‘Can you blame her?’ Miles butted in.
‘It wasn’t clear who I could trust, Imogen, I swear, until you got attacked that night I wasn’t sure if you were part of it or not.’
‘You didn’t know if I was involved in the trafficking of women and kids? I think that says everything about how close we were. You and Stanton were the only people who knew where I was going that night.’ She was seething. ‘And stop saying my fucking name!’
‘Look, we will find DS Reid,’ Miles said.
‘Bridget, her name is Bridget.’
‘OK, we’re already looking for her. We’ll take extra care when we pick her up, and we will let you know straight away,’ Miles said. ‘But you can’t be a part of this investigation. You have to trust that we are doing the best we can.’
‘Let me ask you something.’ Imogen turned to Sam.
‘OK, but I may not be able to answer you; this is an ongoing investigation.’
‘Are you still investigating the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘People from the Plymouth station? The Exeter station too?’
‘It’s a big operation; it would be naive to think they could pull all of this off without any inside help. At the very least it’s happening under your noses and nothing is being done. Either everyone in your precinct is stupid, or someone knows something and is covering it up.’
‘And you have no idea who?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’ He moved closer to Imogen, she felt Adrian step in too, like a guard dog. ‘For the moment it would be good if we carried on like you hate me. That’s been pretty good for my cover, believe it or not.’
‘I do still hate you, Sam, this changes nothing. You can say what you want but you were the only person who could have betrayed me in that way.’ She paused and glanced at Adrian before continuing, uneasy about exposing herself. She lowered her voice. ‘You were the only person I told I was pregnant, and they knew, Sam, they knew before they cut me. That’s how I knew it was you.’
Sam’s face changed, he looked genuinely confused; she couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or not. Imogen slapped him across the face. She could feel Adrian silently cheering her on. Sam grabbed his cheek and his face flushed with anger.
‘Find Bridget, that’s all I care about.’
‘We will.’
DI Brown left the office, still rubbing his face. When he was well out of earshot and view, Imogen turned to Adrian.
‘I believe him,’ Adrian said as he rested on the edge of the table, folding his arms across his chest. ‘I know you hate him, Imogen, and I still don’t know what the hell happened to you back in Plymouth, but if DI Brown knows something about this investigation we owe it to ourselves to look into it. After what happened a few weeks ago … We need to be on it.’
‘I know. I agree.’ Imogen kicked the chair.
Age 10
I’m trying really hard to concentrate on the face in the wallpaper. When I stare at it long enough I see the face of a grumpy old man. He is staring at me, frowning. The pattern is really girly but it’s always the old man I see. Sometimes I pretend the old man is God and I pray to him. I say pray, but really I just give him a list of questions and wait for his expression to change. Naturally his expression never changes and my questions remain unanswered, loitering in my head.
This is my sister’s room but she’s not here any more. My mum keeps it the same in case she comes back, but she’s not coming back. You don’t come back from there. I don’t know if I believe in heaven, really, or hell for that matter. I like to pretend heaven is real though, and that she is there, stuffing her face with ice creams and chocolates. Pistachio ice cream was her favourite, sometimes Baba would buy a whole big tub of it, just for her.
Since my sister died, my mum cries a lot. Understandable, I suppose, but when I walk into the room she dries her eyes and smiles at me, as if her smile could disguise the despair. I may be young but I’m not stupid. She doesn’t talk about my sister and we aren’t meant to either, but I do. I come here and talk to God about her.
My mum’s cooking lamb for dinner; she must have upset Dad in some way because lamb is usually reserved for Sundays. Today is Tuesday. In four days I’m going to be eleven years old, so maybe this is an early birthday dinner. My stomach is rumbling. I can feel the hollow pit; I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I should go back to my room before I get caught in here. I’m not supposed to be here, if my father catches me I will likely have to do without dinner. On an ordinary day I might risk it, because I like being in this room more than the food my mum usually prepares. The smell of that lamb though – it’s made my mouth water.
Back in my own room, I feel more alone and the smell of the food isn’t nearly as strong as it was in my sister’s room, which is just a few steps down from the kitchen. I can’t feel my sister in here. I pick up the book that sits by my bed. It’s my father’s favourite book so I’ve been instructed to read it. Apparently it will prepare me for when I am older. It’s important to him that I am not weak. Every day he gives me a passage to learn and I must recite it for him before dinner, before I’m allowed to eat. Yesterday I wasn’t in the mood but the smell of the lamb has made me not want to take another stand. My father likes it when I stand up to him, to a point. I see his lips curl upwards when he thinks I am not looking, so sometimes even if I’m starving I make the sacrifice in order to make him like me. I like it when he likes me.
At dinner, I recite the passage he has asked me to remember. He seems disappointed that I couldn’t hold out even longer, he’s disappointed that I learned the words. It seems that no matter what I do I am the disappointment. Some days I think it is all about the words I’m asked to remember, some days I think he wants me to defy him and other days I think he wants me to starve to death. I gave up trying to figure my father out a long time ago. Soon he will think of an alternative punishment for learning the words, as I seem to have got better at memorising them. I guess that comes with getting older. He can’t trick me any more. I wonder what I will have to do next.
My mother is silent throughout dinner; she is often silent. Her face has changed since my sister died, I don’t know whether it’s just because she has cried so much that she has changed her face forever. She is thin, too; sometimes she’s not allowed to eat either.
The lamb is delicious and I want more as soon as I’m finished. When I am older I want to be a chef so that I can cook for myself. My father doesn’t think there is any money in that profession, though; he wants me to be a businessman. I never really understood the term ‘businessman’ – surely any work is business and so anyone with a job is also a businessman. I don’t really understand a lot of things like that. My father is a businessman, he wears a suit and he makes money. Sometimes I will open a drawer at home and there will be a big bundle of notes held together with an elastic band. I once found twenty thousand pounds in the bottom of my parents’ wardrobe. My father doesn’t talk about his business much in front of my mother; occasionally he might say he has a good or a bad day but never any more detail than that. He has promised me that when I am older he will take me to work with him and I can see how to earn good money, because nobody wants to be poor.
My dad usually goes out again after dinner. Sometimes when he comes home he smells funny. I don’t know what the smell is exactly but it’s a mixture of smoke and whisky. I don’t know how people can drink whisky; I think it tastes horrible.