Greenwich Park(60)

‘I see. And where had she been living before she came to stay, with you?’

I shake my head. ‘I know she lived round here, but I never went to her home and I … I never met any of her friends.’

The detectives glance at each other. I have the feeling I am getting everything wrong somehow.

‘And the father?’

‘She never actually mentioned a name. Just that it was someone she met through work.’

‘And they were together?’

‘I don’t think so. They had a relationship – I got the feeling it was quite casual – and the pregnancy wasn’t planned. She said she would have liked to be with him but … but she’d found out that he … he was taken.’ He belonged to someone else. Those had been the words she used, hadn’t they, that time at the pub? I remember the damp smell of the tables, the staring eyes of the ship lights.

‘You say she’d met the father through work,’ DS Mitre is asking now. ‘Where exactly was that?’

‘I, um … I don’t know. I think she once said something about working for a music venue or something. But she was on maternity leave early, like me, you see – for health reasons.’

‘Health reasons?’

‘Yes. She had the same as me, I think – very high blood pressure. Risk of pre-eclampsia. So you’re advised not to work too much, certainly not in the third trimester. We just never really talked about work, because neither of us was working. It was mainly babies and stuff.’ I glance at DC Robbin, wondering if she has children. I guess she doesn’t. She doesn’t look much older than me, if at all. She must be clever to be a detective. I wince, thinking how dull I must sound to her. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.

DC Robbin doesn’t say anything. She keeps looking at me.

‘Not at all.’ DS Mitre flips his notebook shut, and stands up. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Thorpe. Thanks for your time.’

I lead them both into the hallway and open the door.

‘Look,’ I say, my hand resting on the latch, ‘can I just ask? Sorry if it’s obvious but – is she not at her mother’s then? Like she told me she would be?’

DS Mitre glances at DC Robbin. He pulls his jacket on, the jumper cuffs sticking out of the too-short sleeves.



‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says. ‘In the meantime, if you do hear from Rachel, please do give us a call.’

‘Of course.’

They step outside and I close the door behind them. I lean back against the weight of it, slide down to the floor until I am crouched in the hallway, my bump pushed up against my knees. I am shaking, actually shaking, all over, as if I’m outside in the cold. When I close my eyes, all I can see is Rachel’s face, her slightly parted lips, her childlike horror, like a burst balloon, as I utter those awful words, the last ones I said to her. We’re not friends. We never were. I want you to leave, tonight, and not come back.

I open my eyes again. You are a liar, I tell myself. You are a liar, Helen Thorpe.





39 WEEKS





KATIE





He is late, as usual. The venue was his choice, an Indian restaurant on Church Street in Stoke Newington. There are thick white tablecloths, a tea light at each place setting, paintings of Kerala on the walls; fishing nets against an orange sunset in Fort Kochi, houseboats in the lush backwaters. There is a smell of cardamom and fennel. The Virgin Mary watches over us from a candlelit shrine in the corner. Outside, raindrops dribble down the windows. A passing woman abandons her umbrella after it is blown inside out by the wind, leans over a puddle to shove it into a bin.

I am the only person here, and my presence seems to be a source of relief to the waiters. They are smartly dressed, and startlingly young, like teenagers on their way to a sixth-form ball. They treat me with exaggerated politeness, pulling out a chair for me, bringing me a glass of the house red, as requested. They tip the bottle gently, enclosed in a folded white napkin. I drink the wine quickly, nibbling on a dry poppadum. It is crisp, still hot from the oil.

When Charlie finally arrives, he looks flushed, the ends of his hair wet against his neck.

‘Sorry, Katie.’

He leans to kiss me, but I pull away.

‘Ugh, Charlie, you’re wet.’

‘Sorry.’ He pulls away grinning, leaving my cheek clammy. ‘You look nice.’ He snatches a poppadum, shoves it into his mouth as he sits down. ‘Starving,’ he says.



Soon Charlie has ordered a bottle of wine, another round of poppadums, and a whole load of starters I have no interest in eating. When the waiter has finally disappeared, Charlie looks at me.

‘What?’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘The police came to see me,’ I tell him. ‘They said Rachel has gone missing. That she hasn’t been seen since the night of Helen and Daniel’s party.’

Charlie frowns. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I know. They came to see me too.’

‘Did they?’

‘They wanted a list of everyone at the party.’

The speakers blare into life – some mournful Hindi song. I twist my napkin in my hands.

‘They kept asking me about when I saw her last.’

‘Yeah, they asked me the same thing.’ Charlie pauses, frowns. ‘And? Why are you looking at me like that?’