Too Close For Comfort (9 page)

‘Am I offending you?’ said Lysette. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I just want to cut through the bullshit and talk about who she really was. The real Sarah.’

‘Let’s go,’ I said gently, enlisting Jim with my eyes. I took her arm, tried to subtly move her.

‘You don’t like it when things get too real, do you, Mia?’ she said, her eyes narrow. ‘You like to keep everything just so.’ She made a little gesture, a bow being
tied up, her mouth arranged in a prissy moue. In that second I wanted to slap her.

‘Mia’s right, Lys,’ said Jim. I shot him a grateful look. ‘I need to get home. Let me drop you on the way.’

‘Stop telling me what to do,’ she snarled.

‘Lysette . . .’ I said.

We could’ve gone round in circles for hours. We probably would’ve done, but the truth is, we got stopped in our tracks. The sharp ring on the doorbell, the arrival
of the two policemen, their faces painted with the kind of bad news you immediately know is set to change lives.

In the face of what we heard next, our petty argument meant absolutely nothing.

‘The fact is, Mia, you’re uniquely placed.’

We hadn’t even left the confines of Peterborough station, and yet Roger couldn’t contain himself a second longer.

‘Can we grab a coffee?’ I asked, playing for time. I nodded towards the chain shop opposite the ticket office, the kind of place I’d have shunned for something more artisanal
and pretentious in London, but which now seemed oddly comforting. Little Copping felt hermetically sealed, and it was hard evidence that I’d made a temporary escape.

‘Of course,’ said Roger, pulling out his wallet as he strode across the busy concourse. How did he manage to make even the smallest action look so definitive?

Once we’d slid into a cramped booth, he began again.

‘So how have the last couple of days been?’ Roger took a brisk, efficient sip from his crinkly cardboard cup. ‘Very challenging, inevitably.’

It had felt almost impossible to leave Lysette this morning. She’d barely left her room since the day of the funeral, her face red raw from the constant flow of tears. Mr Grieve –
Peter Grieve as I now knew him to be – had left the funeral and taken himself back to his bedsit on the outskirts of Peterborough, looped a leather belt around his neck and hung himself.
He’d left a note, scrawled on the back of an exercise book that was on the top of a pile of marking. ‘I’m sorry too,’ it said, echoing Sarah’s note, ‘I never
meant to make things worse.’ There was a big X slashed underneath, further mirroring Sarah’s text. Sarah’s death was now subject to a whole new level of scrutiny. Was it the
conclusion of a suicide pact or was the truth even more sinister than that? The press were starting to swarm, the connection to the Farthings bringing a whole extra level of intrigue. I’d
felt unable to return to London, had rung Roger to tell him I was extending my leave of absence, and planted the seed for this plan of his in the process.

‘It’s been horrible,’ I said. ‘The whole community’s in trauma. Both of them so closely connected to the school as well. Luckily term was finishing
anyway.’

Roger cocked his head, considered me.

‘And you yourself will be feeling that shock.’

‘I mean . . . they’re not my deaths to mourn.’ I paused a second, moulding the rest of my answer. The truth was, I was feeling more shock than I thought I was
strictly entitled to – a gnawing tension that wouldn’t let me settle, and made it hard for me to soothe Lysette’s savage grief. The obvious conclusion to draw was that Peter and
Sarah were having an affair, and yet Lysette flatly denied it. Nor would she tell me what she thought could be a possible explanation, terse and snappy whenever Sarah’s name was mentioned.
‘But yes, even being close to this kind of tragedy has shaken me up.’

‘It would – particularly for someone as naturally empathetic as you,’ said Roger. ‘You said yourself that you pride yourself on meeting your patients exactly where they
are.’

Guilt needled me – had I forgotten to do that as a friend? There were times in the last couple of days when Lysette’s combination of neediness and hostility had made me feel less
than saintly.

I smiled at him, keen to lighten the intensity. ‘Are you saying I’m a maverick?’

He laughed. ‘No, but I am saying you’re gifted. Which is why I think you’d be such an asset to the community if you agreed to stay on a few weeks and offer some formalised
support. You’re already well versed in the delicacy of a police investigation.’

Blood pounded in my ears.

‘Roger . . . the Christopher Vine case, it was far from my finest hour.’ I ground to a halt – I didn’t need to be giving my new boss a diatribe on my
all-time career low. ‘Gemma was a stranger when she walked through the door, and I still got too involved.’ The memory of Judith suspending me – it still stung, even if now all
anyone remembered was that I was the person who subsequently unlocked Gemma’s dangerous secrets. ‘The dead girl is my best friend’s best friend.’ I knew as I said it how
ridiculous it sounded: I wanted him to respect me. ‘I’m too close.’

Roger waved an airy hand.

‘My sense of you Mia, is that you’re deeply perfectionistic. I’m sure it’s why you’re such a high-flier, but I also doubt you ever give yourself enough credit. That
was an excellent, career-defining experience. You’ve got a chance to build on it here.’ I gave him a sceptical look, knowing all the time that the first half of his assessment was
scarily accurate. Roger took a last swig, stood up. ‘At least hear the Detective Chief Inspector out.’

*

The police station was on the outskirts of the town, a grim monolith on the side of a ring road: it felt a million miles away from the chocolate box prettiness of Little
Copping. Roger loudly announced us to the harassed-looking woman on the front desk, and she buzzed us through the thick doors that opened into the bowels of the building. There, by a set of lifts,
stood a small, trim fifty-something man in a well-cut grey suit. He pushed a clump of floppy salt-and-pepper hair out of his face, and stuck out a friendly hand, his strange kind of elegance an
immediate contrast to the dingy surroundings.

‘Lawrence Krall,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to meet you both. Come right this way.’

We made our introductions in the lift, zooming skywards to the top floor. Krall led us down a long corridor, halting suddenly at a closed door.

‘Take a look,’ he said, nodding towards the square of glass that let into the room. I peered inside. A huge photo of Sarah, a smile wreathed across her pretty face, was the
centrepiece of a pinboard. To the right of it was a picture of Peter, his serious expression suggesting it was from his driving licence, scribbled cards and notes stuck to the available space
around them. My stomach gave an unexpected lurch, my eyes meeting Sarah’s. What had taken her from that moment of happiness to a crumpled heap of blood and bones on a pavement? I forced
myself to look away, aware that Krall was watching me. ‘Incident room,’ he said, as if it wasn’t obvious.

‘Already a hive of activity,’ said Roger. It was true: the room was full to bursting with police, all hunched over computer screens and making calls.

‘It’s important,’ said Krall simply, leading us onwards.

He took us into a sparse office, a metal wall clock with thick black hands the only thing punctuating the bare walls. The room was light at least, and the fact we were so high in the sky meant
the whole city was spread out before us. I looked out over it all; the cathedral, the jumble of office blocks, the cars on the ring road, as small as toy ones zooming around a Scalextric track from
this lofty vantage point. An involuntary shudder ran through me, Sarah’s smiling face still burnt into my brain. One of those random buildings was probably the one she fell to her death from:
did she look over this very same skyline in her last, terrifying seconds?

As we settled ourselves either side of the ugly Formica table, Krall suddenly sprang back up and grabbed the phone in the corner of the room. There was a nervous energy about him, a sense of
constant movement.

‘How rude of me, let me organise some tea,’ he said. ‘It’s fairly disgusting, I’m afraid.’

I’d imagined someone different – someone gruff and plain-speaking with a belly that strained over regulation-issue trousers. I wasn’t yet sure which was preferable. My phone
gave a discreet beep. I subtly slipped the screen upwards.

I pushed the phone back into my bag, wishing I hadn’t looked. It gave me a strange feeling, irritating and gratifying all at once. It was as if I was one of those Russian dolls, my
seventeen-year-old self trapped deep inside my adult exterior, rebelliously pleased to have his attention. Perhaps it was just a welcome distraction from the darkness of what was unfolding.

Krall finished relaying our requests, and then sat back down opposite us. ‘So, Mia,’ he said, ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help us.’

Both men looked at me expectantly.

‘And you two already know each other?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Our professional paths have crossed in the past. That’s why, when I saw Lawrence’s name in the paper, I thought I’d give him a quick
ring.’

‘Such a coincidence!’ said Lawrence chummily, the two of them turning back towards me, waiting for my agreement.

‘A quick ring’ sounded so benign. I couldn’t help thinking that it was Roger who was the real high-flier, spotting a chance to raise the profile of his newly acquired practice
and leaping on it.

‘I don’t know how much Roger’s explained, but, whilst I’d love to help, I don’t think it would be appropriate. Lysette’s my best friend, she was very close to
Sarah . . .’

‘Lysette Allen,’ said Krall, cutting straight across me. ‘Yes, we’ll be looking to interview her in the next few days.’

‘Right,’ I said, trying not to react; the Lysette I’d left behind this morning was in no fit state to be subjected to a police interview. I couldn’t leave her, not yet.
‘She is very distressed.’

‘Exactly!’ said Krall, leaning forward, his gaze intense. ‘That’s why having you on hand for this first couple of weeks would be invaluable. For people to know
there’s that support – it will give them the strength and clarity to share what they know. The early stages of an investigation are critical. Memories are fresh in people’s minds.
If they’re in deep shock, we may lose key information. We’d pay to bring you on board, make sure we respected your commitments in London.’

‘I certainly couldn’t work professionally with a friend . . .’

‘I quite see that,’ said Krall, ‘but I gather that you’ve been informally helping Sarah’s wider friendship group already?’

Lisa’s comedy yokel pronouncement reverberated in my head – news really did travel fast around there.

‘Well – I went for one walk.’

One very odd walk – the unease it gave me had never quite dissipated. Krall was watching me, almost as if he could hear my thoughts. I could see him measuring his next words carefully.

‘Mia, the investigation has taken a bleaker turn, I’m sorry to say.’

A shiver ran straight through me, as though a shadow had blotted out the sun. I looked to Roger, but he was focused on Krall. I couldn’t swear to it, but his face suggested this
wasn’t a revelation for him.

‘How?’ I asked.

‘We think perhaps the first team were too quick to attribute Sarah’s death to suicide.’ Was he confirming what Lysette had said all along? ‘It’s understandable, it
certainly looked that way, but there are anomalies with the CCTV footage inside the car park that make us think that an unseen assailant could have been deliberately dodging the cameras. And the
way she fell – well, the first postmortem was basic, the standard examination we authorise after a suicide.’

I took a gulp of my tea, looking for comfort. ‘What do you mean?’

Krall paused, his face serious. ‘We exhumed the body and had a senior pathologist do a much more extensive examination. There are marks on her arms which were originally attributed to the
impact, but we now suspect are signs of a struggle before she died.’

‘That’s terrible!’ I said, blood pulsing in my ears. I’d been so quick to dismiss Lysette, to try and impose a rational explanation. The irony was that her wild,
non-judgemental friend – the one who was never coming back – was the only person who would have taken her seriously right from the start.

‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Roger, suitably solemn.

My heart thumped hard in my chest, my eyes drawn back to the window, almost as if the site of her death would loom up and show itself now it seemed so real.

‘Do people know that?’ I asked. I didn’t want to be the one to confirm Lysette’s darkest fears back to her, but nor did I want to be keeping secrets.

‘Joshua Bryant obviously does,’ said Krall, ‘and we’ll be sharing the information as we interview. Seeing where it takes people’s thinking.’

‘So what,’ I said, my words tumbling out as fast as my racing heartbeat, ‘you think that Peter Grieve killed her?’ There he was in front of me, every bit as real as she
felt right now. The way he automatically dropped to his knees, met Saffron down there on the ground, determined not to loom over her like an ogre. ‘They were having an affair?’

Krall gave an almost Gallic shrug.

‘We don’t know yet. That’s the most probable scenario, but we need to investigate.’

‘I know it’s not my place, but – I met him at the school. It sounds sappy, but – he just seemed so kind.’

Krall nodded, unmoved.

‘Yes. That said, there are things in his background that raise red flags for us. A history of depression, an incident at his previous school where he became involved with a mother. And
even in Little Copping, we’re hearing that another mother made a complaint against him that was subsequently withdrawn.’

Why had Lysette not trusted me with any of this? I might have understood then why she was so convinced there was another explanation. Had she suspected it was Peter all along? But if she had
– surely she would have told the police?