Friend Request(72)

‘And what about the other people at the reunion? We’re talking to the bar staff and the cleaners, of course, but there was a teacher there too, Mr Jenkins?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I believe he was a teacher there when you were at school?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Surely they don’t suspect him?

‘Did you speak to him at all, or see him at any point in the evening?’

‘Mr Jenkins? Only when I arrived. He was on the door. Look, has someone said something?’

‘What do you mean?’ Her face is inscrutable.

‘Well… when we were at school there were all these rumours about him. That he was… you know… a pervert. Liked sneaking around, watching the girls get changed, that kind of thing.’

‘I see.’ She’s not giving anything anyway.

‘But I’ve no idea if there was any truth to them. He certainly never did anything to me, and I never heard anything first-hand. It was always someone who knew someone. You know what teenagers can be like, how things get around. I wouldn’t want to suggest that he… you know…’

‘Of course.’

Reynolds looks intently at me, her hands face down on the table.

‘I appreciate that you hadn’t seen Sophie for many years, and that you didn’t know much about her adult life, and of course we are pursuing various lines of enquiry,’ she says. ‘But we can’t ignore the fact that she was killed at her school reunion, an occasion loaded with significance at the best of times. Was there anything that happened in your school days, anything at all, that you think may have a bearing here?’

I think of Maria’s face, glaring defiantly at me from my computer; of Sophie silhouetted against coloured glass, gathering herself for what was to come; of Tim at the top of the school drive, gesticulating at a figure in a black coat; of a golden necklace, twisted around a sixteen-year-old girl’s finger a lifetime ago.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing at all.’

Chapter 30

2016
Outside the police station, I walk steadily at a medium pace, in case Reynolds is watching me from an upstairs window. My car is parked in a nearby multi-storey, but I continue walking past the entrance, the rhythm of feet hitting pavement soothing me. Cars zoom past me with hypnotic regularity, a backdrop to my racing thoughts.

How have I ended up here, lying to the police again? I remember the other detective, a kind man. I never knew exactly how much Maria’s mum Bridget had told him about me, but I don’t think he ever suspected any foul play. Esther’s testimony that Maria had been drinking was enough for him to conclude that a tragic accident was the most likely explanation. The rain that had begun to fall as we left the hall that night had continued all night, a relentless downpour that would have washed away any hope of physical evidence. Only Sophie, Sam, Matt and I knew exactly how tragic, and how far you would have to stretch the word accident, to make the official verdict anywhere close to accurate. At least, I think we were the only ones who knew.

Even though I have left the police station far behind, I still have the feeling that someone is watching me. I can feel the heat on my back, like the glare of the sun, ostensibly benign but with the potential to burn, to scald. I walk faster, hyper-alert, trying to look like someone in an ordinary hurry, perhaps with a train to catch, or late for an appointment. When I reach Norwich town centre, I duck behind a crowd of tourists and swerve into Marks & Spencer, its familiarity a soothing balm. How do they make all their shops smell the same? In the food hall, standing in front of the sandwich counter staring unseeingly at the tuna sweetcorn and chicken salad, I slowly become aware that someone is watching me. I try to keep my eyes on the sandwiches, but cannot stop the heat that rises to my cheeks. There’s a harassed woman with two small children whinging for treats to my right, and next to her a greying man in a tired suit looking miserably at the low-fat section. My eyes slide beyond him and land on Tim Weston. He smiles and gives a half-wave, coming around behind the businessman and the woman with the children.

‘Louise, hi. What are you doing here?’

‘Buying a sandwich?’ I give a breathless laugh, trying to conceal my discomfort. Has Tim been following me?

‘Right. You came all the way to Norwich for a sandwich? They do have Marks & Spencers in London you know.’ His tone is light but there’s an accusation behind his words.

I give in. ‘I’ve just been at the police station actually. Talking to them about Sophie Hannigan.’ There’s no point trying to avoid the subject.

‘Oh God, yes of course, I heard.’ His face falls. ‘It’s so awful. Do you… know any more about what happened to her?’

‘No, not really. They just wanted to talk to me, as someone that was there, you know. Someone that spoke to her at the reunion.’ Why am I trying to justify myself to him?

‘Right, right. It’s just such a horrific thing to have happened.’

We stand there awkwardly for a moment.

‘Which one are you getting?’ he asks eventually.

I look down at the sandwich in either hand, shove one of them blindly back into the fridge, and we walk to the tills together. We pay for our sandwiches in silence, and walk out of the shop together and along the pedestrianised street.

‘Which way are you going?’ he says.