‘Nathan,’ Madeline says gently, casting a look at Rob, ‘it would help us if you could walk us through that afternoon – what you did, up to and after finding Clare Edwards in Sorrow’s Meadow.’
He scratches behind one ear, the movement fast, sharp.
‘I was home,’ he says again, ‘and then I went for a walk.’
‘And what time was this?’
He looks panicked, and Madeline shifts her wrist slightly, allowing the watch face to point in his direction, wondering if he struggles with the time. The pathologist thinks Clare died some time between 5 and 7 p.m.
‘About seven,’ he says then, nodding as though pleased that he’s remembered, ‘after the news finished. I always walk around up there, I like the flowers.’
‘There are no flowers in February, Mr Warren,’ the DCI says, and Madeline presses her lips together, takes a deep breath. She can’t shake the feeling that she’d be handling this better on her own.
‘Okay Nathan,’ she says, ‘so you went for a walk. And did you see anyone else while you were walking?’
He shakes his head.
‘Just me.’
‘And you saw Clare lying on the ground?’
He nods, looks away from them, starts jiggling his left leg underneath the table. He’s a big man; his hands are like spades. They know that Clare weighed around eight stone – she’d have gone down like a feather if someone of his size was involved.
‘And what did you do when you saw her?’
He looks back at them, and his eyes look sad, huge in his face. His skin is very pale, but his lips are full, like those of a child.
‘Told her to wake up,’ he mumbles, ‘but she wouldn’t.’
‘And did you touch her?’
‘No, no, no,’ he says, and he starts shaking his head then, quickly from side to side, too fast.
‘There’s no need to be upset, Nathan,’ Madeline says firmly, ‘we’re just trying to establish the events in the run-up to Clare’s death. You’ve been very helpful.’
The DCI exhales.
‘Are you sure you didn’t touch her, Nathan?’ he asks, leaning forward slightly in his chair, lacing his hands together on the table. His wedding ring glints in the overhead lights and Madeline feels a bite of dislike. Just because Rob Sturgeon wants this case cut and dried as quickly as possible doesn’t mean they can go pinning it on Nathan.
He doesn’t answer.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, shall I Nathan?’ the DCI says softly. ‘I think you might’ve followed Clare Edwards when she came out of school. I think you tried to talk to her. I think that when she didn’t give you what you wanted, you didn’t like it. You pushed her. And then you panicked.’ A pause. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you’d followed a girl home from school, would it?’
Madeline feels a flash of anger – the DCI has no right to bring up an old, and possibly false, allegation. They need to show Nathan Warren that they’re on his side. In her experience, people don’t tend to talk much otherwise.
He’s shaking his head even faster, putting his hands to his ears as if horrified by what they’re suggesting.
‘No,’ he says, ‘no! I didn’t touch her, I didn’t touch her.’ He looks frightened, murmurs something else under his breath.
Madeline leans forward. ‘What was that, Nathan?’
‘She was pretty,’ he says, without looking at them, and Madeline feels a jolt of unease.
The DCI is glowering. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘she was a pretty girl, wasn’t she, Nathan? Did you like that about her?’
Nathan gives a little moan. He glances at Madeline as if for help, and she puts a hand on Rob’s arm, wanting him to calm down.
‘Is it possible you were in Sorrow’s Meadow a bit earlier than you thought, Nathan?’ she asks him. ‘If you tell us, we’ll be able to help you. If you don’t, things might get harder.’ A pause. He just keeps shaking his head, back and forth like one of those toys people put in the backseat of cars. Madeline resists the sudden urge to reach out, tap him on the top of the head with her pencil to see if his head will bob the other way. They are not getting anywhere today.
‘Let’s pick this up at another time, sir,’ Madeline says quietly.
Rob glares back at her, but she meets his gaze head-on. As they exit the room, she thinks once more of Ian, covering his wife’s hand, putting his arm around her waist. People can put on one hell of a performance. It is too soon to know who to trust.
Clare
Monday 4th February, 8.00 a.m.
Mum has made crumpets with butter for breakfast and I eat quickly, eager to get out of the cold house and let the day begin. I know I should tell Ian and Mum that I’ll be staying at Lauren’s or something tonight, but they’ll have a go at me and I just can’t face it today. Yesterday’s argument was bad enough. I’ll text Mum later on, when it’s too late for them to stop me.
‘Have a good day today, Clare,’ Mum says as I eat the last bit of my crumpet and swallow more tea, feeling it burn my tongue because I’ve drunk it too fast. I nod.
‘I’ve washed your blue coat and your black skirt,’ she says, pointing to the pile of washing on one of the kitchen chairs, ‘in case you wanted to wear that this week. I know it’s your favourite. And I got the stain off the coat.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. I can feel Mum watching me, feel her eyes burning into my face. She probably feels bad for yesterday, but that’s tough luck.
‘You have a good day too,’ I say, a bit reluctantly, and at that moment Ian comes in, whistling in that annoying way he does first thing in the morning, a repetitive, grating tune that now pops into my head at random times throughout the day. His hair is still a bit wet from the shower and little droplets of water glisten in his beard.
‘Morning, my two lovely girls!’ he says cheerfully, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth and pulling open the fridge. I stiffen, push my chair back and reach for my blue puffer coat from the pile of washing, shrugging it on.
‘I’ve got to get to school.’
Ian pauses at the fridge; I see Mum looking at him, her expression almost pleading. The fridge door swings shut and Ian clears his throat, swallows down a mouthful of peanut butter toast, and looks at me.
‘Listen, before you go, Clare – I’m – well, we’re sorry for what happened yesterday. Us rowing with you about the exams. Your mum and I talked and, well, we think we’ve probably been pushing you a bit too hard, love. It’s a stressful time, isn’t it, and we know you’re doing your best.’ He stops for a second, then opens his mouth as though about to say something else. I can see peanut butter clinging to his teeth.
‘We are sorry, Clare,’ Mum chips in, and I stare at them, surprised by this sudden show of togetherness. My tongue still feels weird, like sandpaper where the hot tea has burned it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say at last, wanting the moment to be over. Ian looks visibly relieved, a smile breaking out on his large face.
‘That’s our girl,’ he says,