One Small Mistake(35)

‘The night of …’ he checked his notes. ‘Saturday 2nd August when your sister was accosted by a man outside of your house, you said you didn’t get a good look at her assailant. Have you recalled any more details since we last spoke?’

‘Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him before Jack punched him in the face. Perhaps you should have a word with him?’

Ritter did not appreciate me telling him how to do his job. ‘Yes, Mr Westwood’s been very helpful but, back to you, you’re sure you haven’t remembered anything else?’

I shook my head. ‘I told you, close-cut dark hair, glasses.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Very well.’ He shuffled the papers in front of him and peered at his notes again. ‘And can you just tell me again where you were on August 16th – the night Elodie disappeared?’

They really don’t have a clue. They’re examining the entire family, as though we all had something to do with it – like this was Murder on the Orient Express. I had to read that for GCSE. It was a struggle; I was always more likely to have a bottle of tequila in my hand than a novel, but you found it in my room and devoured it. Mum and Dad were proud. Not to be outdone, I forced myself to finish it too.

‘As I said before, I was out to dinner with Ethan, my cousin, Ruby, and her husband, Tom. The bill is included in the binder I gave you.’

His lips twitched. ‘Ah, yes, your binder.’

We’ve all handled your disappearance differently. Mum is in denial. Dad speaks even less than usual, and I’ve seen a couple of empty bottles of whisky in the recycling. And so I began organising; I compiled a list of all your friends along with any contact information I could find, I wrote down everything you told us after the attack that Saturday and a few ideas of people you’d contact if you were in trouble, and put it all in a binder. The sad truth is, it made me realise how little I know about your life, your friends. When I took it to the station, Ritter took it and seemed mildly amused.

‘Is that everything?’ I asked.

‘Actually, it isn’t. We have another inspector joining the case; he wanted to meet you and get caught up.’

Then the door opened, and you won’t believe who stepped in – Christopher Jones. I haven’t seen him in years. You remember him, don’t you? My first boyfriend. We took you to a theme park – it was his idea to bring you along – and you made us go on that huge rollercoaster. I can see you now, your head thrown back as we plummeted down, your hands up in the air while mine gripped the bar until they ached. I hate rides; being out of control doesn’t appeal to me, but you, you love them. You’d keep riding until you were sick.

‘Miss Fray,’ said Christopher formally.

I glanced at Ritter, then back to Christopher, thinking he couldn’t possibly have forgotten me. I’ve never forgotten him. Forgotten I used to go to his parents’ house when his mum was working late, and we’d get halfway naked, kissing until we were both raw and exhausted.

Ritter cleared his throat. ‘It’s Mrs Archer.’

‘Oh,’ said Christopher, glancing down at the ring on my left hand. Did I see disappointment? ‘Of course. Apologies. Nice to meet you.’

He held out his hand; I took it. His grip was firm and assured, just as I remembered. ‘Actually, we—’

‘I’m Inspector Jones,’ he said, glancing quickly at Ritter and giving my hand a little squeeze, urging me to play along.

‘Jones,’ I said, coolly. ‘Nice to meet you.’

His dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. I couldn’t help having a good look at him; he’s taller than I remember, broader too. His wavy dark hair is short now and there’s a little crescent moon scar cutting through his left eyebrow where his piercing used to be. Mum would say he’s aged like fine wine. And I’d agree.

‘Your binder was really helpful,’ he said without sarcasm. He opened up his notebook and scanned the pages. ‘You wrote that Elodie wasn’t fond of her manager, Richard Morris. Do you know of a particular reason for this?’

‘No.’

He jotted something down.

‘Is he a suspect?’ I asked. ‘Because, if anyone’s responsible, it’s the creep that’s been stalking her. Jack’s been up close to him – if you speak to him again, he’ll be able to—’

‘Yes, Mrs Archer,’ said Ritter, cutting me off. ‘We’ve got that under control.’

‘Jack Westwood?’ asked Christopher.

I nodded.

Christopher only met Jack a couple of times. He broke up a fight between Jack and some guy who hit on you at Charlie’s nineteenth birthday party, but not before Jack broke the guy’s nose. But, of course, you won’t pay note to that, will you? Everything Jack does is seen by you through rose-tinted glasses. You colour his possessive behaviour as sweeping acts of friendship.

‘We’ll bring him in again,’ said Christopher.

Ritter gave him a look. ‘I don’t think—’

‘We’ll have him work with a sketch artist to create a composite drawing we can release to the public.’

‘Great,’ I said.

In the car park, Christopher called my name. When I looked across the forecourt, he was jogging towards me. ‘Got a second?’