‘And you discuss what they say?’
‘Oh, he tells me everything. But none of it’s very helpful.’
‘Really?’
‘No. It’s all dead ends. There’s no motive. They said they’d talked to her friends, but—’
‘But none of us knew anything…’
‘No. So they just keep drawing blanks. The only thing they’re puzzled about is her earring.’
I close my eyes. This is hard. I can’t help but visualize my sister’s body. She was found wearing one earring. It looked as though the other had been torn off.
‘They asked me about that.’
‘You don’t remember anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Was it expensive?’
‘It was cheap. Costume jewellery. Cheap gold, I think. A funny kind of dreamcatcher design with turquoise feathers. I suppose in the dark it might’ve looked expensive, but why take only one? And, as far as they can tell, nothing else was missing. She still had her phone, her purse.’ I hesitate. ‘I think that’s why I find it so hard. It seems so senseless. Hugh keeps suggesting I have some therapy.’
‘And do you think you should?’
I pick up my glass. ‘I’m just not sure what good it would do. It’s typical of Hugh, though. He’s a wonderful man, but he’s a surgeon. If something’s broken he just wants to fix it and then move on. Sometimes I think he’s secretly angry that I’m not getting back to normal quickly enough. You know? He thinks I’m over-obsessing about knowing who killed her.’
‘And are you?’
‘Of course not. I know it won’t bring her back. It’s just… we used to be as close as two people can be, you know? We used to finish each other’s sentences. How could I have not known when she was in trouble?’
‘You’re not to blame—’ she begins, but I interrupt her.
‘You knew her, Anna. What was she even doing there, in that bar, alone?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure.’ She looks out, towards the river. The coaches on the bridge are silvered in the last of the evening sun, the buildings on the right bank glisten.
‘What? What is it? Anna?’
‘I think she might’ve been seeing someone…’
‘A boyfriend?’
‘Kind of…’
I feel a surge of energy. A Pavlovian response to the promise of progress.
‘What d’you mean? Who was she seeing? Did the police know?’
‘It’s not that simple.’ She looks uncomfortable. ‘She… she had boyfriends. Boyfriends, plural.’
I take a deep breath and put down my fork. ‘You mean more than one at the same time?’
She nods.
‘You think one of them found out about the others? Did you tell the police?’
‘I told them as much as I knew. I presume they looked into it, I think they still are looking into it. The thing is… it wasn’t as straightforward as that.’ She hesitates but doesn’t lower her voice, even though there are people at the surrounding tables. ‘They weren’t really boyfriends as such. Kate had fun. You know? She liked meeting guys and having a good time. We both did, occasionally.’
‘In bars?’
‘No. Online.’
‘Okay…’ I say. ‘So she dated people off the internet?’
‘Not just dating.’
‘She was meeting men for sex.’
She looks defensive. ‘It happens! But, anyway, I know she didn’t meet them all. She was more into it than me, but still a lot of it was just sex talk, you know? Fantasy.’
I try to picture Kate, alone in her room, in front of her laptop. For some reason I think of Connor sitting at his computer, his face illuminated by the screen, then of Hugh doing the same thing.
I dismiss the thought. Hugh isn’t that sort of person.
‘We both used to go online together. This is before I met my boyfriend, of course. We’d chat to people, compare notes, sometimes go on dates. You know?’
‘But the police said she left alone.’
‘Maybe she’d been stood up?’
‘Promise me the police know this? They didn’t say anything… She might have put herself in real danger.’
‘Oh, yes. I told them. They questioned me for hours. They asked about everything. Her friends. People she knew. Even you and Hugh.’ She looks at me then down at the table. Anger prickles. Have we been investigated? Do they think I’m capable of hurting my sister? ‘They took away her computer, her phone. I guess they didn’t find anything…’
‘Maybe they didn’t look hard enough?’
She smiles sadly. ‘Well, I suppose we have to trust that they know what they’re doing. Surely?’ She pauses. ‘I’m sorry. If I’ve upset you.’
I look out over the city. It’s dark now, the sky is lit, Notre Dame sits in front of us, owning its own ghostly history. I’m overwhelmed with sadness. All these questions that lead nowhere.
I begin to cry again. It’s as if it’s a new skill; now I’ve started, I can’t stop. ‘How can someone do this to my sister – to anyone – and get away with it?’
‘I know. I know.’ She hands me a tissue from her bag then puts her hand on mine. ‘You need closure.’
I shut my eyes. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But everything I try to do just opens it all up further. It’s like a cut that won’t heal.’
In my mind I see Kate as a toddler: we’re ready to go to a party, she’s wearing a dress in lemon that had once been mine and a band in her hair with a yellow bow. She’s just pulled herself up on a chair but has let go. She wobbles then looks at me. She’s hesitant, determined, and after a couple of false starts she lifts one foot, then the other. She takes a few steps, her arms out wide, then begins to fall. I remember I’d caught her, swooped her up – already she was giggling – and carried her through to where our mother stood, putting on her gloves. ‘She walked,’ I said. ‘Katie walked!’ And our mother hugged us both to her, all three of us laughing, delighted.
The weight of my grief presses down and I blink the image away. She puts down her wine. ‘Might it help to go there?’
‘Where?’
‘To the place it happened.’ I shake my head, but she goes on. ‘I went. The other week. I had to see it for myself.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘It’s just an alleyway. Nothing special. Next to a train line.’
I don’t speak. I can’t tell her how many times I’ve seen it, how many times I’ve imagined my sister there.
‘I left some flowers there. I think it helped.’
Still I say nothing. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to stare Kate’s death in the face. I’m not strong enough.
‘You just need more time…’
Time. The thing I have plenty of, the thing Kate ran out of.
‘Come with me?’
I close my eyes. Kate is there, I want to say. Her ghost. She’s trapped there, screaming. She can’t escape, and I can’t help her.
‘No. No. I can’t.’
Something snaps. I feel it give, then there’s a release. I reach for the carafe. The gesture is automatic, I’m barely aware I’ve moved. I’m thinking of Kate, of her sitting at her computer, chatting to strangers, telling them her secrets. I’m thinking of Anna. I’m thinking of Hugh, and of Connor, and of Frosty and Marcus, and before I know what I’m doing my glass is in my hand, and it’s full of wine, and I’m thinking, It can’t hurt now, surely? and, Haven’t I waited long enough?
The answers will come, if I’m not quick. I raise the glass to my lips, I push all thought away, and then, for the first time in fifteen years, I’m drinking, and drinking, and drinking.
Chapter Five
I sit on the train. I’m thirsty, my lips are dry, but my head is remarkably clear. I remember hangovers, and this isn’t one. I didn’t drink that much. I can’t have done, or I’d know it.