by Sara Foster
She hears the click of disconnection, as Susan hangs up without preamble. Eleanor’s face begins to burn. She almost drops the phone over the barrier, and Will grabs it too, clasping her hand briefly as he does so. He is watching intently, and she can’t hold his gaze.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone white.’
She cannot reply. Why is this happening to her? Why does she feel so guilty, when she has no memory of doing anything wrong?
‘The police want to talk to me,’ she says to Will.
Will gazes over her shoulder and takes a long, slow breath before turning back to her. ‘It was always going to happen. I’m sure they’ll talk to me too. Better you get it over with sooner rather than later.’
She wants him to say something more reassuring, but he looks worried. She searches for Savannah and Naeve, and when Savannah glances across she gestures for them to come over. Savannah must see something in her expression, because she stops smiling and pulls on Naeve’s arm.
‘Your mum wants us to get home right away,’ Eleanor tells them when they get close enough.
Naeve just stares at them, then nods. ‘Oh!’ cries Savvie. ‘I wanted to skate until it snowed.’
Eleanor tries to smile. ‘I think we might be waiting a long time for that.’ She turns to Will. ‘I’ve never seen real snow before. For some reason I thought it would have snowed by now.’
‘London weather is never predictable,’ Will says as they make their way to the exit. ‘But everyone gets excited about the possibility of a white Christmas. People place bets on it. Even if it doesn’t snow on Christmas Day, I’m sure you won’t have to wait all that long.’
Their small talk drifts away once they are back at the tent, replaced by an ominous silence. Eleanor takes off her boots and helps Savvie with hers, then they hand them in and head out of the funfair.
Once they are back in Hyde Park, Will gestures to one of the paths. ‘I’m going this way. Good luck, Eleanor.’
She doesn’t want him to leave, but she nods. They share a long look, before he turns around and walks away.
9
the police
Eveliina Virtanen, Finnish backpacker, is almost at the peak of the London Eye’s rotation when she decides to take a picture of Cleopatra’s Needle. While she frames the photo she sees a distant male figure holding what looks to be a bunch of flowers. As she presses the button to capture the scene, the man suddenly leans over the squat wall and throws the flowers into the dismal grey water of the Thames, watching them drift away from him.
As Eleanor and the girls reach the bottom of the steps leading up to the house in Harborne Grove, the door opens and Susan is there, hands on her hips. She is in the same outfit as earlier, all black with chunky silver jewellery, and for the first time Eleanor realises her aunt is dressed appropriately for grief, whereas underneath her coat Eleanor wears her long-sleeved Billabong shirt and jeans.
As Eleanor stops at the door she thinks about Arabella’s ring in the bag slung over her shoulder, and feels the full force of her fear.
‘Girls, could you go and wait in the kitchen please,’ Susan says as they reach the top steps. She turns to Eleanor and adds quietly, ‘They are in the front room.’ As they catch one another’s eyes, Susan frowns. The question could not be clearer. What do they want with you?
Eleanor hesitates. She could run, but of course she doesn’t. Instead she wills her heavy legs to move towards the first door on the right. The front lounge is the most intimidating place in the house. She has never known such a formal sitting room before. She hasn’t been in this one since her first morning, when she’d put her glass down on a table and the housekeeper came in ten minutes later, tut-tutted and whipped it away, then spent the next hour in a red-faced panic because the ring mark wouldn’t come out.
She expects to find people in uniform, but a man and a woman in dull-coloured suits sit on a pair of high-backed chairs. The woman is small with curly black hair that sits just above her shoulders. The man has a crew cut and is tall, built like a rugby player. He looks too large for his seat as he leans forward with his hands clasped. There’s a black briefcase on the table, and for a moment Eleanor imagines they could be a pair of travelling salespeople. It makes them less intimidating somehow, and she begins to relax – and then reminds herself that that’s probably exactly what they are hoping for. Relaxed people are more easily caught off guard.
They both jump up when they see her and shake her hand one after the other. No one smiles.
‘Detective Inspector Priya Prashad,’ the woman says.
‘Detective Sergeant Steve Kirby,’ the man adds as they clasp hands.
Eleanor is conscious of her sweaty palms. Have they noticed? She pulls her gloves out of her pockets briefly, as though offering an explanation, and then stuffs them back in again.
‘We’re sorry to disturb you,’ Priya Prashad says, ‘but we could do with your help. We’re trying to piece together Arabella Lane’s final hours.’
‘Okay.’ Eleanor walks towards the sofa, intending to sit down, but to her surprise the two of them remain standing.
‘Actually,’ Prashad says, ‘we were hoping you would come to the station with us and answer some questions there.’
There’s a long pause as Eleanor looks between the two of them, her heart thudding. ‘Are you arresting me?’ she asks hesitantly.
She doesn’t miss the glance that passes between them as they hear those words. She balks – has she just made herself sound guilty? She squeezes her fists tightly.
‘No, not at all,’ Steve Kirby replies. ‘It’s just much easier for us to get everything recorded. You are not under arrest, you’ll be interviewed under caution and you are free to leave at any time. We can drop you home again afterwards.’
Eleanor stalls, trying desperately to hide her panic. The ring is still in her bag, and she cannot take it to the police station. She hunts around desperately for some reason to get away from them, and realises her jeans are wet. Water has seeped up the bottom hems, and she has cold patches on her knees from when she fell on the ice.
‘Would you mind if I changed my trousers? We’ve just been ice skating . . .’
She is terrified they will say no, but Prashad says, ‘Of course,’ although she keeps her steady gaze trained on Eleanor as she agrees, so that Eleanor hesitates, almost expecting to be escorted up the stairs, but then Priya Prashad raises an eyebrow, as if to say, What are you waiting for?
‘Right, I’ll just be a second.’
She rushes up the stairs, and once the door is closed she fumbles in her bag until the ring is in her hand. She looks desperately around the attic room for somewhere to hide it. If she had more time she could pull out the chest of drawers and look for a weak spot, or even unscrew one of the plug sockets, but there is no chance with them waiting downstairs. She lifts up her mattress and pushes the ring as far as she can beneath it. It will have to do, until she gets back.
There are feet on the stairs, coming closer. As she lets go of the mattress, it falls back onto the bed slats with a thud, and she hopes it didn’t dislodge the ring. She roots through her drawers, grabbing a dry pair of jeans and pulling them on as fast as she can.
‘Eleanor?’
It’s Savannah. Eleanor relaxes, lets out a long breath.
‘I’m getting changed, Savvie, what is it?’
‘Do you know when Dad will be back?’ she calls through the door.
‘I don’t, I’m afraid. Why don’t you ask your mum?’
Savvie doesn’t reply, but to Eleanor’s relief she hears the footsteps move away.
She goes to the mirror and sees how wild her hair looks after an hour in the wind on the ice; her cheeks are red and her eyes are wide. She looks like a tormented version of herself. Those who are innocent look neat and demure, not scruffy and frantic, she goads herself. But even though she can brush her hair it’s not so easy to stop her fingers from trembling.
There is no time lef
t or someone will come up to find her. She pulls her boots back on and hurries down the stairs, to find the detectives waiting in the front hallway. As she follows them towards the front door, Susan appears from the kitchen.
‘Eleanor has agreed to come down to the station for her interview,’ Priya Prashad says. ‘This is just a matter of procedure, she is not under arrest.’
Susan doesn’t even look at Eleanor. ‘Does she need a lawyer?’
‘We will provide police counsel . . .’ Prashad looks across at Eleanor.
Eleanor wishes she could disappear from underneath their piercing gazes. ‘That will be fine,’ she says. She doesn’t dare look at Susan again as they head out and down the steps. The day has turned cloudy and the first spots of rain reach her face. It had rained last night too, she remembers – but not until much later on. For a moment she has a vision of herself lying on the front doorstep, soaked and shivering, crying as she comes to, flinching as the porch light goes on.
10
the interview
Dickon Blythe is sick of the vultures outside the house; he’s sent his lawyer out there with a hastily written press statement, hoping it will satisfy those ogling bastards for now. Meanwhile, he has just finished abusing his son-in-law on the phone, for failing to protect his precious daughter. As Dickon hangs up he clutches his chest, trying to breathe through the griping pain, aware that his thirty-year friendship with Ernie Lane is now over.
Detective Sergeant Steve Kirby opens the back passenger door for Eleanor, while Prashad gets in the driver’s seat. To her relief the car is an ordinary civilian one, which reduces her nervousness just a fraction. As they drive away she turns towards the house and thinks she sees Naeve’s face watching them from the window, but they move out of sight too quickly for her to be sure.
The drive to the station seems to take forever. Perhaps because no one says anything, except for a few short enquiries from Kirby. ‘Are you warm enough, Eleanor?’ ‘You okay back there, Eleanor?’ She watches the crowded streets of London whizz past, people sprinting or hurrying along pavements. Many are opening umbrellas or huddling in doorways as the rain begins in earnest. It’s rare to spot anyone ambling.
They park outside a tall redbrick building, and walk together to the entrance. To her surprise, at reception Eleanor is asked to empty out her bag and pockets. The word ‘routine’ is mentioned again, but this feels anything but procedural to her. What would have happened if she’d had the ring on her? Would she have been arrested on the spot? She shudders, picturing it under the mattress. What the hell is she going to do with it?
Eventually they lead her along a corridor and into a small room, where she is left on her own for almost half an hour before a middle-aged man with a bushy grey beard bustles in.
‘My name is Howard Green,’ he explains. ‘I’m the duty solicitor here. Do you understand that you are here to answer questions only, you have not been arrested or charged with any offence? Nevertheless, I would urge you to assert your right to silence if any line of questioning makes you feel uncomfortable. Is there anything you wish to tell me before we begin?’
‘I have nothing to hide,’ Eleanor says, her voice shaking.
Howard Green then proceeds to ignore her for ten minutes, opening his briefcase and riffling through papers.
When detectives Prashad and Kirby enter, they each hold a mug in their hands. Neither offers Eleanor or the solicitor a drink. They don’t look at Eleanor until they sit down, whereupon Kirby leans forward and fixes her with a glare.
‘This interview will be videotaped, Eleanor. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
This time Eleanor cannot bring herself to say she has nothing to hide. She just nods.
‘As you already know, Eleanor, we’re investigating the death of Arabella Lane,’ Prashad begins.
The words hit Eleanor almost as hard as the first time, when Caroline had made the announcement from the balcony. Eleanor can deal with this fact so much better on her own – push it away, pretend it’s a bad dream. But other people keep intruding, making her confront the reality over and over.
‘Can you tell us about working at Parker & Lane?’
This isn’t the question Eleanor was expecting. She tries to turn her thoughts from last Thursday evening. Coughs to clear her dry throat. ‘It’s fine . . . I mean, I haven’t been there long.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Only three weeks. I’m working as a temp for Nathan Lane.’
‘And what does your job entail?’
Eleanor can’t see how this is relevant. ‘All his admin. He’s the Managing Director, he oversees all the different departments, so it’s pretty busy. Lots of letters to type, running around delivering things to people, making him coffee, making his guests coffee . . .’
‘And how do you get on with Nathan Lane?’
‘All right. He’s not particularly friendly, but he’s my boss.’
‘Did you see much of Arabella at work?’
‘No – hardly anything. Just when she wanders around or pops in to see Nathan – but they are both busy, it doesn’t happen often.’ She realises she’s begun by using the wrong tense, and bites her lip, but the detectives don’t miss a beat.
‘And you went to the party on The Atlantic last Thursday evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time did you get there?’
‘About eight o’clock.’
‘How did you travel there?’
‘By Tube, then on foot – I stopped off for a quick drink first.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes, on my own. I needed Dutch courage – it’s hard walking in to a place where no one knows you very well.’
‘So, why did you decide to go?’
Eleanor hesitates. She’d never considered not going. ‘It was a night out – I thought it might help me get to know people a bit better, if they weren’t rushing around at work.’ She almost says ‘but’, then stops herself.
Prashad is on it straightaway. ‘But?’
‘It was pretty cliquey – everyone hung out in the same groups as they do at work. I was disappointed.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘I stayed at the bar for a little while, then I went outside and watched the world go by, chatted to a few people . . .’
‘Did you talk to Nathan?’
‘No.’
‘What about Arabella?’
Eleanor tenses at the mention of Arabella, and hopes it doesn’t show. ‘Yes. I met her in the bathroom and she spoke to me. We had a drink together and a bit of a dance. Then I remember her walking over and slapping Nathan, but after that I can’t recall much.’ She tries to hold eye contact with them, but is unable to stop herself from glancing away now and again.
‘What do you remember?’
They hadn’t reacted to Nathan being slapped in public by his wife, she notices. Perhaps they already knew about it. Should she mention that Arabella put drugs in her drink? Is it wrong to accuse a dead woman of something like this? ‘Very little. I must have had too much to drink. And I wonder – I wonder if my drink was spiked.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Priya asks sharply.
‘My memory blank – and the hideous hangover yesterday,’ Eleanor replies.
Priya nods. Pauses. Checks the papers in front of her and then looks up again. ‘Do you have any idea what time you first spoke to Arabella?’
‘I went to the bathroom around ten-thirty – I know that because I was thinking of heading home, and when I checked the time I thought it was still pretty early. But I’m not sure after that.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘She asked me my name. Then she asked what it was like to work with Nathan.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said it was okay,
but she didn’t seem to believe me.’
Steve Kirby leans forward. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘She was quite sarcastic about him – she was calling him wonderful and stuff like that, but it was obviously not genuine. And then she went and slapped his face, so it was clear she was pretty annoyed with him.’
‘How do you find Nathan Lane?’
Didn’t they just ask her that? ‘Well, his manner is pretty gruff and he can seem a bit cold.’
‘You find him cold?’
‘A bit, yes, but I haven’t known him for long.’
‘And after Arabella slapped Nathan, what do you remember?’
‘Not much. I spoke to a friend this morning; he told me I’d run out after Arabella and – and I’d been upset on the Hungerford footbridge, and he’d brought me back to the party.’
‘And this friend’s name is?’
‘Will—’ It takes Eleanor a moment to recall his surname. ‘Will Clayton. He works at Parker & Lane.’ It felt strange calling him a friend, but Will had acted like one today, hadn’t he?
The detectives are watching her. Steve Kirby twirls his pen between his fingers. ‘Just think for a moment,’ he says, ‘see if you can remember anything else that might be relevant.’
She pauses. ‘I’ve been trying, but nothing’s coming back to me.’
‘When did you start remembering things again clearly?’
‘Not until I woke up yesterday morning.’
‘You don’t have any recollection of the evening after your conversation with Arabella?’
Why do they keep asking her the same questions? She was crying, Eleanor wants to say. I know she was crying, outside, in the dark. The thought makes her tremble. How does she know that?
And now she can see Arabella’s eyes, wide and pleading. Please help me.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, because it didn’t happen.
Did it?
Stop it.
Eleanor tries to calm her thoughts. She has already told them that her recollections are muddled – she doesn’t want to insert her flights of imagination into a police investigation.