She had been badly wounded back then, two years ago, when the photograph had found its way into the papers. She’d erroneously expected loyalty from friends and colleagues, only to realize, as successive pictures from friends’ parties, from their weddings, from her godson’s ‘godparents and close family only’ christening appeared in the paper, as her life crumbled, that loyalty was fiction.
She reached the shore and stepped from the concrete walkway down on to the pebbles. Why did she always seek out the beach when she needed comfort? The beach where Zoe had been murdered. It made no sense. Nothing made sense any more. Sense was for a life she used to know. Control was for a life she used to know.
The tide was out and a few people were walking by the water’s edge, a couple of dogs chasing balls across the sand, but the pebbly section at the top of the beach, furthest from the water, was deserted. Sinking down, Carolynn unfolded the paper. Its pages were out of order, her photograph, page five, on top. She couldn’t read until she had rearranged it, needed to digest the information in order of gravity, understand what the journalists considered most notable, what they were thinking. Because the journalists’ thought processes mirrored those of their sources in the police, and of that detective inspector with the horrid, piercing eyes. It was imperative that she figure out what he was thinking, where his focus lay. Whether she could continue to hide here, in plain sight, or whether she needed to run again.
Apart from that clamouring headline – SECOND GIRL MURDERED ON WITTERING BEACH – the photograph on the front page could have been from two years ago, her own life stilled in black and white. The only difference, the journalists, even more this time, and the location of the white tent shielding the little girl’s body. Back then the tent had covered the spot in the beach car park, where she, cradling Zoe’s body, had fallen to her knees, where the screams of horrified beachgoers mixed with her own, the sirens of the police arriving, had finally brought her to a standstill.
Zoe is heavy, too heavy. I hadn’t noticed that she’d grown so big. I need to stop, to put her down, but I can’t, I must keep going forward.
Fat wet drops fell on to the page, blotting out the shock-faced uniforms standing outside the tent, the journalists lined up along the ‘Police – Do Not Cross’ tape. Wiping her sleeve across her eyes, Carolynn flipped the page.
I need the people to get out of my way. They are staring at me with such horror and such pity. I can’t stand to be pitied.
Zoe’s face stared back at her from the page, tear-stained eyes reproaching her mother for not protecting her, for letting her die. Carolynn forced herself to look at the photograph and felt a great weight pressing down on her chest.
It’s not Zoe. It’s not her.
She knew that the photograph wasn’t of Zoe, that what she was seeing wasn’t real. That another little girl was pictured under the headline: Murdered Beach Girl Identified.
Not Zoe. Of course, it wasn’t Zoe. It couldn’t have been.
But she knew exactly who it was.
17
Ruby Lovatt was already seated in the interview room when Marilyn and Workman entered. She was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed under her breasts, which made her ample cleavage almost pornographically prominent in the thin, low-cut silver jumper. Head tilted to one side, a half-smile on her face, she was eyeballing DC Cara, who was standing in the corner, hands jammed into his pockets, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as if he’d been stung by something. Marilyn smiled to himself. He knew Ruby of old, knew the tricks that she played. She was well accustomed to dealing with men, manipulating them. He had been a victim himself a few times when he was younger, greener. Ruby’s gaze swung from Cara to meet his as he stepped through the doorway, narrowed as it shifted past him to check out DS Workman.
‘DI Simmons,’ she winked. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Good morning, Ruby.’
Signalling to DC Cara to leave, which he did at speed, Marilyn pulled out a chair and sat down, as did Workman, beside him. Placing the file containing the photographs of the crime scene and Jodie Trigg’s broken little body on the table in front of him, closed for the moment, he placed flat hands on the tabletop either side of the file, met Ruby’s gaze and smiled what he hoped was a pleasant smile that communicated nothing, gave nothing away.
‘So how are you, Ruby?’
She opened her mouth and jutted out her chin in a way that told Marilyn she was about to make a suggestive comment. He braced himself, embarrassed for some reason by Workman’s presence, as if she was an elderly relative who needed sheltering from the baser side of human nature. He wished now that he had come to interview Ruby alone, but this was an important interview, critical, and he knew that Workman would pick up on nuances that he might miss.
He was surprised when all Ruby said was, ‘I’m fine.’ A pensive nod. ‘OK.’
Her nose was crooked – it had been broken at some point – and both of her front teeth were chipped.
‘Do you mind if we record this interview, so that we have a verbatim record?’ he asked.
‘Do what you like,’ she muttered.
Marilyn switched on the electronic recorder. He spoke the date and time and listed their names.
‘What were you doing on the beach, Ruby?’ he began.
‘Looking for treasure.’ She smirked. ‘Like a pirate.’
‘In the rain?’ Workman queried.
Ruby’s gaze switched to her. ‘I don’t dissolve.’
