Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

They made an awkward trio, stumbling along the path to the caravan park, and Ray was glad that Jenna was cooperative. She may have been slim, but she was as tall as Ray, and she clearly knew the path far better than they did. Ray was thoroughly disorientated and not even sure how close they were to the edge of the cliff. Every now and then he heard a crash of waves so loud he half expected to feel spray on his cheek. He was relieved to reach the caravan park without mishap, and he opened the back door of the unmarked Corsa for Jenna, who got in without a murmur.

He and Kate moved a few metres away from the car to talk.

‘Do you think she’s all there?’ Kate said. ‘She’s hardly said two words.’

‘Who knows? Maybe she’s in shock.’

‘I guess she thought she’d got away with it, after all this time. How can anyone be so heartless?’ Kate shook her head.

‘Let’s hear what she’s got to say, first, shall we?’ Ray said. ‘Before we hang her.’ After the euphoria of finally identifying the driver, the arrest had felt peculiarly anticlimactic.

‘You know that pretty girls can be murderers too, right?’ Kate said. She was laughing at him. But before he could reply, she had swiped the car keys from his hands and was striding towards the car.

The drive back was tedious, with nose-to-tail traffic crawling along the M4. Ray and Kate talked in low voices about harmless topics: office politics; the new cars; the advert in Weekly Orders for Major Crime jobs. Ray had assumed Jenna was asleep, but she spoke as they were approaching Newport.

‘How did you find me?’

‘It wasn’t that hard,’ Kate said, when Ray didn’t answer. ‘You’ve got a broadband account in your name. We double-checked with your landlord to make sure we had the right place – he was very helpful.’

Ray looked back to see how Jenna was taking this, but she was looking out of the window at the heavy traffic. The only sign that she was anything other than perfectly relaxed was the fists bunched in her lap.

‘It must have been tough for you,’ Kate continued, ‘living with what you’d done.’

‘Kate,’ Ray said warningly.

‘Tougher for Jacob’s mother, of course…’

‘That’s enough, Kate,’ Ray said. ‘Save it for interview.’ He shot her a cautionary glance and she glared back defiantly. It was going to be a long night.

24

In the dark of the police car I let myself cry. Hot tears fall on to my clenched fists as the detective speaks to me, making little attempt to disguise the contempt in her voice. It’s no less than I deserve, but even so it’s hard to take. Not once have I forgotten Jacob’s mother. Not once have I stopped thinking about her loss – a loss far greater than my own. I hate myself for what I’ve done.

I make myself breathe deeply and evenly, hiding my sobs; not wanting the police officers to pay me any more attention. I imagine them knocking on Iestyn’s door, and my cheeks burn with shame. News that I was going out with Patrick spread so fast round the village: perhaps the gossips already have hold of this latest scandal.

Nothing could be worse than the look in Patrick’s eyes when I walked back into the kitchen with the police. I read the betrayal on his face as clearly as if it had been written in letters ten-foot tall. Everything he believed of me was a lie, and a lie built to cover up an inexcusable crime. I can’t blame him for the look in his eyes. I should have known better than to let myself get close to anyone – to let someone get close to me.

We’re already on the outskirts of Bristol. I need to clear my thoughts. They will take me into an interview room, I imagine; suggest that I call a lawyer. The police will ask questions and I’ll answer them as calmly as I can. I won’t cry, or offer excuses. They will charge me, I’ll go to court, and it will be over. Justice will finally be done. Is that how it works? I’m not sure. My knowledge of the police is gleaned from detective novels and newspaper articles – I hadn’t ever expected to end up on this side of the fence. I see a stack of newspapers in my mind, my photo blown up to show every line on my face. The face of a killer.

A woman has been arrested in connection with the death of Jacob Jordan .

I don’t know if the papers will print my name, but even if they don’t, they’re sure to run the story. I put my hand on my chest and feel the hammering of my heart against my palm. I’m hot and clammy, as though I’m coming down with a fever. Everything is unravelling.

The car slows and turns into the car park of an unattractive cluster of grey buildings, set apart from surrounding office blocks only by the Avon and Somerset Constabulary crest above the main entrance. The car is expertly manoeuvred into a tiny space between two marked police cars, and the female detective opens my door.

‘Okay?’ she asks. Her voice is softer now, as though she regrets the harsh words she threw at me earlier.

I nod, pathetically grateful.

There isn’t space for the door to open fully, and it’s awkward getting out with my wrists cuffed together. The resulting clumsiness leaves me feeling even more frightened and disorientated, and I wonder if that’s the real purpose of handcuffs. After all, if I ran off now, where would I go? The backyard is surrounded by high walls, with electric gates blocking the exit. When I’m finally upright DC Evans takes hold of my upper arm and guides me away from the car. She doesn’t grip me hard, but the act makes me claustrophobic and I have to fight the urge to shake her off. She leads me to a metal door, where the male detective presses a button and speaks into an intercom.

‘DI Stevens,’ he says. ‘Zero nine with one female.’

The heavy door clicks open and we walk through into a large room with dirty white walls. The door slams behind us with a noise that seems to stay in my ears for a full minute. The atmosphere is stale, in spite of a noisy air-conditioning unit fixed to the ceiling, and a rhythmic banging comes from somewhere within the warren of walls that lead away from the central area. At the edge of the room is a grey metal bench screwed to the floor, where a young man in his twenties sits, biting his nails and spitting the results on to the floor. He wears blue tracksuit bottoms with frayed hems, trainers and a filthy grey sweatshirt with an indiscernible logo. The stench of his body odour catches the back of my throat and I turn away before he can see the mixture of fear and pity in my eyes.

I’m too slow.

‘Get a good look, did you, sweetheart?’ The man’s voice is high and nasal, like a boy’s. I glance back at him but don’t speak.

‘Come and check out the goods, if you like!’ He grabs his crotch and laughs, the burst of sound incongruous in this grey, cheerless box.

‘Cut it out, Lee,’ DI Stevens says, and the man smirks and slumps back against the wall, chuckling at his own wit.

DC Evans takes hold of my elbow again, her nails digging into my skin as she steers me across the room to stand in front of a high desk. Wedged behind a computer is a uniformed officer, his white shirt strained across an enormous belly. He nods at DC Evans but affords me no more than a cursory glance.

‘Circumstances?’

DC Evans takes off my handcuffs and instantly it’s as though I can breathe more easily. I rub the red grooves on my wrists and find perverse pleasure from the twinge of pain it gives me.

‘Sarge, this is Jenna Gray. On the twenty-sixth of November 2012 Jacob Jordan was hit by a car on the Fishponds estate. The driver failed to stop. The car has been identified as a red Ford Fiesta, index J634 OUP, registered owner Jenna Gray. Earlier today we attended Blaen Cedi, a cottage near Penfach in Wales, where at 19.33 I arrested Gray on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving and failing to stop at the scene of a road traffic collision.’