Her Perfect Family(11)

‘Apparently not. We’ve checked her flat and her mother said she didn’t keep one. Her phone’s locked so we don’t have full access yet. First scan of laptop hasn’t found anything yet. We’ve put in the request for social-media access but you know how slow that is. My team’s going through the phone-company records, checking all the numbers. Popular girl. It’s a long list.’

‘And this is all assuming she was a deliberate target. What about the university or the cathedral? Anyone sacked recently? Anyone with a grudge? Any known weirdos hang out at the cathedral? Local gun clubs? Any religious protests?’

‘Are you sure you won’t just come back on my bloody team, Matt? It would make my life so much easier.’

He half laughs. Then he feels his expression change and watches Mel’s change too. A lifetime ago they trained together. Worked together. When he left the police force over a difficult case – a child’s death – Mel said he was making a big mistake and she was probably right. But he won’t go back. Too late to turn back now . . .

‘So weird that you were in the city, Matt.’

There’s a long pause.

‘What is it?’

‘Sal’s not very happy with me. For diving in.’

‘Right. Sorry. I didn’t think . . .’ She looks away across the café and then back at him. ‘Selfishly I was just bloody glad you got there ahead of my team—’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Seriously. You were amazing, Matt.’

‘I deserted my family, Mel. Not sure Sally would call that amazing.’ Matthew finishes his cake and pushes the plate away. ‘Also – Amelie heard too much.’

‘Oh no. I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

He watches Mel take this in properly and her eyes soften. He and Mel have liaised unofficially on several cases. The last time – a stalker inquiry – Mel was heavily pregnant. He was booked privately to help the victim. Mel was the official investigating officer. She took maternity leave afterwards but her son George is still tiny. Only just walking.

Matthew wonders how on earth Mel manages. Her husband Tom is a wildlife campaigner, working with a charity. A decent bloke. Matthew likes him.

‘Does Tom worry? About the job? Do you talk stuff through with him?’

‘The truth?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘I play everything down, especially any risks. I think he’d make me quit if he knew.’ She dusts her fingers on the napkin. ‘Right – so my immediate worry is Gemma’s messages.’

‘Messages?’ Matthew notes the gear change. Also how very pale Mel looks. Not herself at all.

‘Gemma’s phone records show several Facebook notifications on the morning of the shooting. One of her friends told me she’d had some really odd direct messages and was stressed about them.’

‘What kind of messages?’ Matthew wishes he had the courage to ask if she’s really OK. Is she struggling too? Work and home? Dare he ask? Should he ask?

‘That’s the problem. We don’t know yet. Like I say, we’re not into her phone yet. We’ve got the paperwork in to Facebook but Lord knows how long that will take. Gemma’s friend doesn’t know any details. Also.’ Again she pauses to finish the last of her coffee. ‘There’s something a bit odd about the dad.’

‘Something – like what?’

‘Oh, you know me. Gut feeling. I don’t know exactly—’ And now her phone interrupts them. ‘Sorry, Matt. Got to take this.’ She holds up her hand to register the impasse as she answers, her expression darkening. ‘Right.’ She stands up. ‘So is anyone hurt?’ She glances to the ceiling as she listens some more to her caller. ‘Understood. I’ll be right there. Try to calm things down. Reassure the staff. And for goodness’ sake, keep him away from the family.’ Mel ends the call, plunging the phone into her jacket pocket.

‘Sorry, Matt. Crisis at the hospital. I’ve got to go.’





CHAPTER 6


THE MOTHER


I’m putting moisturiser on Gemma’s face when it all kicks off.

As I rub my hands together, waiting for the slight stickiness to be absorbed, there’s suddenly some kind of commotion outside the cubicle and across the ward. At first there’s just distant remonstrating. I’m utterly stilled rather than panicked, holding my breath. We have a guard . . .

I can’t make out the words and don’t know if this is benign – some other family rumpus, some staff or visitor dispute . . . or to do with us? I look at Ed and he holds my stare. The police guard beyond our cubicle window stands. There’s a beat of silence but next comes full-on shouting, maybe at the entrance to the unit or just outside in the corridor.

I demand to see her. You can’t stop me. The bitch has been lying to me. Cheating on me.

Now comes true terror. I stand and Ed stands too. We exchange a look of pure and mirrored dread, my stomach cramping and my mind racing. The voice sounds young. Male. But the angle of the window into our cubicle means we can’t see who it is.

The police guard glances at us through the glass, signalling with his hand for us to stay put before striding out of sight. I feel a new and terrible wave not just of fear but complete disorientation. What to do? Ed moves to close the door to our little cubicle, holding the handle in place – pushing it upwards to try to stop anyone getting in.