Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

see, Rory, we have spoken to almost everyone who attended the party that night. Not one is able to vouch for your presence there after around 9 p.m. It seems you just … disappeared.’

That wasn’t true, he said. He was there.

Then the detective showed him a text message. The message had been sent from a number registered to Rachel Wells to his sister. Helen Thorpe. This message had been sent the day after the bonfire party.

Hey Helen. I’m really sorry about last night too. I’m going back to my mum’s for a while. I hope that we are still friends. Good luck with the baby. See you soon xxx. ‘I’m sure you’re aware, Rory,’ she said, ‘that telecommunications data allows us to pinpoint exactly where a mobile phone is when a message is sent. Our mast triangulation data tells us that this particular message was sent from an area matching the vicinity of your home on Maze Hill in Greenwich.’ DCI Betsky cocked her head to one side. ‘Could Rachel Wells have been present at your home the day after the party at your sister’s house, Rory?’

Of course she wasn’t, he said. He was there with his wife. They would have told the police if Rachel had been there.

‘Well, I suppose that makes sense,’ DCI Betsky said. ‘Given the fact that Miss Wells is very unlikely to have sent this message herself.’

She used her index finger to trace the two lines on the paper in front of Rory, as if showing him a fascinating puzzle they were solving together. ‘You see, Rory, the grammatical nature of this message is a poor match for Rachel’s usual, more colloquial messaging style. “I’m really sorry about last night too” – Rachel didn’t usually use full sentences of that kind in her messages. In addition to that, Rachel Wells’s mother has been dead for the last fifteen years.’ She paused at this point, drumming her fingers gently on the table.

‘If Rachel didn’t send this message, Rory, it would seem that someone else did. Someone who was situated in or around your house the morning after Rachel went missing. Someone with access to her mobile phone. And someone who would have a reason to impersonate her.’

Rory did not say anything. He had nothing to say. DCI Betsky leaned forward, pushed the paper towards him.

‘You sent this message, didn’t you, Rory?’

He hadn’t, he said. He swore he hadn’t. His lawyer had come to life, then – something Rory had interpreted as a bad sign. She wanted a break for her client, she said. In a moment, DCI Betsky snapped.

‘For the tape,’ she continued, ‘the witness is being shown item KMF-0019. Do you recognise this item, Mr Haverstock?’

DCI Betsky picked up a package, slid it over to Rory. Through the thick polythene of the evidence bag, he could see the familiar fabric, the worn collar. This must be a dream, he thought. It must be. He had the sensation of being surrounded, of the walls and ceiling moving to enclose him. Yes, he said. That was his coat.

‘A coat,’ DCI Betsky said, ‘that you were seen by several witnesses wearing on the night of November 5th. A coat that my officers found hidden under a large pile of shoes, in a black plastic bin bag in the back of a forest-green Land Rover Discovery registered in your name, parked outside your home in Maze Hill, Greenwich.’

She sat back in her chair.

‘This item has undergone extensive forensic examination. A number of blood traces were found on the coat. This blood matched DNA samples held on the police database for Rachel Wells. The probability that the blood on this coat belonged to Rachel Wells is greater than 99.9 per cent.’

The silence in the room felt loud and close, like the noise of water when you are underneath it. Rory wanted to put his hands over his ears.

‘You killed Rachel Wells, didn’t you, Rory?’

No.

‘You realised it wasn’t going to stop with the money. It was never going to stop. You were never going to be free of her. You had no choice. You snapped.’

No.

‘And then, you panicked.’

No. It was ridiculous, he said. He hadn’t killed anyone, he said. He –

‘You had her phone, didn’t you, Rory? People were looking for her, weren’t they, Rory? Her dad, ringing, leaving messages. And a message from your sister of all people, worried about her whereabouts. You needed to give yourself some breathing space, didn’t you? You needed people to think she was still alive. To give you time.’

Time to do what? he said. He didn’t understand, he said. This was madness.

DCI Betsky slammed a hand to the desk. Both Rory and the lawyer jumped.

‘Time to dispose of her body.’

Rory found he could say nothing at all. He could feel the eyes of his lawyer searching for his, looking for some kind of sign, but he found himself unable to meet her gaze.

When DCI Betsky spoke again, her voice was softer. As if Rory were just a little boy, caught in a lie.

‘Look,’ she said, gently. ‘It’s over now, Rory. It’s time to start telling the truth. It will be so much better for you if you do. Tell us what you did with her, Rory. Tell us what you did with the body.’

I stare at my husband through the glass. He can’t tell me the rest. He is crying now, his head in his hands.

I place my shaking hands over the bump in my lap to steady them, to feel the warmth of my little baby. There is a lump in my throat. I can’t speak. I wish I could. I want to ask him what went through his mind in that moment. Did he think of me? I want to ask. Did he think of his pregnant wife, of the baby in my belly? Or were there other things on his mind? Things he couldn’t push away, however hard he tried? Like an image of a girl, in a blue velvet dress.