The Girl Next Door. Phoebe Morgan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ her.’

      They wait a moment, but Rachel continues to cry, and Theresa comes forward, places a box of tissues on the table.

      ‘Alright,’ the DCI says, ‘thank you both for your time.’ They get to their feet, and Madeline feels in her pocket, hands Rachel her card.

      ‘If you think of anything that might help,’ she says, ‘you call me, anytime. Day or night. This is my direct line.’ Rachel’s eyes flash up at her, glassy with tears, but she swallows hard and nods. They watch as Ian closes his hand over his wife’s, Madeline’s card disappearing from sight.

      As the police crunch back down their drive, Rob looks at Madeline.

      ‘What d’you think?’

      She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t know the Edwards well – she tends to keep herself to herself in Ashdon, as much as she can, anyway. Rachel’s not part of the mum chums – Jane Goodwin and the like – but Madeline has seen her a few times with Ian, having a Chardonnay in the Rose and Crown pub of a Sunday afternoon. She sells glossy new homes to moderately wealthy clients in Saffron Walden by day, and she was bereaved a few years ago – Mark, lung cancer. They have an old coroner’s report on him somewhere. She remarried relatively fast.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she says at last, ‘but I want a background check on them both, and their alibis checked for that afternoon. And I want to talk to Lauren Oldbury. Clare was sixteen – at that age, you tell your friends much more than you tell your parents.’

      The DCI glances at his watch. ‘Quick sandwich before we talk to Nathan Warren?’

      Madeline makes a face. ‘Only sandwich you’ll get round here is from Walker’s corner shop, and trust me, you’d really rather not.’

      Nathan Warren sits in interview room three at Chelmsford Station, his hands splayed on the table, his big brown eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.

      Madeline slides into the seat opposite him, hands him a cup of filter coffee and pours them all a glass of water. The DCI winces as Nathan’s hand grips the polystyrene cup too hard, splashing liquid onto the grey-coated table.

      ‘Sorry,’ he says immediately, stuttering slightly, and Madeline grabs a couple of paper towels from the corner of the room, dabs up the mess.

      Nathan Warren has been standing on Ashdon High Street corner nearly every day for the past eighteen months. He’s been a part of the town for as long as anyone there can remember – he used to be the school caretaker, and before that he delivered the paper, the Essex Gazette, popping it through the inhabitants’ letterboxes (usually late, but no one ever complained). Most of the time now, no one knows what he does. Madeline has seen him wandering around on the green before, sometimes wearing a hi-vis jacket. There’s a traffic cone he moves around, left over from an old accident – the council turned a blind eye to it, figured it gave him something to do. Kept him out of trouble, and the police have never bothered to get involved. Until now, that is.

      ‘Thanks for coming in, Nathan,’ Madeline begins, smiling at him. The nastier women in this town say he’s ‘simple, not all there,’ but she is reserving judgement until they know the full story. People are capable of one hell of a performance when they want to be.

      ‘I know you already gave a statement to DS Campbell on Monday, Nathan, but we wanted to run through a few things with you, if that’s alright.’

      He doesn’t speak, just stares at them both, one hand anxiously clenching and unclenching.

      ‘Where were you on the afternoon of Monday the 4th of February, Nathan?’ the DCI snaps, and Nathan visibly blanches.

      ‘I was at home,’ he mutters, ‘just at home.’

      ‘Can anyone verify that?’

      The police already know that they can’t – Nathan lives alone, in the house his mother left him when she died five years ago. As far as they know, he has no other family.

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ