by Nic Roberts
“It’s bollocks that you had to call the whole school in.” The teen sighed with a shrug. “It’s not like Mr. Fisher even knew most of the kids here. You lot are wasting our time.”
“Is that so?” Lawrence asked, a bit of shock on his face.
Olivia assumed it was for show; although she reminded herself again that she couldn’t always be sure when it came to her partner. The lines got blurry on occasion—what was performance and what was real? Olivia wished she knew better.
Francesca’s scoff brought Olivia back to the current moment.
“Did you have Mr. Fisher as a teacher?” Olivia asked patiently. She lifted and let go of her shoulders.
“Yeah,” the teen replied. “And so what? A lot of people did.”
“It must be upsetting to lose someone you know, even if they were a teacher,” Lawrence led on, trying to pull any sort of emotion out of Francesca.
She glared at him.
“And what if I don’t care?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
Olivia chuckled a bit.
“You’re really good at the tough girl façade, aren’t you?” she asked, again leaning forward in her chair, asserting her space in Francesca’s bubble. I see you, she wanted to whisper. You’re not fooling me.
“I’m not fazed by a couple of detectives in shabby clothes, if that’s what you mean,” the girl spat back. “There are terrorists all over the place and you two coppers are in here hassling kids about teachers instead? There are real bad guys out there to catch.” She saw the look on Olivia’s face and ran with it. “I bet you guys are baby cops, aren’t you? You’re here to help us ‘grieve’ but never had to do it yourself.”
Liv sighed; she could feel the conversation heading to a place she didn’t want it to go.
“We’re here to help,” she answered firmly. “Are you grieving Mr Fisher’s death?”
She felt the pressure of Lawrence’s reassuring hand against her arm. Either that or he was warning her, but she was fine.
“Touched a nerve?” observant Francesca noticed, eyes on Dean’s comforting touch. “Interesting. So, you have done some grieving, huh? Cried when your dog died? Hamster maybe? Fish? Husband? Yes. Maybe he wanted to die just to get away from you!”
Olivia raised her hands in mock defence.
“You know what? How about instead of continually avoiding the damn questions, you just tell us what you know about Mr. Fisher? Stop hiding behind that fucking smirk!” She slammed her fist down on the table. Her vision was tinged red, her lungs suddenly out of breath. That little bitch!
“Olivia,” Lawrence warned. His hand was wrapped around her bicep, pulling her back into her chair. She hadn’t even noticed that she’d propelled herself halfway out of the seat in an attempt to get into Francesca’s face. She felt her heart racing and ran a shaky hand over her face. It wasn’t the student’s business to know that actually, yes, she’d seen grief first-hand, the most horrifying type anyone could ever dream of. And coupling what the girl had said along with the mood her nightmare had left her in—and the fact it was that time of the month—she should have known better to hold herself back more.
“I’m-I’m sorry,” Olivia apologised, shaking her head as she slowly sunk back into her chair, face aghast. “Something came over me, and it’s no excuse, but...”
“You should be sorry,” Francesca shot back without letting her finish, anger flaring in her own eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping students who are having a hard time right now?” she demanded. “We’re grieving here.”
It was at that moment that Olivia saw the tears in the teenager’s eyes and noted the way her voice caught in her throat when she’d said the last part.
Before Liv could attempt to placate her more and apologise again, the girl stood up and stormed off toward the door.
“Francesca!” Lawrence called. “Wait!” He got up and started to follow her out of the room.
“Please don’t,” she called over her shoulder before breaking into a sprint down the hallway.
Silence swarmed the detective pair, both sets of eyes glued to the open door and fast-disappearing image of the brunette student bolting down the hall.
Mr Hargraves and the AA poked their head out of a room further down and turned to watch the last of Francesca’s figure before she disappeared out of the fire exit.
“What the hell was that?” Lawrence asked, turning to face Olivia.
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I saw red. She said... I mean, today has been...” she stood up. “I think I just need some fresh air.”
“Clearly,” Lawrence huffed. “That girl is obviously traumatised, Liv! I honestly believe she could be Fisher’s one! You can’t be going into a full rage in her face, for God’s sake! I know you’re going through...”
“I’m sorry,” Olivia muttered, stopping him before he said what she knew he was going to. She’d done exactly what she’d vowed she wouldn’t. Don‘t let your past interact with your present. She’d tried so hard to keep them apart. To keep everything separate and do her job. Now, the way Lawrence was looking at her made her want to disappear. “I’m going to grab some air. I’ll be back in five.”
She rushed down the same hall that Francesca had fled down and past a confused Bev on her way from the room, shoes ringing against the floor.
Before she knew it, she was back outside.
Fuck.
12
“What the hell?” she asked herself, trying not to shake slightly. It had all happened so quickly; one moment she was calm and meeting a potential victim, the next, she was yelling in a teenager’s face.
“Get a grip,” Olivia muttered, lifting her face to the sky. What was it about that girl that had hit such a raw nerve for her? And whatever the hell that nerve was, she shouldn’t have let it turn into an outburst. She was a 35-year-old woman, after all, not some hormonal teen.
Francesca had reminded her of someone, though. That had to be part of it. The caginess, the caustic banter, the inability to answer a question straight. It felt a little too familiar.
The realisation hit her like a slap to the face.
Me.
Francesca had reminded Olivia of herself—in the weeks after the Oxford Street attack, when everyone wanted answers and all she wanted was to escape from the noise of everything. Not to mention the guilt she had felt. It was like a cacophonous band had taken up residence in Olivia’s head and wouldn’t let her sleep or think or have a normal conversation. Everything was ten times more difficult than it had to be, and because of that, Olivia had become irritable and avoidant.
“Fuck,” she exhaled again. I’ve just yelled at an already-traumatised child. Francesca was holding secrets, but the answer wasn’t to blow up in her face about it—hell, that was about the worst thing she could have done.
Calm down, she scolded herself. Breathe. She allowed her eyes to close as she focused on the air coming in through her nose and into her lungs before releasing out her mouth. In. Out.
By the time she had let her eyes welcome the world back into her sight, Lawrence had made it back outside. He had his coat on and hers, coupled with her bag, on his arm.
“I’m so sorry.” She exhaled, searching her partner’s face. He wouldn’t look at her.
“I’ve told the officers to take over. We’re leaving for the day.” Lawrence’s face was stoic, unreadable.
Olivia tried to step into his line of sight, but to no avail.
“Wait—Lawrence. Lawrence, please just look at me,” Olivia almost pleaded, following behind him almost like a lost puppy. “It won’t happen again. And I mean it. It won’t!” Her partner continued to stalk towards the car.
“Get in,” he growled with the shake of his head. “We’re going to go for a drive and cool off, and then we’ll decide if we can go back to the station or if you need to be done for the day.”
A protest died in Olivia’s throat before it could even make its way to her mouth. What was she supposed
to say to that?
He opened the door for her.
“Please, Liv. Just get in the car.” He sounded tired, Olivia realised. Was it really so difficult working with her? She thought that she’d managed to overcome the reputation of being the pitied, traumatised co-worker. So much progress lost in the space of a five second outburst. How could she do that?
She gave Lawrence another look, but he simply stared straight ahead.
Without a word, Olivia ducked her head to settle into the car. A moment later, Lawrence joined. They sat in silence as he started the engine and drove out of the school’s car park.
“I’m really sorry,” Olivia spoke through gritted teeth. Tears welled to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
“I know,” he replied, releasing his walls slightly. “That still wasn’t okay, though. And after we’d dismissed her AA? The shit we’ll get into if the girl makes a complaint?”
“You’re right,” Olivia agreed, ready to open up. “I’m sorry. I’ll take the full blame for it, and I understand why it happened. Stress from a bad dream meant my head wasn’t in the right place this morning, and then what she said about terrorists and grief and my husband wanting to die to get away from me... I just... It won’t happen again. You have my word.”
Lawrence sat listening to everything she said, eyes firmly on the road.
Olivia felt weak at the depths of her thoughts she’d just relayed to him, but it was necessary. He had to know.
“Thanks for pulling me back,” she whispered, gaze downcast towards her palm.
He nodded wordlessly.
“Okay,” she sighed after another moment of stillness. He was annoyed with her, and he had every right. “Hopefully, Francesca will want to speak to us again once she’s calmed down. Did you manage to get the name of the other girl before I ruined everything?”
There was another pause and Lawrence took a deep breath.
“Before I left, Principal Hargraves said her name is Mia Baker,” he explained, eyes glued to the road. “She talked with some of the grief counsellors today and agreed that she’ll call us tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” Olivia sighed against the tension. “We also need to check in with Lydia Fisher’s alibi. Her sister was the one she was staying with, right?”
Lawrence nodded tersely.
“Look, Dean. I said I’m sorry. Do you want to keep sulking about it, or do you want to yell at me, or do you want to do something else?” Olivia demanded, throwing her hands up in the air. “If you need to shout, then do it! This... this limbo you have me in is excruciating!”
After her mini outburst, the car fell silent apart from the low sounds of BBC radio one in the background.
“I just... I need a bit of time. Just like you needed some air,” Lawrence whispered. Dread filled Olivia’s chest. The thought of disappointing Lawrence practically broke her. She could handle yelling or screaming. But defeat? Because of her? She didn’t know how much she could bear it.
“Understood,” she replied, tight lipped. “Well, if you want, you can drop me off at the station and then go for a drive or something. I’m happy to keep working on the case until you’re ready to…ready to work with me again.” Her words grated against her head; how could you be so stupid? she wanted to scream at herself.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Lawrence agreed, turning the radio up, signalling the end of their conversation.
“Great,” Olivia mumbled, staring outside her window to hide the welling of fresh tears. You manage to fuck up everything good, don’t you?
* * *
They spent the rest of the drive in silence apart from pitiful tunes on the radio, Olivia kneading her hands together while Lawrence tightly gripped the steering wheel.
“And Liv?” he called out as she began to exit the car once they were back at Newquay Police Station. It was the first thing he’d said since he had agreed to drop her off.
She looked back at him, properly making eye contact.
“Don’t call me,” he said firmly. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
Olivia’s jaw opened slightly, the words stinging more than any others had during the past year. Pursing her lips together, she slammed the car door shut and quickly turned to face the station before Lawrence could see her crestfallen face. The crackle of loose pebbles under tires signalled to Olivia that he was driving away.
You deserved that, her inner narrator crooned at her. Poor, damaged Olivia. Can’t even bother to interview a victim decently. She let out something between a strangled scream and a cry. It was brief, but it released the anguish she had felt building up since Lawrence had stormed out of the school after her.
Wiping away the start of her tears, Olivia straightened herself out quickly. She turned to face the entrance to the station.
You’ve got this, Liv, she assured herself. Why did she feel like she’d just cost herself a precious friendship, then?
13
“Yes, I’m calling to speak with a Margaret Anderson—is she available?” Olivia spoke dejectedly into the phone, trying not to stare at Lawrence’s empty desk. Lydia’s sister still had the maiden name Anderson, something Olivia had made note of before calling. She offhandedly pressed ‘record’ on the machine just in case Lawrence wanted to listen in after he got back from his drive.
“I’m Margaret Anderson,” the caller responded.
“Brilliant. Miss Anderson, my name is Olivia Austin; I’m with the Devon and Cornwall Police.”
The woman cleared her throat.
“Oh yes; Lydia said you’d be calling,” Margaret responded. “And please, Margaret is fine.”
“All right, well Margaret, I know you’ve heard by now that your sister’s husband, Simon Fisher, has passed away. You should know that this call is being recorded, by the way,” Olivia added.
“That’s quite okay, I’ve got nothing to hide,” she answered. “And yes, I heard the bastard had a meetup with the ground from his flat yesterday morning.”
Olivia was a little shocked by the rage in her voice.
“You didn’t like him, then?” Olivia asked, pressing further.
“Well, Lydia felt the need to leave, didn’t she? That’s enough of a reason for me,” Margaret replied with a hint of sarcasm.
“That’s fair. Did you know Simon well?” Olivia enquired. She knew that the main purpose of this call was to get verification of Lydia’s alibi, but it felt like too good of an opportunity to give up.
“Not terribly, no,” Margaret answered cautiously. “Back when he and Lydia were still together, they’d have me over for supper every now and again. He was fine up until he wasn’t, in my book.”
Her voice had a certain caustic quality about it; Olivia found it oddly comforting. At least she wasn’t the only one with a bitter attitude towards the world.
“I see,” Olivia mused, biting her bottom lip. “And do you know why your sister left Mr. Fisher?”
Margaret scoffed on the other end.
“Lydia’s about as closed off as they come,” she replied. “When she showed up to my doorstep, a sobbing mess, I was just grateful she’d come to me and not run off to who knows where. So no, I didn’t ask, and Lydia didn’t bother telling me. All I know is that you’ve got to be some sick bastard for someone as loyal as my sister to leave your sorry arse.”
The vitriol in Margaret’s voice was evident; she truly cared that her sister had been wronged.
“I understand, Miss Anderson,” Olivia replied calmly.
“Do you though? Margaret asked. “Do you have a sister, detective?”
It caught Olivia slightly off guard. She wasn’t expecting to be interviewed in kind.
“I do,” Olivia replied after a moment. Images of Mills’ pink hair and wide smile flashed behind her eyes. Camilla was the epitome of a free spirit; how had it been that she was the one settled down with a child and husband while Olivia lived like a spinster in her cottage? She supposed it was foolish to ponder such qu
estions. Life, after all, always had a funny way of happening.
“Do you love her to death, detective?” Margaret’s tone had become grave, interrupting her thoughts.
“Well, yes. Of course I do.” It was the only response Olivia could give.
“Then you’ll understand that when Lydia came to me, I made sure not to ask questions,” she answered. “That her safety and well-being was far greater than my curiosity.”
“I understand that,” Olivia agreed, mindlessly thumbing through the papers on her desk. “She’s lucky to have a sister that cares so much. And, Miss Anderson, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you about the night in question.”
Margaret grumbled in agreement.
“Was Lydia at your house on Saturday night?” Olivia asked.
“She was,” the woman affirmed.
“And do you remember about what time she went to bed?” Olivia pressed on, jotting down positive alibi from sister on her notepad. After Margaret’s statement, she wasn’t sure that it could be counted as a rock-solid alibi, unfortunately. She seemed like the kind of person who would be willing to lie if it meant protecting her sister.
“Oh, it would have been around nine. I think we watched a movie on the telly beforehand,” she answered. “Although I can’t remember if that was Friday or Saturday, the more that I think about it. She falls asleep fairly quickly and sleeps like a rock.”
“Understood,” Olivia acknowledged. “And what time did you go to sleep?”
Margaret paused to jog her memory.
“After Lydia goes to bed, I usually clean up the kitchen and read a book until I fall asleep,” she explained. “It must have been around 11 p.m. That’s about when I get tired enough for it to be worth it to turn in.”
Olivia made sure to write everything down.
“Great. And the next morning—what happened then?” She tried to make her deeper enquiry sound as light as she could.