Forget Me Not. Claire Allan

told.’

      ‘This is a complex investigation,’ DI Bradley said. ‘We have to play our cards close to our chest at the moment until we’re able to identify a clear suspect. We have concerns that revealing her last words could, in fact, place you in a position of some jeopardy.’

      My heart thudded. ‘Me? Why?’

      ‘Because if there are more people out there who this killer might target, you warning them might make him, or her, unhappy.’

      I felt sick. Why had no one mentioned to me before that I could possibly be in danger? Didn’t I have a right to know?

      ‘We’re doing our best to protect your identity. We’ve not released any of your details to the press; nor have they been discussed outside the confines of the incident room.’

      He must have noticed the colour draining from me. The police may have kept it under wraps, but I’d been to see the Taylors. Had they been warned to say nothing about my identity? And those two women who’d been drinking tea with Ronan in the kitchen. Who were they?

      ‘Mrs O’Loughlin, at the moment we have no reason to believe at all that you’re in any danger,’ DI Bradley said, cutting through my thoughts. ‘We intend on it staying that way, but we’re reviewing the situation as often as the need arises.’

      I nodded, but I couldn’t push down the nausea increasing in my stomach, nor stop the thudding of my heart. I’d have to check all the locks in the house. Get that security light in the yard fixed. It had broken at least six months ago and I’d kept meaning to get it looked at.

      ‘The investigation’s proving more complex than we thought,’ he said. ‘We hope the press conference later will jog some memories or bring some more information to light. We just ask that in the meantime you trust us and trust what we’re doing.’

      I was hardly in a position to say no.

      As I left the police station and walked out into the hot morning air, the brightness of the sun in my eyes, I felt a growing sense of unease wash over me. I cursed myself for going for my walk on Wednesday morning. I should have stayed inside. Things would have been easier if I’d just stayed inside.

      My body tensed, my muscles aching. Stress, they say, makes every ache and pain flare up. Fibromyalgia, the doctor told me. On top of the nerve damage from my fall. Physical pain to match the mental anguish I lived with every day.

      As I walked my ageing, aching body back to my car, part of me hoped that whoever it was that had brought this horrific end to Clare Taylor would come back and end my life, too.

       Chapter Thirteen

       Rachel

      The press conference was timed to hit the evening news. Paul questioned whether or not it was wise for me to watch.

      ‘It’s not going to tell you anything you don’t already know,’ he said, but of course he didn’t know that for certain.

      ‘I’m just trying to protect you from further upset,’ he said, when I told him I felt I had to watch.

      ‘My upset isn’t going to go away, Paul. That’s not how it works,’ I snapped at him.

      ‘I just don’t see why you have to torture yourself with the details,’ he said. ‘Once you hear things, you can’t un-hear them. They’ll stick with you.’

      ‘All of this is going to stick with me anyway,’ I told him.

      I already couldn’t imagine a time when I could close my eyes and not think of what had happened. I didn’t see things the way he did. The more I knew, the less my mind would wander. My imagination could be a dark place. How did he not know that about me? After all these years.

      ‘Well, I’m going to take Beth and Molly out for an hour. I don’t want Beth being upset more than she already is.’

      His intentions were good, I saw that, but he was naive to think that Beth wouldn’t access the press conference feed when she got the chance from her phone or tablet. The reality of the modern world was that we couldn’t protect her from it. Nonetheless, I agreed with him. I wanted time to absorb it all by myself. I didn’t need his commentary, his tutting and judgement.

      They left and I poured a glass of red wine before sitting down in front of the TV. The press conference started, and I saw Ronan and Mr Taylor sitting behind a table alongside Patricia and two men, who I presumed to be police officers. A uniformed officer spoke, detailing where the investigation was and asking for the help of the public in tracking down Clare’s killer.

      ‘We’re in the process of checking phone records, CCTV evidence and other information brought to us by the public, and we’re confident that the person or persons responsible for the horrific murder of Clare Taylor will be caught and brought to justice,’ he said.

      He went on to urge anyone with information about Clare’s movements in her last few hours or who may have witnessed anything out of the ordinary in the area surrounding Coney Road on the night prior to her death to come forward.

      ‘No matter how inconsequential the information may appear, it could help us close the net on this dangerous killer quicker,’ he said.

      I listened to the words of the policeman, but my eyes were constantly on Ronan and Mr Taylor. Their gaze never left the table in front of them. I watched as Mr Taylor wiped his eyes repeatedly. Watched as Ronan looked forward and held up a picture of my beautiful friend – in which she was smiling to the camera, looking carefree and happy.

      He read from a prepared statement: ‘My sister, Clare, was a bubbly, generous and loving person. She was a devoted daughter to my parents, a devoted sister to me, and a much-loved aunt to her niece and nephew. She was loved by both her friends and her work colleagues. She’d never have willingly hurt anyone in her life. As her family, we’re at a loss to try to understand why anyone would have done this to her. My parents will never get over what’s happened,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘We ask anyone, anyone at all, who has any information about whoever did this to come forward as soon as they can and to allow our family some sense of justice.’