The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request
didn’t … I didn’t see him do it, exactly,’ I correct myself, wanting to make sure I tell the whole truth. ‘We were at a party … He … my ex. His name’s Mark. Mark went missing for a few hours and I went to look for him. I think I passed out for a while … I’m not sure what happened. But when I woke up, or maybe it was before that …’ My heart pounds in my ears. I’m jumbling it all up, not saying it right.
‘Go on.’
‘I saw him with the weapon. There was blood … There was a brick. A brick with blood.’
Sergeant Moore’s lips thin. His eyes remain unreadable. ‘So … he was holding a brick.’
I grimace. That sounds pathetic, like nothing. But he doesn’t know Mark like I know him. He doesn’t know the rest.
‘Yes. A brick with blood on it. It was the night Tom was murdered … We were near where he was found.’ I’m not a hundred per cent sure that part’s true, but it can’t have been far – the body was found somewhere near the beach and I distinctly remember the sound of waves nearby.
‘That’s all you saw?’
I nod.
‘Do you know the whereabouts of this … weapon?’
‘No. He must have got rid of it. Maybe he threw it in the ocean or something.’
Moore doesn’t say anything.
‘Look, I know it doesn’t sound like much, but if you knew Mark … He’s dangerous. And it makes sense, it all makes sense. I saw Mark with a brick, the guy – Tom. He was killed with a brick.’
‘Yes, I’m familiar with the case.’ Again, I can’t read the sergeant’s tone.
‘Look, Mark knows I saw what he did. That’s why he’s threatening me.’
‘He’s threatened you?’ That seemed to get his attention.
‘Yes, I … here.’ I show Moore the Facebook message.
Moore inspects my phone with a furrowed brow. ‘This isn’t a direct threat. Unless someone makes a threat of harm against themselves or someone else, we are unable to act.’
‘Yes, but he has! He’s threatened to kill me.’
Moore raises his eyebrows. ‘When was this?’
‘I …’ I think back. ‘I don’t know. Three months ago?’
‘And you reported this?’
‘I … well, no.’
Moore shakes his head. ‘Miss Baker …’
I blow out a frustrated sigh. ‘Look … that doesn’t matter. I know he did it! It adds up. Tom was a drug dealer … my … Mark was into drugs. He was dealing at the time, I’m sure of it!’
‘Hmm.’ Something in Sergeant Moore’s face has closed off. He looks almost bored, or annoyed, and this fills me with fear. Why isn’t he more concerned?
‘Had you been drinking at the time, Miss Baker?’
My cheeks burn. ‘I … I’d had some wine, yes.’
‘And was that all?’
‘No.’ My voice comes out small. ‘I’d had a bit of … cocaine.’
‘I see. What did you say your first name was again …?’
‘Mary. Mary Baker.’
‘And your boyfriend’s name?’
‘Ex-boyfriend. Mark Jones.’
Sergeant Moore turns to his computer and starts tapping at the keys. His eyes scan the screen and he pauses, frowns. Starts clicking his tongue.
‘The thing is, Miss Baker, this case has already been investigated by the Victoria police. Although no one’s been charged, it’s suspected to be gang-related. Those gangs are hard to infiltrate, but they’ve got their best people on the job. Your ex-boyfriend isn’t in a gang, is he?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ I sigh and reluctantly add, ‘but I don’t think so.’
‘See, the thing puzzling me most,’ Sergeant Moore says, rubbing the dimple in his chin, ‘is that everyone who was at the party the night Tom Forrester was murdered was interviewed by police. It’s all here.’ He taps the computer screen, though it’s faced away from me. ‘And there’s no record of any statements from either you or a Mark Jones.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know … because the police never showed up. We thought it was weird, too.’
Moore purses his lips. All friendliness has vanished from his expression. ‘I’ll cut to the chase, Miss Baker, so we don’t waste any more of each other’s time. Maybe you weren’t interviewed by the police because you weren’t actually at that party. Were you?’
My jaw drops. ‘What?’
‘It was a private party. There was a guest list. Everyone’s name was checked off that list, and neither yours nor your boyfriend’s name was on it. As far as the records are concerned, you were never there.’
I shake my head, at a loss. ‘I don’t … I can’t explain that. I was at the party. I remember …’
But Moore has stopped listening.
‘One more thing before you go,’ he says, sounding bored. ‘I believe you’re in possession of a personal alarm linked to the police triple zero emergency line and GPS system? I’d appreciate it if you refrained from using it except in real emergencies. After the next false alarm, our officers might not show up. And the device will be confiscated. Wasting police time is an offence. Do you understand?’
I feel the blood drain from my face.
‘Miss Baker?’
I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t understand what’s going on. I haven’t used my alarm – not even once.
‘Look. I understand you’re afraid,’ Moore says, his voice softer than before. ‘But these things need to be addressed in the right manner. We’re not here to solve petty disputes. If your ex-boyfriend threatens you, feel free to contact me. Otherwise, I’ll ask you to refrain from wasting our time.’ He picks up a business card and holds it out to me.
I clench my fists to stop myself from snatching the card and storming out.
Sergeant Moore turns to his computer, his focus already elsewhere. ‘Officer Dean will show you out.’
I take the card and walk rigidly to the door, down the stuffy hallway and out into the blinding daylight.
28th November 2016
I can’t have come this far only to let the bastard win.
But it’s impossible to think now. Impossible to do anything when my head’s all over the place. I’m running low on meds and have had to ration them. I need my head clear so I can figure out what I need to do, how to make them listen, and that means sticking to the correct dosage. I know I need to book the appointment I keep putting off. I know Cat won’t let it go until I do. But therein lies the dilemma; with the way I’m feeling, seeing someone new – someone that’s not Doctor Sarah – is unfathomable. But if I don’t, I’m going to run out of meds. Soon. And then I’ll feel much, much worse.
Even now, despite everything that’s going on – or is it because of it? – I’m afraid. I suppose it’s natural not to want to have someone peel back your skin and poke around inside with that detached clinical manner some psychs can have.