Page 112 of The Guilty Girl

Hannah glanced quickly at her mother, silently pleading for help, but Babs was at the small table, shovelling a spoonful of baked beans into Olly’s mouth.

She jumped up. ‘You shouldn’t have taken my property without my permission. Shouldn’t you have had a warrant or something?’

Lottie felt sorry for her. She looked so frail and frightened. Was she in the house when Lucy was murdered? Did she leave afterwards with her bag, or did someone else take it and bring it to her? The bloodied towel and the blood under her fingernails pointed to her being present, but Lottie needed something more to arrest her.

‘Do you drive?’

‘No. Haven’t even done a theory test yet.’

‘Tell me what you know about Jake Flood.’ Lottie knew it was impossible for Hannah to have disposed of Jake’s body, because she was in the hospital yesterday until seven this morning. Sean had seen what was probably Jake’s car on the road before he reached Lucy’s house. Was Jake driving while injured after falling through the patio door? If so, where had he gone and who had killed him? The post-mortem would provide an approximate time of death, but Lottie was certain someone else had to be involved.

Hannah said, ‘I swear I never saw him before Friday night.’

Shaking her head, Lottie found she was unable to line up the sequence of events. Just what had gone on in the early hours of the morning that had resulted in two dead teenagers?

‘What time did you leave the McAllister house?’

‘I told you I can’t remember. I must’ve been drugged. It’s the only explanation I have. They took loads of samples at the hospital. Can’t you find out the results?’

‘Everything will be analysed when we receive them.’ Lottie didn’t hold out much hope. Too much time had elapsed to identify whether Hannah had been drugged with GHB. ‘I want you to come to the station for a few more questions.’

The girl folded her arms defiantly.

‘If you refuse, I’ve no option but to arrest you on suspicion of Lucy McAllister’s murder.’ She hadn’t enough unequivocal evidence to make the charge stick and she might be jeopardising custody time limits, but she needed Hannah to talk.

A crash sounded behind her. Lottie swung around. Babs was standing with a spoon in her hand, the bowl smashed on the floor. Baked beans were scattered everywhere.

‘Arrest her? Are you mad? Look at her. Do you honestly believe she could murder someone? Hannah lives for her sport, the only good thing in her life apart from her little brother …’

‘Babs, I just need to question her again, under caution. I don’t want to arrest her.’ Not yet, Lottie thought. She needed solid evidence without having to rely on suspicion and circumstance.

Babs’s face drooped as she fetched a cloth from the sink. ‘Hannah, you’d better go with them. I’ll find someone to watch Olly and follow on after you.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone.’ Hannah pleaded with Lottie. ‘Please, I don’t understand why you’re fixated on me and my rucksack. Why?’ Tears were now streaming down her cheeks, and as the fight left her body, she sagged like a hastily discarded rag doll.

Lottie felt the need to convince her of the gravity of what she faced. ‘You have to see this from my point of view. A bloody towel was found in your bag, and blood that we believe belongs to Lucy McAllister was under your fingernails. Your bag was at the victim’s house around four a.m., but it was here a few hours later. You need to explain it.’

Hannah’s face turned porcelain white, and Lottie had to grip her elbow to steady her as she struggled to get her feet into her runners. Was she purposely wasting time? Lottie felt her patience stretch like a frayed elastic band, ready to snap any second.

Once she had her runners on, Hannah grabbed an oversized white sweatshirt from the back of a chair and kissed her little brother on the top of his head. He held out a hand covered in tomato sauce and smeared the arm of her sweatshirt. She didn’t appear to notice.

They left the tiny apartment to the sound of Babs sobbing as she cleaned baked beans from the floor.

53

Boyd ordered a coffee inside the café before making his way back out to the pavement. Without any enquiry, he sat down opposite the man who’d been watching the apartment. He estimated he was in his forties, though it was hard to tell. His fair hair and the sweat on his forehead might indicate he wasn’t Spanish, but what did he know?

With a flicker of surprise, the sweaty man raised his sunglasses, settling them on top of his head. He eyed Boyd coldly before fixing a stern expression on his face.

‘Who are you and why are you watching me?’ Boyd asked without preamble. A waiter placed his mug of steaming coffee on the small blue-tiled table and disappeared.

‘You don’t need to know who I am. I’m not here to harm you or the boy.’ He spoke with an accent. A Spaniard after all.

‘You’d better come up with a better explanation, or I’m phoning the police.’ Boyd stared him down.

Eventually the man raised his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, Señor Boyd. My name is Diego Lopez. Malaga Policía.’

To hide his surprise, Boyd swallowed a mouthful of coffee, burning the roof of his mouth. He grimaced, and Lopez filled a glass with water for him from a jug.