Rachel’s head jerked up. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
‘You’re sorry?’ she said. ‘Why on earth are you sorry? I’m the one who kept things secret.’ She stifled a sob. ‘I’m the one…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Allie said gently, ‘because I have been such a self-absorbed arsehole, I didn’t notice this huge thing happening in your life. I was too busy worrying about my own stupid love life to see you were dealing with things, too. Really important things. I’m sorry because I’m such a crap friend. You deserve so much better. I seriously do not understand why you hang out with me.’
Rachel shook her head hard, her jaw set.
‘No, Allie. Stop it. I’m the crap one. I kept trying to tell you about me and Nicole… but I just… bottled it. I don’t know why.’ She brushed the tears from her cheeks with the side of one hand. ‘I was just scared, I guess.’
‘Scared of what?’
Rachel held up her hands. ‘Scared it would change our friendship. Scared you wouldn’t feel the same way about me. I kept thinking maybe everything would be different if you knew. Like… What if I hugged you and you… I don’t know. Pulled away.’ She took a sobbing breath. ‘I didn’t want anything to change with us.’
Allie’s throat tightened with unshed tears. She didn’t know how to reply to this. How to tell Rachel that she should never be afraid of losing her. She didn’t care who else Rachel loved as long as she still loved her. As long as they were still friends.
Lost for words, she let her actions speak for her. She walked around the table and, grabbing Rachel by the arms, pulled her into a fierce hug.
‘I want you to hug me forever,’ she said, crying now, too. ‘And I want you to trust that I will always hug you back. Because I swear I will. I swear it.’
Her face buried in Allie’s hair, Rachel clung to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she kept saying. ‘I’m sorry.’
This time Allie did know what to say. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’
Dom pulled a stack of printed photos from her file folder and handed one to Isabelle, who sat at her desk, and another to Allie.
‘Meet Owen Moran, thirty-one years old,’ Dom said. ‘Number Nine.’
Allie stared at the photo. It showed the baby-faced man from the fence – the one who held up a hand to warn her. The picture was grainy – it looked as if it had been taken from far away and then zoomed in. But it was definitely him.
‘I took that photo this morning.’ Raj’s voice emerged from the phone on Isabelle’s desk. ‘I’ve been following him since last night. Dom, tell them what we know.’
Dom typed something into the laptop propped on her knee. ‘He was born at Liverpool General Hospital. Lived in Liverpool until he was six years old, at which point his parents divorced and his mother moved to London, where she worked as a waitress and part-time carer. His father does not appear to be part of his life after that. Mum remarried when Owen was ten, to a James Smith, long-distance lorry driver.’ She glanced up at Isabelle; her glasses glittered. ‘It was a bad move. They had a tough relationship. James has a criminal record longer than we have time to read – GBH, public drunkenness… you get the picture. Police were called to their flat many times for domestic disturbances.’ She scanned the screen on her laptop. ‘They divorced when Owen was sixteen.’
Allie suppressed a shudder – what a horrible childhood.
Dom continued at a brisk pace. ‘Owen scored well on his GCSEs, but left school at seventeen to join the Army Infantry Division. When he was nineteen he served his first mission in Iraq. He was there off and on for two years before he transferred to Afghanistan. Served with honour for two more years in Helmand Province. Numerous commendations for bravery.’
Pausing, she handed Allie and Isabelle another photo. It had been taken against the backdrop of a lush green field. Moran was opening the door of a car. He wore the plain black gear of Nathaniel’s guards. He appeared to be looking directly at the photographer.
‘Raj took this yesterday afternoon at St John’s Fields.’
As she stared at the photo, Allie covered her lips with her fingertips.
The man’s light brown hair was kept short and neat, the well-groomed stubble on his cheeks was probably there to make him look more mature – or tougher.