‘Not very well,’ I say, ‘the Edwards family kept themselves to themselves.’ I’m exhausted with saying the same thing.
‘How was Ray-of-Ruby?’ Jack will say to me later, and I’ll smile in spite of myself. It’s been our name for her since we moved to the town; in all this time she’s been nothing but a misery. Sophie will be going to Brownies soon, but I’ve told her she’s exempt from Guides. Karen says Beth used to hate it – endless knot tying, constant prayers about the end of the world. Some people thrive on disaster. Ruby is loving all of this drama.
At the school gates, I stand with the other mums on the verge of grass between the primary and the secondary. Harry doesn’t get out until ten past four, but I pick Finn and Sophie up at three thirty. I love seeing their little faces as they toddle towards me, love the moment I can envelop them in my arms again. Especially now, when tragedy is so close.
Both the schools are Church of England, of course. There’s a noticeboard pinned to the gates, and a new poster flaps in the wind. I lean forward, stare at the black font. The priest is doing a special service tomorrow night, in memory of Clare. Please join us, it says, as Ashdon comes together in the face of adversity. It must be the most excitement Pastor Michael’s had for ages.
Normally, the mums and I would grin at each other at a missive from the church, but today, you can almost sense the nerves, feel the shockwaves radiating around us all. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Not in Ashdon. Not next door. Briefly, I close my eyes, think back to that morning, the very last time I saw Clare. I watched as she left for school, slamming the front door behind her, or did I imagine the slam? Harry wasn’t down yet, Finn and Sophie were still brushing their teeth. Clare was early, earlier than normal. Her blonde hair shone in the February sun, the ends catching the light. Jack appeared behind me at the window, and I moved away. I wonder if her stepdad was watching her too. Whether she was aware of how men looked at her. Whether she looked at anyone in the same way.
I crouch down when I see Finn coming towards me, jolting me back to the sharp February afternoon. I open my arms for his warm little body, eager to have him back. He’s always at his most loving just after school. A reassuring trait. Sophie bobbles towards us and Sandra appears as if by magic at my side, smiling at me. I’ve only had a few hours respite. This is how it is in this town. She’s gripping her own daughter Natasha tightly by the hand.
‘Oof. Think the wine from last night is catching up on me, I feel a bit dreadful now. Thanks for coming though. How was work?’ She doesn’t pause for breath. ‘The girls are best friends this week!’ she mutters to me, and I nod in response. Sophie and Natasha have a love–hate relationship, it seems. As much as seven-year-olds can, anyway. I can see Tricia heading this way but I pretend not to notice, in case she remembers my promise to bake for getting-a-divorce-Lindsay. Quickly, I hustle the children towards me, grabbing reading folders and lunch boxes between my fingers. Nobody is sticking around much to talk today, all of us wanting to get home, wrap our children up in cotton wool, protect them from whatever horrible fate met poor Clare.
There’s a gaggle of us who usually walk down the main street, but we’re the ones who can veer off first. Our house is only ten minutes from the school, set back just slightly from the road, alongside the Edwards’. It’s pink in contrast to their cream, your typical cottage pink, with a neat black roundel on the front denoting the name. Badger Sett. Horribly, achingly, twee. Sometimes, I wonder what on earth I was thinking coming here. Especially now this has happened. Not that Jack would want to leave; his practice is here. This is, after all, our fresh start.
Finn’s little hand is clutched in mine as we trot away from the school. My heart is bumping in my chest, worrying about the pile of flowers and tributes building up on the Edwards’ lawn, how I’m going to shield it all from my children. Sandra walks beside us, Sophie and Natasha up ahead. My eyes remain fixed on Sophie’s purple backpack as Sandra lowers her voice.
‘Have you heard anything more today?’ she asks me. ‘Tricia was telling me that the police think someone hit her on the back of her head, must have come up to her from behind. Can you imagine?’ I shiver, and clutch Finn’s hand a little tighter. The buttons on my blouse feel tight around my neck. I always dress conservatively these days. The doctor’s wife.
‘Have the police been round to yours yet?’ Sandra asks. ‘They must be going to. I bet they’ll ask you all about it. Doesn’t your kitchen window look into theirs?’
She knows it does. I almost want to laugh at how transparent she is.
‘I’ve been in the shop,’ I say, nodding my head in the direction of it. Everything in this town is so close together; it’s a claustrophobic’s nightmare.
‘Tricia says they’re sending DS Shaw round,’ Sandra says, ‘you know, going door to door. To see if anyone saw anything. And they’ve questioned Nathan Warren – well you’d have to, wouldn’t you? I still think there’s something not right about him. I mean, what was he doing, out walking at that time?’ She sniffs and exhales, her breath misty in the cold air. ‘They’ve already searched the Edwards’ house apparently, one of the mums saw them coming out yesterday. Did you? You didn’t say.’ She goes on without waiting for an answer. ‘Imagine someone riffling through all your things like that.’ She makes a face. ‘I wonder if they found anything. Rachel’s so beautiful, of course, but you just never know, do you? I wonder what DS Shaw makes of her. Chalk and cheese, those two.’
DS Madeline Shaw – Ashdon’s resident detective. She’s lived here for the past couple of years, in a little house just up the hill, past the schools. We don’t have much to do with each other – she’s not exactly the book club and wine type. How strange it must be for her, having this kind of crime happen right on her doorstep. Or fortuitous, I suppose.
Ahead of me, Sophie’s backpack bounces. Her hair glows in the sunlight and I feel a wave of sickness. Sandra must see the look on my face because she sighs, makes a tutting noise. I look down at the floor, my eyes scanning the pavement, the tap, tap, tap of our feet. Sandra’s wearing those hideous Birkenstock boots; I’ve got my little black ones on, Russell and Bromley, last year.
‘I know,’ she says, ‘the thought of it happening again… of it being one of our girls this time. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? I can’t abide violence.’
The shudder moves up my spine. Yellow flowers glisten behind my eyelids. The memory of the stairs in our old house, the way he pushed me, the pain in my ribs.
‘No,’ I tell her, ‘neither can I.’
DS Madeline Shaw
Wednesday 6th February
‘Madeline?’
The DCI is in front of her, his eyebrows raised. He’s impatient; the story has been picked up by the tabloids, and the calls are beginning to come in thick and fast. Some journalist has dug out an old picture of Clare from her Facebook page: her posing on a beach in Barbados. The inset is Rachel and Ian, him in an England football shirt, grinning at the camera. The grieving parents? the caption says. And so it begins, he thinks.
‘Have you got the pathology report in yet?’
‘Yep. Fast-tracked it,’ Madeline says, handing him the email that has just finished printing, ‘just in from Christina.’
He scans it, his eyes moving so fast that he could be skim-reading.
‘Cause of death identified as internal bleeding on the brain following a wound to the back of the head,’ Madeline says, ‘just what we thought at the time. Bruising to the shoulders, which makes sense if someone grabbed her. No signs of sexual assault. They’ve tested.’ It was the first thing they’d looked at; without it, one obvious motivation is gone.
The