That night, the first news reports start to roll in. We’ve had BBC News 24 on the TV screen for a good few hours now, but it’s taken a while for what happened in Herne Bay to hit the public consciousness.
The news story on the ticket at the bottom of the screen changes to BREAKING: HERNE BAY HOTEL DEATH and I reach for the remote control to turn up the volume as the newsreader begins to speak.
‘Kent Police have appealed for witnesses in the Herne Bay area to come forward after the body of a woman was found in a bath in a local hotel. The woman’s body was found in the TruMotel on Thanet Way. The woman, in her thirties, was not believed to have been a guest at the hotel. The room’s occupier has since been declared missing, along with a member of staff from the hotel. Peter O’Dell’s at the scene. Peter, what more can you tell us?’
The camera cuts to the news reporter, who’s stood in a very familiar-looking hotel car park, the hotel behind him surrounded with police cars and vans, with officers in hi-vis jackets standing around the police tape billowing in the wind.
‘Duncan, Kent Police have naturally been quite cagey with the details so far, but we do know a number of things.’ The man glances occasionally at his notepad as he speaks to the camera. ‘Shortly after eleven thirty this morning, a call was made to the emergency services reporting that a woman’s body had been found in a bathtub in one of the rooms at this hotel. We believe she was found by one of the cleaners at the hotel. We don’t have any details on how the woman died, but the police have told us that she had been dead for some hours, and that they are treating her death as suspicious. They’ve told us they want to speak to two people: one, a man who was staying at the hotel, a Daniel Cooper, of East Grinstead, Sussex, and another, a woman, Jessica Walsh, who was employed at the hotel.’
Walsh. I didn’t even know her surname until now.
‘Neither Mr Cooper nor Miss Walsh have been seen since yesterday afternoon, and police are keen to speak to them. They’ve released a picture of Miss Walsh, and ask that members of the public should call the police immediately if they see either Mr Cooper or Miss Walsh.’
As the reporter speaks, a picture of Jess pops up on the screen. It’s her staff picture from the hotel – the one that was on her name badge.
‘Peter, have the police said what connection these two people have with each other or the victim, and whether or not they are suspects?’ the newsreader asks from the studio.
‘No, the details are still a bit sketchy, but the police have told us they’re concerned at the fact that neither Mr Cooper nor Miss Walsh has been seen since yesterday afternoon, and that Miss Walsh was employed on duty at the time of her disappearance. I did ask the senior investigating officer, though, where they believed Mr Cooper and Miss Walsh might be, and he seemed to indicate that there was a possibility they could have already left the country. That’s something we’ll get more on as the facts start to become clear, I’m sure.’
Almost before it’s even begun, the news report is over and the presenter is back onto a story on the latest deaths from a conflict in the Middle East.
Neither of us can say anything for a good few minutes. Jess’s face is emotionless, as it so often is. I think that’s what scares me the most about her: that I never quite know what she’s thinking or feeling.
It’s a bizarre feeling, hearing your name mentioned on TV, especially considering the circumstances. Even though there was no photo of me on the screen, and although the foreign news channels are unlikely to have picked up the report yet, I feel all eyes are on me. I instinctively slide down a little on my seat, trying to take myself out of the eyeline of the windows of the caravan.
Without saying anything, Jess gets up and walks over to the kitchen area. She opens cupboards and looks through them before starting to rummage through drawers.
‘Christ, there’s all sorts of shit in here,’ she says as she opens one drawer. ‘Looks like a man drawer to me.’
‘Man drawer?’ I ask, still unable to take my eyes off the TV screen, which is now focused on a story about a Premier League footballer’s latest sex scandal.
‘Yeah, all men have a man drawer, don’t they? A drawer filled with old keys, drawing pins, radiator keys, curtain hooks . . . And tennis balls, apparently.’
She pulls the tube out of the drawer, the plastic screeching against the laminate edge as she does so, before popping the red cap off the end and taking a tennis ball out, which she throws towards me.
‘Catch.’
I make a cursory effort at flapping my hand in the general direction of the ball, but I miss and it bounces off the formica-topped table. Before I’ve even seen it, another ball hits me on the shoulder.
‘Hey, pack it in,’ I yell.
‘Alright, chill,’ comes Jess’s reply.
‘Don’t tell me to chill. How can you be so calm? The biggest news network in the country has just named us as prime suspects in a murder case.’
‘Not the biggest news network in this country.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s not. Besides, no-one watches those things. Unless it’s on BuzzFeed, no-one’ll take a blind bit of notice. And what are you worried about? There wasn’t a photo of you. As long as you don’t walk around introducing yourself as “Daniel Cooper of East Grinstead, Sussex, wife murderer extraordinaire”, you’ll be fine.’
‘There wasn’t a photo of me yet, you mean. That’s a matter of time.’
‘Yes, time by which the whole of Europe’ll be looking for a scruffy bastard with floppy hair and a beard. Meanwhile, you’ll be strutting your shaven head around a Swiss campsite saying “Good morning” to everyone in Norwegian.’
No response I can think of will drag this conversation back into the realms of sanity, so I just shake my head and continue to watch the newsreader mouthing silently to me.
25
It all happened very quickly. A good week or so went by after the incident with Mr Duggan and the police before Daniel was called in to see the Mother Superior.
‘Sit down, Daniel,’ she says, gesturing with one of her tree-trunk arms. Her voice is calm, maternal. But there is still something in the air that tells Daniel this is not simply a friendly chat. ‘Pendleton House always does its best to try and make its boys happy and healthy, especially when they haven’t had the best start in life.’ The Mother Superior crosses her arms and leans forward on the desk. ‘Many of the boys who have grown up here over the years have flourished and become responsible, successful young men. But it would be remiss of me to assume that the same approach will work for every boy.’
Daniel isn’t entirely sure what all these words mean, but he’s learnt to pick up a lot through tone of voice and he can see where this is heading. He swallows and shifts his weight in the chair.