don't want you asking her questions before she's ready.’
‘I won't,’ he said, and nodded that he understood. The nurse looked unsure at first, but when he gave her a reassuring smile, she relented and left him in the room.
Rod pulled up a chair next to her and sat down. Abigail wasn't like he expected. He knew her age, sixty-eight, and so he had expected grey hair and pale skin, but Abigail was different to that. Her frizzy hair was long and dyed black, her silver roots showing through, and it was back-combed, spread in a tangled mess over the pillow. Her fingers were covered in rings, and her nails were long and painted purple. Despite the plaster over her eye, Rod could tell that both eyes were ringed by bruises. Abigail's legs were out of the bedcovers, bandages over her wounds.
He looked closer at her hands. There were grazes on them, but something else drew his attention. It was one of her rings, the one on her right hand, third finger. A screaming face, silver on black, set into a silver band. He had seen it before, he was sure of it, but he couldn't remember where.
‘Abigail,’ he whispered, just to check whether she was awake. There was no response. ‘Abigail,’ he said once more. Still nothing.
He settled back in the chair. Sometimes the art of being a good copper was patience.
I knocked on the door of Sarah's house. The women at the top of the road looked at me again and then chattered to each other. I waited, but there was no response from inside.
I knocked again, more insistent this time. Then I heard a noise, and when the door opened I flashed a smile. It had no effect.
I was facing a dark-haired woman in her early twenties, in jeans and a loose T-shirt. Her hair was short, elfin-style, tucked just behind her ears so that it showed off her face, pretty and porcelain pale, with high cheekbones and bright hazel eyes.
‘Yes?’ she said curtly.
My mind raced through what I knew about Sarah's story. Luke's body had been discovered by her lodger, a young student. There was a pause as I grasped for her name, but it came to me just as she was about to slam the door.
‘Katie Gray?’ I asked.
She didn't answer at first, but then asked, ‘Who wants to know?’ Her voice was cautious.
I smiled again, tried to disarm her. ‘My name is Jack Garrett and I'm a reporter.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘I'm interested in Sarah Goode,’ I continued.
‘I guessed that too,’ she snapped, but I put my hand in the way as she went to close the door.
‘Sarah's parents contacted me. They want me to write about her.’
She paused at that.
‘I understand she used to live here,’ I continued, trying to engage her.
‘She still does,’ she replied, but her tone was less hostile than before.
‘Her parents just want to find her,’ I said. ‘They want to help her, make sure she's all right.’ My voice was soft and low, my hand still on the door.
‘Have you got any ID?’ she asked.
I reached into my pocket and found a business card. I passed it over and waited, but how could she refuse once I had produced identification?
She looked at the card, then at me, and then at the card again.
‘Okay, Mr Garrett, you'd better come in,’ she said, and then turned and went into the house.
I followed her into the hallway, narrow and dark, the light coming from a small window above the front door. Katie led me into the room at the back of the house, a chill-out room, with saggy old sofas and family photographs on the wall, but I glanced into the room at the front as I went past the doorway. It was more formal, with better furniture and an old black fireplace, the light dim behind the wicker blinds.
Katie turned around. ‘Do you want a drink? Coffee? Tea?’
I chose coffee, it would keep me in the house for at least fifteen minutes, and Katie disappeared into the kitchen, a long and thin extension with views into a concrete yard.
‘How long have you been living here?’ I asked her, as one of the pictures on the wall caught my eye. It looked like a family tree, framed, the branches spreading out, but it was the symbol at the top that drew my attention. It was unusual, like a screaming face, with hollow eyes and open mouth.
‘I thought you were here to talk about Sarah,’ Katie shouted from the kitchen.
‘I am, but you're part of the story.’
Katie returned with two coffees. ‘No, I'm not,’ she said, and handed me one of the cups.
I sat down, and I felt my knees rise up as I sank into a broken old couch.
‘You found Luke. That makes you part of it,’ I countered.
She sat down on a chair opposite and thought for a moment. She pulled her legs onto the cushion and took a drink, watching me over the top of the cup. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘The story,’ I replied.
Katie drank her coffee for a while, and then said, ‘If you've read the papers you'll know most of it. Sarah's a teacher. She couldn't pay for the house without a lodger. She put a notice on the college notice-board. I saw it and got in touch.’
I nodded and smiled, played at being the interested journalist: sympathetic glances; faked empathy. I noticed that her body language was less defensive, and that her voice was quieter now. ‘I presume I'm talking to Katie Gray,’ I said, more as a comment than a question.
Katie paused, and then smiled properly for the first time, her eyes twinkling.
‘You have read the papers,’ she said.
‘It's my job,’ I replied, and then asked, ‘What do you study?’
‘History,’ she said, and blew into her coffee as she watched me, the cup cradled in both hands. She looked younger now, more vulnerable. ‘So if you've seen the papers, you already know the story,’ she said. ‘You must want something more.’
‘Sarah's parents just want me to find her,’ I said, shrugging. ‘They are convinced she had nothing to do with her boyfriend's death, but the only way to prove it is to get Sarah to come home.’
Katie nodded as she listened.
‘I know how Luke died,’ I continued, ‘and I can guess what the police think, but I need to know more.’
She put her cup down on the floor and leaned forward. I thought I saw something in her eyes. Sadness? Loneliness?
‘Where have you been so far?’ she asked.
‘I've started here.’
‘Where else are you going to look?’
I looked at her carefully when she said that. Katie seemed interested in my movements and I wondered why.
‘Wherever the facts take me,’ I replied cautiously.
‘How are Sarah's parents?’ Katie asked.
‘How well do you know them?’
‘Not much at all really. I'm just the lodger.’
I thought back to the meeting in Sam's office. ‘Somewhere between frantic and sad,’ I said.
Katie looked back and ran her fingers through her hair. She smiled at me and then asked, ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Just tell me about Sarah,’ I said simply.
Katie watched me for a few seconds and I felt myself shuffle in my seat. I looked away, tried to take in the room. The walls looked sparkling clean. No cobwebs around the light-fittings, and the tabletop gleamed so that the