Saving Sophie

by Sam Carrington

  ‘Going on at me last night, questioning me about the taxi firm. I don’t remember which firm it was. It was a taxi. It had a sign on it. I shoved you in it. End of.’

  ‘Sorry, Amy. She’d been worried about it when I got home that night, you can imagine how much more she’s stressing about it now, after, you know, what’s happened to Erin.’ She offered Amy a smile, hoping her mother hadn’t gone further.

  ‘Well, it’s not on, really. It’s not as if the police didn’t have enough questions.’ Amy’s hands went to her hips; she took another step closer. Clearly there was more to come.

  ‘I know. Again, I’m sorry. But she’s my mum, she worries.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose she hasn’t got much else to occupy her, has she, being a prisoner in her own home.’

  Sophie took a step back. ‘Well, perhaps she has reason to worry, Amy.’ Her tone revealed the offence she’d taken.

  ‘Why? What the hell does she think happened?’ The heads of several shoppers turned their way, the shrillness of Amy’s voice drawing attention.

  ‘Shh.’ Sophie looked around her. ‘We should discuss this at lunch.’

  Amy didn’t make a move, standing square on, hands remaining on her hips. Sophie hadn’t seen her like this in all the time she’d known her. She was at a loss as to how to handle the situation. Good one, Mum. Thanks for making this even more difficult for me.

  ‘I’m out for lunch,’ Amy said eventually. She cast her eyes downwards to her diamante watch, an expensive gift from her boyfriend. ‘I’m off in a minute actually, got an appointment first, I only came in to set up for Maxi, so now will have to do.’ She crossed her arms, waiting.

  Sophie’s brow creased. Out for lunch? Was she trying to avoid her?

  ‘She’s just concerned that …’ Sophie paused. How could she tell Amy her mum doubted her friends’ honesty, how she suspected them of concocting a story to ensure they didn’t look bad? ‘She thinks it’s … odd, that I was found going out of Coleton, when as far as everyone else was concerned a taxi took me home.’ That sounded subtle, not accusatory. Amy stared in silence. Sophie, compelled to fill the gap, continued. ‘She suspects something bad happened in the taxi,’ her posture slumped, ‘like I was drugged or something.’ She whispered the last bit, aware their conversation could be overheard.

  ‘What, some random taxi driver decided to take advantage of you, you mean?’ Amy’s voice softer now.

  ‘Yeah, something like that. Look, I really hoped you’d be able to talk through the night with me, see if you can help me remember?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘You know, it probably isn’t a good idea to remember. Once remembered, you can’t erase it. Some things are best left well alone, Sophie.’ With that, Amy turned to walk away.

  ‘We’re still up for tonight, though, aren’t we?’ she called after her.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Amy waved an arm without looking back.

  There was a truth to Amy’s words. But deep down Sophie couldn’t leave it alone, it wasn’t an issue she could simply walk away from, as her friend had just walked away from her. She couldn’t ignore the emails and pictures; it was imperative to recall as many details as possible. Somewhere tucked away in her brain the memories of her friend’s murder could be stored, locked away, possibly for her own self-preservation.

  The man who murdered Erin needed catching before he could harm anyone else. Perhaps the police already knew who he was. She prayed that was so, that they didn’t need whatever she could dredge up – then she could bury whatever it was that’d happened Saturday night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  DI Wade

  Yesterday’s televised appeal had already generated a lot of information: sightings of Erin at different pubs, reports of people acting suspiciously on Saturday evening, unusual activity at the industrial units, even names of possible suspects. It would take some wading through, some careful filtering to figure out what was significant and required further investigation immediately, what could be delegated to another inquiry team and what could be discarded.

  Her team, headed up by the Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Bainbridge, had been set up in an incident room at Coleton police station. It was a fairly small station, but there were a couple of rooms dedicated to them: a backroom big enough for the majority of the required tasks to be performed comfortably, plus another smaller one. Lindsay loved the energy in the room, fed off it. Sitting on the edge of a table now, coffee in one hand, a briefing sheet in the other, she took it all in. The buzz, together with the caffeine hit, literally made her heart beat faster – a burst of adrenaline. It’s what she lived for.

  The briefing was quick. There wasn’t a lot to say at this point. Everyone had their tasks – the next few days were going to be mental.

  ‘We’re going to need to get that group of teenagers in, you got the list?’ Lindsay directed her question at DS Mack who, at an impressive six foot five, could never quite avoid her line of vision.

  ‘Yeah, they’ve all been spoken to once, and I’m afraid not one of them was that helpful.’

  ‘It’s been a few days,’ Lindsay shrugged, grabbing hold of her ponytail and sweeping it over her shoulder. ‘It’s worth another shot, they might have remembered something of relevance by now.’

  ‘Although,’ Mack tilted his head to one side and flicked to a page in his notebook, ‘Sophie Finch was a bit of an odd one.’

  ‘Oh, odd how?’ Lindsay bolted up from the table and moved closer to Mack.

  ‘Really didn’t recall a thing from Saturday night, she said she’d been told by her friends that she’d left the pub, the White Hart, early on in the evening, and got in a taxi. But a couple of our PCSOs picked her up later at the roundabout, near the nightclub, pissed out of her head.’

  ‘Interesting. The nightclub is near the murder scene, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pretty close, yes. She didn’t remember being there, though. She claimed to have no idea how she’d become separated from her friends at the pub, let alone how she ended up on the other side of town. From my observations, Sophie’s mum and dad seemed a bit uptight, not just because of the situation, I mean like controlling; straight-laced. They were shocked by the whole thing. I’d hazard a guess they have quite a short leash on the girl, weren’t happy about her being out and about at seventeen.’

  ‘Right, thanks Mack. But looks can be deceiving.’ Lindsay began to weave her way back to her desk. ‘Speak to the relevant officers, will you? See if they can remember more detail about her behaviour when they picked her up.’

  ‘Sure. I’ve also got her mobile phone, was going through her texts to see if I could glean anything useful.’

  ‘Great. Keep me updated.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Karen

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to gain much from Amy. Last night’s curt reply to her questions may as well have read bog off and leave me alone. Karen, elbows on the table, propped her head up in her hands. She stared vacantly at the screen. Sophie had left without a word that morning. The kitchen remained clutter free: no remnants of cornflakes, no splashes of milk, no dirty bowl discarded on the worktop, which Karen berated her for daily. She hadn’t eaten – the curry Mike had made last night had barely been touched. How was she going to last the day?

  Right, she had to think. She had to attempt to gather some facts. The keys on her laptop clicked away as she typed a response. Another question. She hoped she wouldn’t get Amy’s back up to the degree she felt compelled to block her.

  What time did you put her in the taxi? Did you tell the driver where to take her?

  Karen waited. Five minutes passed, and no return message from Amy. She was probably at work by now. She drummed her fingers on the keyboard. Bailey looked up from his bed in the corner of the dining room, fleetingly interested in the noise, then snorted and let his head fall back down on to his paws. He looked bored. Mike normally walked him before he left for work. This morning he’d left to respond to some emergency on
the moors before light broke, with Bailey still flat out. So, no walk today. His despondent little face pointed to the fact he somehow knew this. She’d asked Mike to take him to work with him on numerous occasions – the benefits of being a park ranger, surely. He was yet to oblige.

  While she waited for a reply that might not come, Karen searched through Amy’s friends list. She clicked on the profile of every name she recognised as one from the Saturday night group. Selfies flooded the screen. These teenagers were so full of themselves, bursting with their own self-importance. Didn’t they realise most of these images were available for anyone to see? Rosie’s profile picture was a shocker, verging on pornographic. Did she have any self-respect? Karen tutted.

  She conceded it was the way of the current generation, in this age of technology, of social media. People’s lives were lived online; if they didn’t have a page full of selfies, group pictures, images of themselves or friends in compromising positions, it meant they led dull and uninteresting lives. If you didn’t have tons of ‘likes’ attached to each photo, you were a no one.

  Due to their security settings, the content of each profile page she found was limited to friends. Only Alice’s and Dan’s were public. She could trail through those, see what they’d put as status updates within the last forty-eight hours or so. Alice, a freakishly tall, slender girl, hadn’t been to the house for ages. Sophie said she was training to be a nurse and because of her shift work she rarely socialised now. Saturday night had been her first night out with the group for months. Scanning Alice’s page, Karen noted that she hadn’t updated it in the last few weeks. A dead end, then.

  Disappointing. On to the next.

  Dan’s made for interesting reading. His version of events as told to DS Mack in her very own lounge had been disquieting, his statuses from the last few days even more so. However, she was most interested in Saturday night’s. She worked through them in chronological order:

  March 7, 6.32 p.m. ‘Getting on it with the girls’

  The attached picture featured a line-up of multi-coloured shots, at least twelve, and four girls about to drink them: Sophie, Amy, Erin and one tagged as ‘Becks’ who Karen didn’t recognise. Two girls were in the background, one must be Alice, the other she couldn’t make out. She was shocked to see how Erin looked. She’d had shoulder-length, muddy brown hair the last time she’d seen her, only ever wore minimal make-up. In this picture, she looked very different, not the girl Karen knew. She resembled Amy – long, dark, fake hair extensions tumbled over her shoulders, her eyes heavy with eyeshadow and mascara, making her appear older. Just as Rachel had said. She unpeeled her eyes from the image and moved on to the next status.

  March 7, 7.01 p.m. ‘My boyz. Gonna be a good night!’

  Karen knew the three of them in the line-up: Dan with an arm hung loosely over Tom, whose tongue appeared to be in Dan’s ear, then Jack, T-shirt pulled up to reveal a nipple. Empty shot glasses and lager cans were strewn on the table behind them. Just gone 7.00 p.m. and already they were tanked. Their assertions that they couldn’t remember the specifics of the night were beginning to look plausible. Still, Karen wasn’t convinced. Something had happened, someone must know. The next status, the last one from Saturday night, had a photo attached. Karen thrust her face forward, closer to the screen.

  March 7, 8.13 p.m. ‘2 down … 3 to go!’

  The subjects of the photo, Jack and Tom, standing outside a pub, weren’t the interesting part. Behind them, in the background on the opposite side of the road, was a car. She couldn’t make it out, it was pretty dark, blurry, but it didn’t look like a taxi – there was no sign visible above the car, or on its side. Bent over, by the window on the driver’s side, Karen recognised Amy. Stood beside her were Erin and Sophie, arms around each other – Erin holding Sophie up? Karen squinted. Admittedly, the figures were distorted, but if she had to place a bet, she’d put it on it being them. She checked the time stamp again. This must be when Sophie got in the car.

  Maybe it hadn’t been a taxi after all.

  Did Sophie get in a random man’s car? Surely, the girls must’ve known him to allow that to happen. Two and a quarter hours until the police brought Sophie home. What on earth went on in those hours? And why did her friends all say she was put in a taxi home? Didn’t they realise it wasn’t a bona fide taxi?

  She had to tell the police.

  Karen pushed the chair back, rushed to the pin board and snatched the card DS Mack had left. She started to dial the number, then stopped. Should she be calling the police at this point? She reflected on what information she had. A photo of an indistinguishable car in the background, too dark to make out. Not much to shout about. But, there’d be experts who’d be able to enhance it, they might pull something helpful. After all, the detective woman on the news said to let them be the judge of what was significant. She should let them know, leave it to them. She began tapping out the digits again. Her fingertip hovered over the fifth number. Stupid. They’d obviously be checking out the social sites of Erin’s friends themselves. They probably had this information. Plus, no doubt Rachel must’ve done the same thing she was doing right now.

  Shit. Rach.

  A heat spread to her cheeks. Karen checked the clock. It was nearing midday; the plan to work through her coping diary and self-help books to prepare herself to get to Rachel’s now well overdue. Engrossed in her fact-finding mission, it’d gone clean out of her mind. What was the best way forward now? Discarding DS Mack’s card with one hand, disconnecting the call with the other, Karen headed to the bookcase.

  The middle of the three shelves housed an array of self-help books: How to Manage Your Anxiety, Overcome Your Obstacles, I Can Make You Confident, plus at least another fifteen of them in a regimented line. Orderly. Unlike her head. All that guidance, advice, helpful strategies, and here she was, still stuck within the confines of this house. Karen’s eyes scanned back and forth, finally settling on Agoraphobia: Practical Solutions. Settling cross-legged on the floor, she began flicking through the chapter headings.

  A ping sounded from the dining room. A message. It took some effort to stand back up. Old bones. A reply from Amy. She clicked on it:

  I’m not sure what you want from me, I told you I can’t remember the details. Sophie seems to be getting away with that excuse. Look, I’d love to help, I really would. I know it’s important, but it wasn’t at the time, so I didn’t think to write down the company or the taxi’s number plate. As far as I was concerned, I was doing a good deed, getting Sophie, who was beyond drunk, home safe. Yeah, maybe I should’ve got in with her, made sure she got to her destination. I’m sorry now that I didn’t, seeing as it’s caused so much trouble.

  Hmmm. Stroppy teenager, but point taken.

  Undeterred, Karen wrote:

  Ok, thanks anyway Amy. I’ll try Dan.

  Even though she wasn’t friends with him, Facebook allowed messages to be sent. It’d probably go in the ‘other’ messages folder. Dan might not see it, but compelled to try, Karen hammered out her questions, hit send, then went back to her book.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Oh my God, oh my God … chest is tight … breathe, think of warm, soft sand … rapid breaths, can’t get air to my lungs … the gentle lapping of waves … I’m going to be sick … heart’s going to burst … relax your muscles, listen to the waves … sweating now, shaking is worsening … what are you meant to be thinking? Change internal dialogue … head woozy … going to faint.

  Karen was at the porch door.

  One hand gripped the handle, the other arm was outstretched, palm flat against the glass side, preventing her from falling. Sit down, you have to sit, you’re going to faint. Sliding down to the cold tile floor, legs to one side, Karen gasped for breath – jagged intakes of air desperately attempted to get to her lungs. Tucking her legs behind her, she manoeuvred herself on to all fours and crawled through the inner door to the lounge. The self-help book lay open over the arm of the sofa. She swiped a
t it, knocking it across the floor.

  ‘Stupid bitch.’ Her throat was tight, but she forced the self-reproaching abuse through her vocal cords, the distress squeezing out. Flipping herself over, she collapsed, her back against the sofa. She balled her hands into fists and pounded her thighs until they numbed.

  Minutes later, still propped up, Karen’s breathing slowed. The other symptoms gradually subsided now she’d removed the source of the anxiety. Or, rather, removed herself from it. How was she ever going to remove the cause of her anxiety? Therapy, copious amounts of money spent on books, and she was still hopelessly imprisoned, captive in her own home, her own mind.

  The safe zone.

  This was her sentence: a life sentence. And it was self-inflicted. Moreover, she’d inflicted it upon her family.

  Rachel would’ve given up on her coming by now. She’d failed her. Another phone call to say sorry? How many times could she apologise? The silence of the house scorned her. Straining to hear some ounce of noise, concrete proof she wasn’t totally alone, Karen tilted her head. The hum of electricity running the fridge-freezer, the soft, snuffling noises coming from Bailey, the distant sounds of birds, all reassured her. It was okay. Life was going on.

  Not for Erin. Not for Rachel.

  Her mind wasn’t forgiving, wasn’t going to allow her to brush over her helplessness, let her get away with excuses.

  Would anyone else?

  Her hand still held a tremor. She watched the twitching fingers, wondering why they were the last thing to recover. Oh, of course, she hadn’t eaten. That wouldn’t be helping. Typical of her, chastising Sophie for it, and then being as bad herself. Sophie was a worry. She hadn’t been the same since Saturday night, there was something running deeper – under the surface: a fear. A secret? Was there more to uncover? It was a horrible prospect, maybe one she’d ignore for now, not willing – or able – to cope with more anxiety at present.