His & Hers(11)
“Okay, I’ll let him know,” Priya says.
I see her add that to the invisible list of things to do she always writes inside her head. There is clearly something else she wants to tell me, and her face lights up like a pinball machine when she remembers what it is.
“We think we’ve got a print!”
What?
“What?”
“We think we’ve got a print!” she repeats.
“Finger?” I ask.
“Foot.”
“Really? In this mud?”
The rain has already made a series of mini rivers across the forest floor. Priya beams at me like a kid who wants to show a parent their latest painting.
“I think Forensics are super excited to be allowed out of the lab. It looks like a large recent boot print, right next to the body, initially hidden by dead leaves. They’ve done an incredible job! Do you want to see?”
I briefly stare down at my own muddy shoes before I follow her.
“You know, even if they have managed to find a footprint, I predict it might belong to one of the team. The whole scene should have been properly cordoned off straightaway, as soon as you arrived,” I say. “Including the parking lot. Any tracks we come across now will be worthless in court.”
The smile fades from her face and I breathe a little easier.
I don’t think anyone knows I was here, or has any reason to suspect my involvement with the murder victim. So as long as it stays that way, I should be fine. My best course of action is to act normal, do my job, and prove that someone else killed Rachel before anyone can point the finger at me. I try to clear my head a little, but my mind is too busy and my thoughts are too loud. The one I hear the most plays on repeat, and right now it’s true: I wish I’d never come back to Blackdown.
Her
Tuesday 07:15
I don’t see the point in trying to get out of going back to Blackdown. It would just raise more questions than I have answers for, so I go home and pack a bag. I don’t intend to stay overnight, but things don’t always go according to plan in this business. It might have been a while, but I haven’t forgotten the drill: clean underwear, non-iron clothes, waterproof jacket, makeup, hair products, a bottle of wine, a few miniatures, and a novel I already know I won’t have time to read.
I put my little suitcase in the back of the car—a red Mini convertible I bought when my husband left me—then climb in and fasten my seat belt; I’m a very safe driver. I was worried I might still be over the limit after last night, but I have my own breathalyzer in the glovebox for occasions such as these. I take it out, blow in the tube, and wait for the screen to change. It turns green, which means I’m good. I don’t need to turn on the GPS, I know exactly where I’m going.
The journey down via the A3 is relatively painless—it’s still rush hour, and the majority of drivers on the road at this time of day are hurrying toward London, not away from it—but minutes feel like hours with nothing except the same views and anxieties for company. The radio does little to drown them out, and every song I hear seems to make me think about things I’d rather forget. Covering this story is a bad idea, but since I can’t explain that to anyone it doesn’t feel like I have a choice.
The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach worsens as I take the old familiar turnoff and follow the signs for Blackdown. Everything looks just the same as it always did, as though time stands still in this little corner of the Surrey Hills. A lifetime ago this was the place I called home, but when I look back now, it feels like someone else’s life, not my own. I’m not the same person I was then. I’ve changed beyond recognition, even if Blackdown and its residents haven’t.
It’s still beautiful, despite all the ugly things that I know have happened here. As soon as I turn off the highway, I find myself navigating a series of narrow country roads. The sky soon disappears from view, courtesy of the ancient forest that seems to swallow me whole. Trees that are centuries old lean across a network of sunken lanes, with steep banks of exposed roots on either side. Their gnarly branches have twisted together up above, blocking out all but the most determined shards of sunlight. I focus hard on the road ahead, steering myself through unwanted thoughts, as well as the shadowy tunnel of trees toward the town.
When I emerge from the canopy of leaves, I see that Blackdown still wears its Sunday best every day of the week. Pretty, well-looked-after Victorian cottages stand proud behind neat gardens, moss-covered dry-stone walls, and the occasional white picket fence. The window boxes on neighboring properties compete with one another all year round, and you won’t find any litter on these streets. I pass the village green, the White Hart pub, the crumbling Catholic church, then I pass the imposing exterior of St. Hilary’s. Seeing the girls’ grammar school causes me to step on the accelerator. I keep my eyes on the road again, as though if I don’t look directly at the building, then the ghosts of my memories won’t be able to find me.
I pull into the National Trust parking lot, and see that my cameraman is already here. I hope they’ve assigned a good one. All the BBC crew vehicles are exactly the same—a fleet of estate cars with an arsenal of filming equipment hidden in the trunk—but cameramen, and women, are all different. Some are better than they think they are at the job. Several are considerably worse. How I look on-screen very much depends on who is filming me, so I can be a little fussy about who I like to work with. Like a carpenter, I think I have a right to choose the best tools with which to cut and shape and craft my work.