Now Ellen Devonport sat in an armchair in front of me and I had the time to study her, as she studied me. The glossy curtain of dark brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. A thick, blunt fringe cut across her eyebrows. No sign of grey, but the start of fine lines around her eyes and mouth showed her to be in her early thirties, like me.
Her face seemed familiar, but that was the thing about living in this area: everyone knew everyone, even if only by sight.
In the armchair opposite her sat a younger man who seemed to take in every detail with his intense eyes, but he barely spoke a word. This, Jacob and I had been informed, was Detective Constable Alan Musgrove, whose shirt was slightly crumpled, as if he had grabbed the first one to come to hand that morning. It looked all the more noticeable because his colleague was so crisp.
Flo hovered in the background. Her chubby little face looked a bit intimidated by the detective sergeant. She hurried into the kitchen to make us all a brew, robbing me of my job. Jacob helped her carry the steaming mugs.
DS Devonport gave a smile, just a little too tight to be genuine. Smoothed the tweed material of her trousers before placing her folded hands there. Leaned forward at an angle that seemed to have been carefully calculated to look sympathetic. Her perfection in the face of the chaos since your attack seemed so at odds that it rankled with me. But no matter what my personal feelings were, she was our best bet for discovering what had happened to you.
‘I want you to be assured that we are treating this case seriously.’ She had one of those low, husky voices that men find sexy. It didn’t quite seem appropriate for this situation. ‘Beth suffered a serious assault, and we are doing our utmost to find the perpetrator. We’ve put together an appeal for information which we’ve released to the press, so be prepared if you do watch television.’
Great; it made me feel better knowing we were going to be getting maximum publicity. It meant that what had happened to you would be looked into properly. Hopefully someone would come forward with information, and the culprit would be caught quickly.
‘I would like to get a little more detail from you, though, and double-check a few things.’
Jacob and I held hands and agreed in unison.
‘What time did you last see Beth?’
Good grief. ‘Don’t you already have all this?’
‘We do, yes, but as I said, I’d like to go over it again, if I may.’
I bit my tongue. The police knew what they were doing, and arguing with them would slow things up. ‘I’m sorry. Whatever it takes to find out who did this to Beth, I’ll do it. Even if it means saying the same thing a million times over.’
A gentler, more genuine smile came from DS Devonport this time.
We went over everything again. It was exhausting, and seemed a nonsense, but what did I know about detective work?
‘After she left, you both stayed home?’
‘That’s correct,’ Jacob confirmed.
‘And what clothes was Beth wearing?’
‘Blue skinny jeans, a red Mini Mouse jumper, flat black ankle boots and her black winter coat,’ I replied dutifully.
‘Do you recognise these?’
The silent DC Musgrove passed me a series of photographs of clothing. A filthy white crop top with three-quarter-length sleeves. A black miniskirt. Thick black tights. I turned the photographs this way and that, as if changing the perspective would make clear the reason we were being shown these things. Passed them on to Jacob, who took them, a curious look on his face. We both shrugged. You had clothes like that, but so did lots of girls.
A final set of photographs was handed over. From varying angles they showed a pair of black suede ankle boots with a thick platform sole, high heel and silver metal down the back, like a seam. I gasped.
‘Let me check something.’ I pushed away from the sofa and walked upstairs, quick, full of purpose.
Into your bedroom. Refused to be distracted by the sight of a glass you had left on the side, a thin film of milk misting its insides, which made it look as though you were coming straight back from wherever you had nipped to. I marched right past it and flung open the wardrobe. Dug around in the bottom. There was the shoebox.
When I opened it, it was empty.
I ran downstairs.
‘Those are Beth’s. But she definitely wasn’t wearing them when she left the house.’
You’d begged for those ridiculously expensive and totally impractical boots. I hadn’t approved of the huge heel, which added a good six inches to your height. How you were supposed to walk in them was beyond me, and besides, I’d thought them too grown-up for you. But you’d been determined – and whether I liked it or not, my little girl was no longer so very little. As it was Christmas, I had given in. Despite my misgivings, the look on your face when you had opened that present had been worth every penny.
‘She hasn’t worn them yet. So where were they?’
‘Mr and Mrs Oak, the boots and the outfit photographed are what Beth was wearing when she was found. There is no trace of the clothing you described to us.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Jacob said. Exchanged a look with me, as if I could explain. We were as confused as each other.
‘We also spoke with Chloe Clarke and her mother. Both say that your daughter hadn’t planned to stay at their home that night.’
‘No, Beth told me. I walked her virtually up to the door,’ I whispered. You wouldn’t lie, so… ‘They’re lying. When I spoke to them, they didn’t say that.’
I ran the conversation over in my head. It was confused, garbled; panic seemed to have erased most of it. But when I’d phoned I’d been calm at first, just thinking you were running late.
‘Any sign of them stirring from their beds? What time will Beth be home?’ I’d asked, all breezy.
‘Beth? She’s not here. She didn’t come round last night,’ Ursula had said. She’d called up to Chloe, spoken with her to check, then I had insisted on speaking with her.
‘You didn’t see her last night?’
‘No, no she didn’t come round last night,’ Chloe had said.
At no point had either of them made it clear that they hadn’t expected you to be there with Chloe, Beth. I had assumed, in my panic, that they’d known you were coming. Assumed, not asked. That explained why they hadn’t called to alert me or Dad that you hadn’t arrived. Even when speaking with Ursula just now I hadn’t thought to check.
‘Beth lied to me,’ I croaked.
Admitting it hurt like hell. I couldn’t get my head round it. Your betrayal gripped me – then anger with myself for wanting to tell you off when you were fighting for your life. A sob escaped. I hid my face in my hands, trying to rub away the confusion of emotions.
‘Mrs Oak, did Beth have a boyfriend she might have been meeting?’
I shook my head, unable to tear my hands away. Too ashamed. Why had you lied to me? Surely you knew you could tell me anything. But these clothes, the smudged make-up… they hinted at a whole other life, hidden from me.