Again she shrugs.
I ask her to sit on the sofa, lean back and close her eyes. Breathe deeply.
‘Feel your nostrils opening slightly as you inhale. The air feels cooler as you breathe in and warmer as you breathe out. Feel the change in temperature. How your breath fills your lungs.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m just going to talk. If I ask you something that upsets you, or makes you frightened, I want you to raise your right hand. Just lift your fingers a little and I’ll know to stop. That’s our special signal.’
Sienna nods.
‘Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?’
‘Bristol.’
‘You’re the youngest.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How old is Zoe?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘And Lance?’
‘Twenty-two.’
Sticking to closed questions, I gently draw out her history, which takes a long time because her answers are devoid of detail. Sienna talks about school - her favourite subject is English, her favourite teacher is Mrs Adelaide. I ask about other subjects and other teachers.
An odd detail emerges. An omission. She doesn’t mention Gordon Ellis, her drama teacher, yet the musical is all she and Charlie have talked about for months. They have sung into hair-brushes and danced in front of the mirror.
I take her back to Tuesday and the rehearsal.
‘Do you remember getting into trouble with Mr Ellis?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Ellis was quite hard on you.’
‘I’m used to it.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘You babysit his little boy.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How do you get home afterwards?’
‘He drops me.’
‘Did your father ever argue with Mr Ellis?’
Sienna’s hand rises. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
‘You don’t want to talk about your dad or Mr Ellis?’
Sienna’s hand rises again. As promised, I change the subject and ask her instead about Danny Gardiner.
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘It was ages ago. He went to school with Lance.’
‘But you hooked up with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was that?’
‘Early last year.’
‘Does he pick you up after school sometimes?’
She nods.
‘Where do you go?’
‘The cinema or the mall or just for a drive.’
‘Where did you go after Danny dropped you off last Tuesday?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘You mentioned your therapist, Robin. Is that where you went on Tuesday?’
‘No.’
‘Where then?’
Her fingers begin to rise.
‘You don’t want to tell me.’
She nods.
‘Who are you protecting, Sienna?’
‘No one.’
I back off again, asking her instead about later that night.
‘What time did you get home?’
‘About ten-thirty.’
‘Did someone drop you?’
‘I caught the bus to Hinton Charterhouse and walked the rest of the way.’
Two motorists reported seeing a blonde-haired girl in a short dress walking down Hinton Hill on the night of the murder.
‘That’s a two-mile walk.’
She doesn’t reply.
‘Were there lights on in the house?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Think back. Put yourself outside the house again. It’s late. You’re tired. You’ve walked home. You step through the gate. What do you see?’
‘A light in the hall.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Mum normally leaves it on.’
‘Where is your key?’
‘In my schoolbag.’
‘Can you see yourself getting the key out, unlocking the door?’
She nods.
‘You’re opening it.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you see?’
‘I look on the phone table to see if there are any messages on the answering machine or letters for me. Mum sometimes leaves me a note.’
‘What about this time?’
‘No.’
‘What do you see?’
‘The door under the stairs is open. Daddy’s overnight bag is inside. Unzipped. I see his shaving gear and dirty clothes.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
‘He’s not supposed to be home until Friday.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘I don’t like being alone with him.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘A light at the top of the stairs.’
‘What about downstairs?’
‘I can hear the TV.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘If I can get to my room I’ll be OK. There won’t be a scene. I can lock the door and go to bed and he won’t bother me.’
‘How does he bother you?’
