‘You mean the chancellor doesn’t want it on her shoulders.’
‘Something like that. Quite apart from public confidence, there’s a lot of money at stake. Hotel bookings and so on. Maidstead tourism bosses are panicking. Everyone’s looking to us to buoy confidence and wrap this up. You know how rare shootings are outside of drug crime. Let alone at a major event . . .’
‘OK. So where are you on the forensics?’
‘Your guess was right. The gun was fired up in that balcony. A handgun with a silencer’s the best assumption from all the video footage we’ve reviewed. Just one bullet into the girl’s leg. We’ve recovered the bullet but it’s not giving a lot away.’
‘And the sweep of the balcony?’
‘Unhelpful. Lots of people went up there to take pictures before the ceremony. A million footprints and fingerprints and no matches to anyone on our systems yet.’
‘What about the exit path for the shooter? Anything on the footage?’
‘No. There’s an easy exit from the balcony. A staircase to the lower corridor with a small side door straight outside. It’s tucked away – a bit like the door you used to get in on the other side. Usually locked. Sometimes left open on the quiet for staff which was the case during the ceremony. No CCTV nearby.’
‘OK. Not good.’ He lets out a long, slow breath. ‘So – motive. What are you thinking? Is this personal – to Gemma or the university or the cathedral – or just some lone lunatic?’
‘I honestly have no idea.’ Mel frowns as if weighing something up. She goes to say something but then changes her mind, sipping at her drink.
‘Come on, Mel. You called me so spit it out. You know you can trust me. And like it or not, I’m sort of involved . . .’
‘The victim’s pregnant, Matt. Parents didn’t know. I think her friends may be hiding something. She’d recently broken up with her boyfriend. He’s on my list obviously. Been questioned but nothing on him so far. Word is he fled early on and we’re still checking that against the footage.’
‘Right. Jeez. So do we know for sure who the father is?’
She shakes her head as the waitress places down their cakes and they again wait for her to retreat out of earshot.
‘Not yet. But we both know the pregnancy’s going to come out, Matt. Next round of questioning, it’s bound to leak. Her parents are dreading it.’
‘Yeah. Tough on them – but we can’t help that.’ He watches her scoop some of the topping from the carrot cake on to her fork and suck it, the pleasure of the sweetness lighting up her eyes for just a moment.
‘Anything from her phone and laptop yet? And what about a diary or blog? She studied English, didn’t she? A writer. Could be a diary?’
‘Apparently not. We’ve checked her flat and her mother said she didn’t keep one. Her phone’s locked so we don’t have full access yet. First scan of laptop hasn’t found anything yet. We’ve put in the request for social-media access but you know how slow that is. My team’s going through the phone-company records, checking all the numbers. Popular girl. It’s a long list.’
‘And this is all assuming she was a deliberate target. What about the university or the cathedral? Anyone sacked recently? Anyone with a grudge? Any known weirdos hang out at the cathedral? Local gun clubs? Any religious protests?’
‘Are you sure you won’t just come back on my bloody team, Matt? It would make my life so much easier.’
He half laughs. Then he feels his expression change and watches Mel’s change too. A lifetime ago they trained together. Worked together. When he left the police force over a difficult case – a child’s death – Mel said he was making a big mistake and she was probably right. But he won’t go back. Too late to turn back now . . .
‘So weird that you were in the city, Matt.’
There’s a long pause.
‘What is it?’
‘Sal’s not very happy with me. For diving in.’
‘Right. Sorry. I didn’t think . . .’ She looks away across the café and then back at him. ‘Selfishly I was just bloody glad you got there ahead of my team—’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Seriously. You were amazing, Matt.’
‘I deserted my family, Mel. Not sure Sally would call that amazing.’ Matthew finishes his cake and pushes the plate away. ‘Also – Amelie heard too much.’
‘Oh no. I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
He watches Mel take this in properly and her eyes soften. He and Mel have liaised unofficially on several cases. The last time – a stalker inquiry – Mel was heavily pregnant. He was booked privately to help the victim. Mel was the official investigating officer. She took maternity leave afterwards but her son George is still tiny. Only just walking.
Matthew wonders how on earth Mel manages. Her husband Tom is a wildlife campaigner, working with a charity. A decent bloke. Matthew likes him.
‘Does Tom worry? About the job? Do you talk stuff through with him?’
‘The truth?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘I play everything down, especially any risks. I think he’d make me quit if he knew.’ She dusts her fingers on the napkin. ‘Right – so my immediate worry is Gemma’s messages.’
‘Messages?’ Matthew notes the gear change. Also how very pale Mel looks. Not herself at all.
‘Gemma’s phone records show several Facebook notifications on the morning of the shooting. One of her friends told me she’d had some really odd direct messages and was stressed about them.’
‘What kind of messages?’ Matthew wishes he had the courage to ask if she’s really OK. Is she struggling too? Work and home? Dare he ask? Should he ask?
‘That’s the problem. We don’t know yet. Like I say, we’re not into her phone yet. We’ve got the paperwork in to Facebook but Lord knows how long that will take. Gemma’s friend doesn’t know any details. Also.’ Again she pauses to finish the last of her coffee. ‘There’s something a bit odd about the dad.’
‘Something – like what?’
‘Oh, you know me. Gut feeling. I don’t know exactly—’ And now her phone interrupts them. ‘Sorry, Matt. Got to take this.’ She holds up her hand to register the impasse as she answers, her expression darkening. ‘Right.’ She stands up. ‘So is anyone hurt?’ She glances to the ceiling as she listens some more to her caller. ‘Understood. I’ll be right there. Try to calm things down. Reassure the staff. And for goodness’ sake, keep him away from the family.’ Mel ends the call, plunging the phone into her jacket pocket.
‘Sorry, Matt. Crisis at the hospital. I’ve got to go.’
CHAPTER 6
THE MOTHER
I’m putting moisturiser on Gemma’s face when it all kicks off.
As I rub my hands together, waiting for the slight stickiness to be absorbed, there’s suddenly some kind of commotion outside the cubicle and across the ward. At first there’s just distant remonstrating. I’m utterly stilled rather than panicked, holding my breath. We have a guard . . .
I can’t make out the words and don’t know if this is benign – some other family rumpus, some staff or visitor dispute . . . or to do with us? I look at Ed and he holds my stare. The police guard beyond our cubicle window stands. There’s a beat of silence but next comes full-on shouting, maybe at the entrance to the unit or just outside in the corridor.
I demand to see her. You can’t stop me. The bitch has been lying to me. Cheating on me.
Now comes true terror. I stand and Ed stands too. We exchange a look of pure and mirrored dread, my stomach cramping and my mind racing. The voice sounds young. Male. But the angle of the window into our cubicle means we can’t see who it is.
The police guard glances at us through the glass, signalling with his hand for us to stay put before striding out of sight. I feel a new and terrible wave not just of fear but complete disorientation. What to do? Ed moves to close the door to our little cubicle, holding the handle in place – pushing it upwards to try to stop anyone getting in.
I can
hear one of the nurses arguing with the intruder and then an older male voice, presumably our police guard. ‘You need to put that down right now. You can’t go through. We’ve told you that. Let’s keep this calm. Let’s move this downstairs and talk this through calmly . . .’
He’s immediately interrupted by a loud thud and a woman screaming. I can feel my heart racing wildly and let out this low groan.
Next, we hear more shouting, unintelligible, and the sound of apparent scuffling followed by loud clanging as if something metal’s been knocked over. A chair? No. The noise suggests something much bigger. Maybe some kind of trolley as there is a cacophony of different metal notes and the sound of breaking glass. I imagine various instruments strewn across the floor. One note continues – a horrible low whirring as if a metal bowl is circling on the floor. Round and round. Round and round.
I’ve moved to the side of Gemma’s bed. Ed has stretched his right hand across to the bedside table, his left hand still tight around the door handle. He grabs my iPad and holds it up high as the only available weapon. I’m now standing between the window and Gemma’s bed, stretching out my arms to widen my shield and trying not to think of the cathedral and how useless an iPad will be if the man is armed.
Don’t let it be a gun. Don’t let it be a gun again.
There’s another little impasse – this strange and chilling moment of quiet – then a male voice calling out in pain. I’m holding my breath when a nurse suddenly appears on the other side of our cubicle window. She has her hand up to signal for us to keep still. She glances across the room then back to us to mouth, ‘It’s OK.’
Next, we hear the voice of our police guard giving instructions, apparently to a hospital security guard. He says there’s police backup on the way and the young man is to be held until backup arrives. We wait. One minute. Two minutes.
At last there’s a knock on our door. ‘It’s your police guard here. You can open up now. It’s all clear.’
Ed slowly opens the door to find the guard still on his radio. ‘Thank you. Yes. He’s cuffed. The situation’s contained.’ He’s leaning his chin down as he speaks into the radio while also checking his watch. ‘I have assistance from hospital security but I need that backup fast. And we need to update DI Sanders. Will you do that for me?’ A pause. ‘Good. And keep me posted.’
He then takes his finger off the radio and turns to us. ‘I’m so sorry. I just want to let you know that you’re absolutely safe. The young man making the scene claims he’s your daughter’s boyfriend. Alexander.’ He lowers his voice. ‘He’s making various accusations. Demanding to see Gemma. We’ve got him handcuffed in a side office. He’ll be taken to the police station for questioning. But I just wanted you to know what’s happening. I’ll be staying here with you, once backup arrives to take him to the station.’
I can’t believe it. Alex? All that rage.
‘Was he armed?’ My voice is so high that I hardly recognise it. Alex. The boy who came on holiday with us. The boy who always seemed so kind around Gemma. Devoted.
‘No, no. Not armed. Well – not exactly. He grabbed a water jug. Threatened one of the nurses who wouldn’t let him through. No formal weapon. Just very overwrought. DI Sanders will be here soon, I’m sure. She’ll talk to you once we know what he’s saying.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ Ed’s voice is steadier than mine.
‘No. He knocked over a trolley at the nurses’ station. There’s broken glass, which needs clearing up, but no one hurt. Are you both OK? The nurses are talking to all the patients in the other cubicles. I’m very sorry you’ve been put through this.’
Ed reaches out to touch my arm and lets out a long sigh. ‘Thank you, Officer. We’re fine. Just a bit shaken. So what’s he’s saying? Why did he come here? He’s her ex, you know. Not her boyfriend now. He sent us a card, asking to see Gemma, but we didn’t reply. I mean – she broke it off with him. We were respecting her decision.’ Ed turns to me and then back to the guard. ‘So do you think it was him? At the cathedral, I mean?’
‘Best we don’t jump to any conclusions. I suggest you wait to speak to DI Sanders after he’s been interviewed properly. Do you still have the card? She’ll want to see that.’
I nod. There have been so many cards from people but I’ve kept them all. I move to my holdall in the corner to look for it, struggling to take this in. The venom in Alex’s voice. The bitch has been lying to me . . . Unrecognisable. And what did he mean – cheating on me?
I can feel my lips trembling and put my hand up to my mouth, suddenly remembering Gemma. Horrified that she may have heard all this.
CHAPTER 7
THE DAUGHTER – BEFORE
Essay notes – romanticism module. Third year.
OK, so these are obviously not my notes on the romanticism module . . .
The truth? It’s Thursday night, late. I’m sitting at my laptop, and it tells you everything that my hands are actually shaking and I’m hiding this in an ‘essay prep’ folder in my coursework files because I need to be as sure as I can that Alex won’t somehow read this. Find this.
Paranoid? Going off the rails? Maybe a little bit of both. I don’t know.
All I know is that I am doing this, writing this I mean, because last night we had the worst argument ever and I have no one to talk to about it. He was off-the-scale angry. Alex. My supposedly perfect boyfriend. Not physical, he didn’t hit me or anything, but he did for the first time actually scare me. I honestly had no idea his temper could be that bad.
I’ve actually never seen anyone rage like that tbh. My parents don’t really fight. I guess I’m lucky that way. They’re more sulkers. They don’t even raise their voices; they just hole up in different parts of the house when they’re upset. Until it blows over. So I’m not used to this. I don’t know how to handle it, what to even think. And I have NO idea what to do . . .
I haven’t written anything like this – like a diary, I mean – since I was a kid. I blog sometimes. I rage and rant about politics all over social media. Words are how I process things. This feels a bit childish, actually – the diary vibe – but I can’t post this stuff anywhere and I just don’t know how else to handle it. I keep picking up my phone and thinking I should call someone. Mum? No. Maddy . . . But I can’t do it. I don’t know what I’d say. And if I’ve made too much of everything and Alex and I are fine again, I won’t want anyone to know it ever happened.
It’s just my mind is all over the place. Alex is always saying I overreact. Over-think things. Maybe I do . . . Maybe that’s the real problem here. Mum’s been telling me for years to ‘go away until you calm down’ whenever I get wound up, so maybe I’m actually the one at fault? Maybe I do just overreact . . .
But this thing between me and Alex felt really serious and I feel we’ve sort of crossed a line, and I can’t figure out who is on the right side of the line – who is the most in the wrong. Him. Or me.
So – deep breath. The story.
It all started because I decided I couldn’t go on without at least testing my theory (paranoia?) about Alex hacking my Facebook profile. Even writing that sounds terrible, doesn’t it? He says I’m paranoid and sometimes I worry he’s right. He says I see things that aren’t there. Anyway, whatever . . .
I couldn’t help getting worried because some really, really odd things have been happening lately with my social-media accounts. So, a couple of times I’ve sent Maddy photos after a night out by DM – just for us. We’re not on Insta or anything, we’re more private like that. Just stupid and completely innocent stuff. Us doing vodka shots. Us pouting and making faces for selfies. Usual nonsense.
Alex has always – right from the start – been a bit weird about my girl nights. I used to think it was sweet that he worried about me getting home safely. He made me text him when I got back to the flat. So he would know I was safe. I liked it. I probably even encouraged it because it made me feel looked after. It was a bit like when Mum used to wait up at home – a part
of me was irritated and another part was pleased she cared that much.
And then with Alex, the ‘checking in’ escalated. It started to be every time I did anything – even completely safe stuff. Not late at night. I tried to say there was no need to text if I wasn’t waiting, or walking on my own in the dark or whatever, but he still pushed it. At first, I realised that it was partly my fault because I said that I’d liked it to begin with.
This last term though, it’s got much, much worse – to the point where I’ve felt he was being borderline controlling. I also kept noticing him looking over my shoulder when I was on my phone or my computer, so I put a password lock on my laptop. Then, after I did that, I realised it wasn’t normal to feel the need to do that and so I told him. He felt really bad. He said it was only because he loved me so much. I let it go but I did say it was important we trusted each other and that we should have our own lives as well as our couple life. He seemed a lot calmer for a bit and I thought things were OK. Sorted. I started arranging a few more girls’ nights with Maddy, to sort of test that he was genuinely pulling back and giving me some space. And that’s when the weird stuff with Facebook started happening.
He said something to me that made me think of one of the DMs I sent Maddy last week. Something about the colour of the vodka glasses and me wearing his favourite dress. I was really spooked. And annoyed. I asked him how he knew that stuff when he wasn’t there and he just said he knew the bar, that’s all. And we were always drinking vodka. And that it was a lucky guess I’d wear that dress.
I pretended to let it go. I suppose it was just possible that he was telling the truth.
But then I deliberately sent a photo to Maddy of us with a bunch of people from our course – including some fit guys – and sure enough Alex was in a foul mood the next time I saw him. Grilling me about who I’d been out with and who else was there from the course, name-dropping some of the people in the picture. He had to have seen the photo.
Her Perfect Family Page 4