‘Lucy…’
‘Yeah, well, it’s all a bit strange, boss, but it appears that the friend and girlfriend, this Samantha Valentine, isn’t officially registered at this address.’
‘OK. So where is she registered?’
‘That’s just it, gov, it seems she isn’t registeredanywhere. The neighbours are saying that Milo Harrison lived here alone and that they have never seen him with a girlfriend, or anyone who fits the description that Tilly gave us.’ She raises an eyebrow.
‘We’re running checks now and a number of Samantha Valentines come up in the UK – but no one who matches the description, demographic or geographic – no one local.’ She shrugs. ‘And just take a look around the apartment, gov, there’s no trace of her, of any female at all; no possessions, no toiletries, clothes, photos – nothing to suggest a woman lives here. I dunno, gov, what do you reckon? You think it could be a ruse of some sort?’
As if on cue, I hear the sound of a distressed female’s cries coming from the next room.
‘Well, Davis. Let’s find out, shall we?’
SIX
DAN
‘Have you found her yet?’ She jumps up from the sofa the second I enter the living room. ‘Have you found Samantha?’
She has blood on her, dark splashes of the stuff splattered all over her baggy cardigan and jeans.
‘Tilly Ward? I’m DCI Dan Riley…’
‘Please—’ Her fingernails dig into my flesh as she grips my arm. ‘Youhaveto help me! You have to help us!’
Her voice is urgent and anguished, but I detect something else, something in the tone, or lack of, perhaps?
‘OK, it’s OK, Tilly.’ I approach her gingerly. She looks out of her skin with distress. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’
Hyperventilating, she grips me like a frightened child as I help lower her, shaking, down onto the sofa. I notice a couple of empty, discarded chocolate bar wrappers on the seat, incongruous to the rest of the pristine apartment.
The TV is on and it’s playing the 70s musicalGrease, though the sound is muted. My eyes are drawn to it for a brief moment as John Travolta effortlessly leaps from the bonnet of a 1949 Ford De Luxe, wearing tight black trousers with a slicked-back quiff, before I switch it off.Show-off.
Diminutive and waifish, Tilly Ward appears more like an adolescent teenager than a grown woman; even the thick black-framed glasses she’s wearing seem a little oversized for her doll-like face.
‘Are you OK, Tilly? Have you been checked over?’ I glance at the two uniformed officers standing to the left of the room and they both nod. ‘You’re not hurt or injured in any way?’
She looks down at herself, at her vibrating, bloodstained hands, and shakes her head.
‘OK, take a deep breath… in and out…innnnandouuuuut,that’s it.’
I demonstrate with her, try to help her regulate her breathing.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s happened here today, Tilly?’ I keep my tone calm and reassuring.
‘Is he dead?’ she sputters, wiping mucus from her nose and mouth with the back of her cardigan sleeve. ‘I’ve killed him, haven’t I?’ She drops her head into her lap, causing her mouse-brown hair to sweep in front of her face like a curtain. That’s when I glimpse it, behind her left ear, a hearing aid.
My stomach tightens.
‘Are you registered deaf, or hard of hearing, Tilly?’ It makes sense now, the slight, flat monotone in her voice.
Some months ago, Jude, my now one-year-old son, was confirmed deaf. The news hit me and my wife, Fiona, hard. After all, it’s not something you would wish for your child, is it? I suppose we’re still struggling to come to terms with it, but the difference between hope and despair is a different way of telling a story with the same facts, and so we’re learning sign language in case the cochlear implant device we’re hoping he’ll eventually be fitted with doesn’t work for him. Learning to sign is harder than I’d imagined it would be, though the wife seems to have taken to it like the proverbial duck to water, and Jude’sprotective big sister, our three-year-old daughter, Juno, or ‘Pip’ as I call her, has almost mastered the basics already.
‘Yes, I’m hard of hearing.’
I glance down at her bare feet and feel a rush of protection towards her.
‘Where’s Samantha? Is she OK?’ She grips my arm again. ‘Please tell me she’s OK.’
