‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should do that at least,’ Lucy conceded. ‘Because I feel as if I need to get this image out of my head. Maybe then the nightmares will stop.’
‘Well, we have the specialist cognitive interviewer and Facial Imaging Officer still here at the station too. If you wanted to have a chat with them, now would be the perfect time to do so, without drawing any suspicion from the rest of the team. They’d all assume that you were talking about Shelby Cooke’s case. And I can get Zack on the phone now, and see if he’s free too?’ DS Morgan shrugged. ‘We’ve got the press conference lined up shortly, but maybe you could speak to him afterwards? Unless, you think it’s too much, doing it all today, I understand. I’m sure we could work something out for another day.’
DS Morgan could see that Lucy was considering her options.
‘And I know you’re worried about how this would all affect your nan too. I’ve met Winnie. I know how strong she can be. But if this is all affecting you, there’s no doubt it’s affecting her too. Maybe you’ll both finally get some form of closure. Maybe you won’t. It’s always a risk, you just have to weigh up what would be best for you both.’
Lucy nodded slowly. DS Morgan was right. She was scared, of course she was, but maybe she had to do this, regardless of whether she wanted to or not. Because there would be no end otherwise. She and her nan would forever live in limbo. Dancing around the subject of her mother’s murder, both pretending to be okay, when inside they were both slowly drowning in pain. But if she was going to do this, then she would have to speak to her nan.
‘I might as well go all in, Sarge. And see them all while they’re still here at the station. Before I lose my bottle. Hopefully, like you say, no one will get suspicious. And maybe having the press conference in between will keep my mind focused on something else for a while.’
‘I’ll get them to see you right away.’ DS Morgan picked up the phone and made the call. His hand covering the mouthpiece as the dial tone sounded.
‘Whatever happens, Lucy, you have my full support. Whatever resources are needed, whatever it takes. It won’t be easy, but I want you to know that you are not alone.’
‘I really appreciate that, Sarge,’ Lucy said, feeling the tears swell in her eyes at her boss’s sincere words.
She knew that he wanted this as much as she did. To finally catch her mother’s killer and see justice served. And after all of these years, bring some kind of peace to her and her nan.
17
Finishing her second pack of biscuits and discarding the packet onto the floor, Imelda George took one last swig of tea, recoiled at how cold it was now and let out a huge belch. Standing up, she placed her hand on her protruding ball of a stomach and smiled to herself as she cradled the round mound in her hands.
She’d always been fat; she was well aware of that. Having endured a lifetime of bullying and looks of disgust from strangers wherever she went, making no secret of their contempt at the sheer size of her, she’d have to have been deluded not to know otherwise. But they couldn’t call her fat now, could they? The rotten bastards.
Massaging her bump, Imelda no longer cared about any of that now that she had a good reason to eat until her heart’s content and not be made to feel guilty about it. She waddled when she walked these days and now instead of disdain, people would smile at her encouragingly. As if offering their support. They’d see her obvious rounded bump and actually get up out of their seats on the bus and let her sit down.
And Imelda liked it. Basking in the sudden attention that she got for being pregnant made her feel like royalty. People actually went out of their way now to engage in conversation with her. They wanted to talk to her. Her pregnancy meant that she was suddenly no longer invisible. She was a somebody now. A mum to be. And people asked her all kinds of questions.
Is it a boy or a girl? Have you had a good pregnancy? Have you had any weird cravings?
And, stranger still, they genuinely wanted to know details that almost nobody else would have found interesting in the slightest. They wanted to know it all. Every last mundane detail and tedious bit of minutiae. It was such a revelation to her, people engaging in conversation with her.
When are you due?
That was the one awful, burning question that Imelda had spent most of her lifetime dreading, for the fear of having to admit that she was simply just fat. Recalling how her face had burned a deep red with humiliation every single time she’d had to correct someone. Often, in the end, she’d just gone along with it to save embarrassment and pretend that she was pregnant after all. But she didn’t need to pretend any more. Not only did she relish these words now, she welcomed them wholeheartedly.
Making her way to the small bedroom at the front of the flat, Imelda sat down in the rocking chair in the corner of the room, looking around with glee. The rest of the flat was run-down and tired-looking, as expected in such an old, decrepit building, but Imelda had worked tirelessly making this room just perfect. And it was perfect.
She’d lost several hours each day just sitting here, breathing in lungsful of the faint smell of the freshly painted white walls and the lingering scent of the new soft, grey carpet at
