Which is, of course, possible, but Ev isn’t buying it. And if she’s right, it would explain a lot more than just this. But she’s not going to pry; Somer will tell her when she’s good and ready.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, touching her friend lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll get Asante to go instead. Take your time.’
Somer nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.
She hears Ev go back to the door, and the sound of it opening. And then a pause. ‘Perhaps it might be an idea to go to the doc’s? You know, just to be on the safe side?’
Somer nods again, and after a few moments the door swings shut and she’s alone.
She raises her head slowly and stares into the mirror. Her skin looks greenish in the unforgiving light. Ev’s right. She’s been trying to pretend this isn’t happening, but she knows in her heart she can’t put it off much longer.
She needs to know.
And then, well, then –
* * *
‘Not as bad as it could have been,’ says Boddie, snapping on his gloves. ‘When I see “railway incident” on the docket I usually assume I’ll need a sieve.’
The two CSI technicians exchange a glance. Colin Boddie’s mortuary humour is the stuff of legend; they’ve even set up an ‘Overheard in the Morgue’ Instagram account (though no one’s yet had the courage to tell him that).
‘What’s the background here?’ he says, walking round the head of the table. The woman’s body is naked now, the skin waxy, and deep lividity in the back and buttocks. There are scratches, cuts, surface scrapes, dirt encrusted in the long blonde hair, but the damage – at least to the naked eye – is surprisingly slight.
The British Transport Police constable looks up. ‘Bunch of engineers found her on the line at Walton Well bridge in the early hours. They thought she’d jumped.’
Boddie glances across. ‘They saw her do it?’
The officer nods. ‘They saw someone fall. Just as well they did. There was a thirteen-car Freightliner less than two minutes away that wasn’t planning to stop. If that crew hadn’t been there –’ He shrugs.
Boddie nods. ‘Raspberry ripple.’
He bends a little closer, looking at the bloodied nostrils, the wide eyes now starting to cloud.
‘OK,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see what she’s prepared to tell us.’
* * *
The council office is in a Victorian building just off the Iffley Road. The words ‘Iffley Parish Institute’ are engraved in the stone above the main entrance, but according to the much more assertive modern sign on the edge of the pavement the building is now shared not only by the council fostering and adoption team but a community centre, the Samaritans, a playgroup, and a Silver Threads lunch fellowship.
Asante had the sense to call ahead and make an appointment, but he still spends ten minutes kicking his heels in the waiting area. There’s a box of toys in the corner and signs pinned up on the wall behind: Evacuation in the Event of Fire, a Public Liability Insurance certificate and a hand-written note from the playgroup organizer: ‘Please stack chairs at the end of your meeting so the cleaners can do their job.’
When someone eventually comes to find him, the room he’s shown into looks like what you’d get if you typed ‘office’ into a Google image search. Cheap furniture, tired pot plant, view over the staff car park. The woman who rises from behind the bland grey desk looks cool in a light-green and purple summer dress. Early thirties, chestnut-brown hair twisted up in a clip and heavy-framed glasses that make her look like a 1950s secretary. It’s a reassuring look, he’ll give her that. The look of someone who knows what they’re doing.
‘I’m Beth Monroe. I know a few people at St Aldate’s but I don’t think we’ve met?’
Asante smiles, but not too much. ‘I haven’t been here long. Transferred up from London a few months ago.’
‘Really?’ she says, gesturing for him to sit down. ‘Where?’
‘Brixton.’
She nods, more animated now. ‘I used to work at the Blue Elephant Theatre. Many moons ago.’
They smile; they have something in common. And then the smile trails away.
‘We’re all just devastated. It’s awful – to think something could have happened to her –’
‘I gather it was you who went round to the house this morning?’
She folds her hands in front of her. ‘It was so unlike her. Not turning up and not calling either. I can’t remember when she was last off sick.’
‘So the last time you’d have seen her would have been yesterday?’
She nods. ‘That’s right. She was still here when I left at six.’
‘How did she seem to you?’
She considers. ‘OK. A bit preoccupied but that was nothing unusual. There are only five of us and we’re always swamped. Finding children new families – it’s such important work and she takes it so seriously –’
She stops, bites her lip. ‘I still can’t quite believe this –’
‘We think Ms Smith let a man into her flat last night – someone she knew –’
Her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. You think – you think this man may have abducted her?’
‘We’re at a very early stage of the investigation,’ says Asante, switching evenly into police-issue platitudinese. ‘We just need to talk to him. He was tallish, dark hair. Does anyone spring to mind? A colleague, perhaps?’
Monroe frowns. ‘No. The only man on our team is Ed, and he’s five foot six and bald as an egg.’
‘What about friends, boyfriends? Anyone who might fit that description?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know much about her private life. She really wasn’t one for swapping gossip at the coffee machine.’
‘You haven’t had any staff events that included partners?’
She smiles ruefully. ‘Er, no, all we do is a Christmas party and that’s strictly employees only. Even then the budget only stretches to warm cava and Aldi sausage rolls.’
Asante makes a note. ‘There’s no one else she works with who might know more?’
Monroe shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so.
