Page 44

Chapter 43

Anna

I’m not expecting anyone when the doorbell rings. I huff, as I’m in the middle of some intricate work shaping a cut stone, and no matter how many times I try, it isn’t going well. The man standing on my doorstep must be in his fifties, is smartly dressed in a shirt, V-neck jumper and casual trousers, and has a rucksack over his shoulder. He offers me a crooked smile and brushes a salt-and-pepper fringe across his forehead.

‘Miss Khan?’ he asks.

His use of my old name catches me unawares.

‘Not for a long time,’ I reply. ‘Do I know you?’

‘We have met, once, yes, some years ago. Detective Sergeant Roger Fenton.’

I stare at him blankly, still none the wiser. He realises this.

‘I had been asked to come to your house to talk to you about an accusation you had made.’

I feel a sudden chill pass through me. Yes, I remember him now. And why we spoke.

‘Hi,’ I say awkwardly.

‘May I come in?’

‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s probably better to have this conversation inside, if that’s possible?’

I hesitate, then move to one side. I glance at his car, relieved it’s unmarked. Then I close the door behind him. I feel my legs beginning to tremble as he follows me into the kitchen. He places his briefcase on the kitchen table as we sit.

I try my hardest to appear calm.

‘I wanted to chat to you about something,’ he says. ‘Do you remember the circumstances of how and when we first met? It stemmed from a phone call we received about—’

‘I know what it was about,’ I reply. I don’t need him to go over old ground.

‘I remember it well, because I don’t think I had ever met someone your age who was more desperate to be believed.’

‘Because I was telling the truth,’ I say. ‘But nobody would listen to me.’

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine how different my life might have been had he accepted what I told him. Had justice been served.

‘And for that, I apologise,’ he says, and he looks as if he might mean it. ‘You probably assume I forgot about you after that day, but I didn’t. In fact I made a lot of inquiries as to whether there might be something in your accusations. But I was never able to find any evidence to back up your claims.’

This should offer me a little comfort, but too much time has passed.

‘So why are you here today?’

‘Are you aware that, at the time, four people were arrested? They were questioned but later released without charge.’

I shake my head as I struggle to maintain control over my breathing. I can’t let him see that I am lying.

‘Of those four, three are now dead,’ he continues.

I don’t know what he expects me to say. That I’m glad they’re dead or that I’m sorry they didn’t face justice for their crime. Instead, I give nothing away but a nod.

He pauses before removing from his briefcase a familiar magazine, opening it up to a page that’s been bookmarked with a coloured Post-it note.

When I see the photograph, I know exactly why he is here. How could I have been so stupid?

‘So,’ he continues, ‘you can imagine my surprise when I saw this.’

He points to the image and is about to speak again. But those are his last words. Because without warning, Drew appears from behind him. A hammer he brandishes above his head swings so fast and hits the detective with such force, it drives him face first on to the tabletop, the tool still embedded in his skull. Drew needs to use both hands to pull it out, twisting it from side to side until it’s released, and taking fragments of bone and brain matter with it.