His & Hers(15)

Everyone else here seems to be dressed in muted shades of black or brown or gray—as though they deliberately color-coordinated their clothes with the murder scene—but not her. Anna is wearing a bright red coat and dress, and I wonder if they are new; I don’t recognize them. I avoid looking in her direction; it’s distracting. Nobody here would ever guess that we know each other, and it is in both our interests to keep it that way.

I wait until I have their full attention and the rabble is silent once more, then I deliver my preprepared and preapproved statement. Detectives are no longer permitted to speak for themselves. At least, I’m not. Not after the last time.

“Early this morning, police received a report of a body being found in Blackdown Woods just outside the village. Officers attended and the body of a woman was discovered not far from the main parking lot. The woman has not yet been formally identified, and the death is currently unexplained. The area is cordoned off while investigations continue. There will be no further statements from this location, and I will not be answering any questions at this time.”

I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that this is a crime scene, not an episode of whatever bullshit detective box set you’re watching on Netflix.

I don’t say the last line. At least I hope I didn’t. I start to turn away—we are deliberately not sharing very much with the press or public at this stage—but then I hear her. I’ve always loved listening to the way different people speak—it can tell you so much about them. I don’t just mean accents, I mean everything: the tone, the volume, the speed, as well as the language. The words they choose to use, and how and when and why they say them. The silences between the sentences, which can be just as loud. A person’s voice is like a wave—some just wash right over you, while others have the power to knock you down and drag you into an ocean of self-doubt. The sound of her speaking makes me feel like I’m drowning.

Anna clearly didn’t hear the part about no questions. Or, knowing her, just chose to ignore it.

“Is it true that the victim was a local woman?”

I don’t even turn to face her.

“No comment.”

“You said that the death was currently being treated as unexplained, but can you confirm that this is a murder investigation?”

I’m aware that the cameras are still rolling, but start to walk away. Anna is not a woman who likes to be ignored. When she doesn’t get an answer to her last question, she asks another.

“Is it true that the victim was found with a foreign object inside their mouth?”

Only now do I stop. I slowly turn to face her, a hundred questions colliding inside my mind as I take in the green eyes that appear to be smiling. The only two people who know about something being found inside the victim’s mouth are DS Patel and me. I deliberately haven’t told anyone else yet—it’s the sort of thing that will leak before I want it to—and Priya is as tight-lipped as a clam. Which leaves me with yet another question I can’t answer: How did Anna know?





Her



Tuesday 09:00



I ignore the stares from the other journalists and hurry back to my car. I’ve forgotten what it is like to stand in the cold for hours on end, and I regret not wearing more layers. Still, at least I look good. Better than Jack Harper at any rate. As soon as I’m inside the Mini, I turn on the engine and crank up the heating to try to warm myself. I want to make a phone call without the whole world listening in, so have asked Richard to grab a few extra shots.

It’s strange to imagine the One O’Clock News team all sitting in the newsroom without me, everything carrying on as normal, as though I were never there. I think I can persuade the Thin Controller to let me get on-air with what I’ve already got. Then at least this won’t have been a complete waste of time. Best to go straight to the top for an answer, I think; today’s program editor suffers from chronic indecision.

Finally, after listening to the phone ring for longer than it ever should when calling a network newsroom, someone answers.

“One O’Clock News,” she purrs.

The sound of Cat Jones’s velvety voice causes mine to malfunction.

I picture her sitting in what, only yesterday, was my chair. Answering my phone. Working with my team. I close my eyes and can see her red hair and white smile. The mental image doesn’t make me feel sick, it makes me feel thirsty. My fingers come to the rescue, and automatically start to search inside my bag for a miniature whiskey. I open it, twisting the screw cap with my one free hand—I’ve had practice—and down the bottle.

“Hello?” says the voice on the other end, in a tone resembling the polite preempt people use before hanging up when nobody answers.

My reply gets stuck in my throat, as though my mouth has forgotten how to form words.

“It’s Anna,” I manage, relieved that I can still remember my own name.

“Anna…?”

“Andrews.”

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. Did you want to speak to—”

“Yes. Please.”

“Of course. Let me put you on hold and see if I can grab his attention.”

I hear a click before the familiar BBC News countdown music starts to play. I’ve always rather liked it, but right now it’s deeply irritating. I glance outside the window at the rest of the press still standing around. Some of the faces are familiar and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see me, which was nice. I remember that a few of them shook my hand, and reach inside my handbag again, this time in search of an antibacterial wipe for my fingers. I’m about to hang up—tired of being kept on hold—when the sound of shouting in the newsroom replaces the music.