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‘Your son has suffered a fracture to his arm and took a bad bump to the head – we’re going to keep him overnight for observation, but he should be fine,’ he says.
‘Oh, thank God,’ I say. ‘What happened?’ I direct the question to Pete.
He rubs the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. ‘It’s such a fucking blur …’
I give him a moment as he takes a deep breath.
‘We were on our way back from the park, getting ready to meet you at the checkpoint like we planned. Ethan insisted on riding his tricycle. Then this maniac driving a massive black Range Rover comes careering round the corner. Mounts the kerb near to where Ethan was. I swear, it was like it was aiming right for him. I ran but I couldn’t get there.’ His voice breaks, and I can hear all Pete’s fear and worry and anger welling up. ‘Ethan managed to swerve away, tumbling into someone’s front garden, then they drove off.’
‘Did you get a look at the driver? Or a number plate?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘I was too worried about Ethan; I wasn’t thinking …’
‘We’re going to check the traffic cameras in the area,’ says one of the officers. ‘We’ll find the vehicle that way.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. The adrenaline that had flooded my system and kept me upright is leaking away, and my head feels fuzzy.
‘There’s something else.’ DS Flintock steps forward now, clearing her throat. ‘Can you confirm your whereabouts yesterday, between the hours of eleven a.m. and three p.m.?’
‘That’s easy. I was running.’
‘You never left the course for any reason?’
‘Of course not. They should have a GPS log of my route. What’s this about?’
‘You recently made an accusation of sexual assault against your coach, Glenn Knight, didn’t you?’
Immediately I stiffen. It’s not really a question, and the detective doesn’t wait for an answer.
‘The police over there didn’t exactly find you credible, did they? They didn’t pursue any charges,’ she continues. Again, not really a question. Just a statement of fact.
‘Wait – do you think that has something to do with why Ethan got hurt?’ I shift on my feet. I think of the vitriol I’ve received online, the comments that had graduated to doxing, letters shoved through my door. Demands that I stop racing. Calls for me to be prosecuted for slander.
Then there were those shouts at the finishing line.
Liar.
Murderer.
The detective shakes her head. ‘Mr Knight was found dead at his home early this morning.’
‘What?’ My jaw drops. ‘How?’
Pete looks equally aghast. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Have you seen or spoken to Mr Knight recently?’
I pause. ‘Not since …’ Then I realize why they are asking me about my whereabouts. ‘You can’t think I had anything to do with his death?!’ I exclaim.
But if they think that, maybe others do too.
My hand shoots out and I grab Pete’s wrist. ‘What if it was because of me?’
‘What, Glenn’s death?’
‘No, Ethan’s accident. The driver … what if I caused this? Someone angry at me about the accusation?’And the lies, I think but don’t dare say out loud. I turn to the detective. ‘It could be, couldn’t it?’
‘We’ll look into it,’ she replies, but the way she snaps her notebook shut doesn’t give me much confidence. Ethan is OK, that’s the main thing. But it’s likely the reason the police won’t give it any more thought. ‘And we’ll be looking into that GPS log too.’ With a sharp nod of her head, she gestures to the other officers that she’s ready to go.