could change it.’ I look at her. ‘I swear. No twisting.’



I hold her gaze, try to ignore the roar of blood in my ears. Copy approval, that’s what I’m promising. Something we never promise, we never agree to. I hear the screams of my boss, Hugh, in my ears. But surely this is different. Surely Hugh will understand.

‘If I did it. You would pay me?’ She looks at the ground as if she is ashamed for asking. ‘It’s not about that,’ she mutters. ‘I just … we’re not rich.’

We are in dangerous territory now. I should not be having this conversation. Not while the trial is still going on. But she has sought me out. And I might not get another chance.

I take a deep breath. ‘We could pay you. But we shouldn’t really discuss that now.’

As I finish my sentence, the speakers in the corner of the toilets blast into life. The clerk’s voice is calling us back into court. The girl takes a deep breath.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘You’ve got my card. If you want to, when it’s all finished, call me. It’s my mobile on there – you can call me any time, day or night. I won’t mind. And we can discuss the idea of an article and I can answer any questions you have. No obligations. OK?’ I pause. ‘If you don’t want to go through with it, that’s absolutely fine. Even if you decide to go with another paper, I can try and help, give you advice on all that, if you want.’

Hugh’s voice is still screaming. What the fuck are you saying, Wheeler? You might as well give her the number of the fucking Guardian! I silence him. Concentrate on the girl. She is still holding my card.

‘But if you did want to go ahead, that’s how it would work with me. We’d do it together. You’d be in charge. And if it would make you feel better, you could bring someone. A friend. Or the detective could be there with you. DCI Carter. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

She looks up at me. I have guessed correctly; he has been kind to her, won her trust. At the mention of his name, she has softened. I take a deep breath, try to ignore DCI Carter’s voice in my ear now, asking me what the hell I’m doing, getting him involved in a media interview.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘I might.’





34 WEEKS





HELEN





The builders have gone for the weekend. Daniel, home early again, is in a good mood, humming as he mixes a Seedlip and tonic for me. I’m determined that this time we will have a nice evening.

I had been looking forward to celebrating our anniversary this year, before the baby comes. In truth, I think we need it. We’ve been snapping at each other more than normal – about the building work, about the antenatal classes, about money. We need time, I have decided. Proper time, just the two of us.

I told him I had booked us a fancy restaurant in town, one I knew he would like. But he insisted we should stay at home. Secretly, my heart sank. I wanted us to get out of the house, have a change of scene, make it feel special. But I didn’t want to fall out over it, so I agreed.

Daniel has insisted he will cook dinner himself. He is not a natural cook, but he is methodical, rules-based. He follows recipes exactly, and his dishes usually turn out well. I saw him earlier searching for how long you should cook lamb shoulder for. He will want to ensure mine is well done enough. He is protective of me and the baby with things like that, which is sweet. And there are signs he is making an effort. He has cleaned the grime from the table, laid out place mats and lit candles. Rolled the dust sheets off the floor, so the room looks more normal.



‘Let me do it,’ he says, when I try to help. He pulls me away from the table, takes the cutlery from my hands, plants a kiss in my hair. ‘The meat will be a while. Why don’t you try out your new bath?’