The DCI is in front of her, his eyebrows raised. He’s impatient; the story has been picked up by the tabloids, and the calls are beginning to come in thick and fast. Some journalist has dug out an old picture of Clare from her Facebook page: her posing on a beach in Barbados. The inset is Rachel and Ian, him in an England football shirt, grinning at the camera. The grieving parents? the caption says. And so it begins, he thinks.

‘Have you got the pathology report in yet?’

‘Yep. Fast-tracked it,’ Madeline says, handing him the email that has just finished printing, ‘just in from Christina.’

He scans it, his eyes moving so fast that he could be skim-reading.

‘Cause of death identified as internal bleeding on the brain following a wound to the back of the head,’ Madeline says, ‘just what we thought at the time. Bruising to the shoulders, which makes sense if someone grabbed her. No signs of sexual assault. They’ve tested.’ It was the first thing they’d looked at; without it, one obvious motivation is gone.

The DCI sighs. ‘Well, at least that’s something. Though we’d have stood more of a chance of getting the perpetrator’s DNA if he’d fiddled with her. No obvious motivation, if you rule out rape.’ He runs a hand through his hair, wincing as the phone begins to ring again. This always happens when there is a crime of this nature – people coming forward with false leads, psychics, nutters wanting their five minutes of fame. The media make things worse; he wishes they didn’t need them so much.

‘We’re testing her clothing for DNA; should be in in a few days. The only thing I’m sure of at the moment is that this wasn’t an accident.’ Madeline stands up, looks over Rob’s shoulder and points to the pictures of the body, scanned in by Christina, the pathologist. ‘Look at this. Someone had a hold of her – my bet is they slammed her head against the floor, or hit her from behind and then flipped her round onto her front. It wasn’t done by an expert.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘not exactly methodical.’ The pair of them stare at the photos. There’s another bruise too, further down Clare’s arm, blossoming purple, edged with green.

‘Where does the name come from?’ Rob says suddenly, ‘Sorrow’s Meadow. Unusual.’

Madeline shakes her head. ‘No one knows really. Ruby Walker the newsagent always insists it’s to do with the river. The sorrow collects in one place and then the water flows it away, some rubbish like that.’

Rob grunts, stares back down at Clare’s bruises. ‘Right. And where are we with the door to doors? The neighbours?’

‘I’m about to get going now with Lorna.’

‘Make sure you speak to everyone,’ he tells her, ‘anyone who saw anything that night at all. Unusual cars, out-of-towners, anyone else out “walking”.’ He snorts derisively as he says this, still annoyed that he can’t get more out of Nathan Warren. ‘And Madeline,’ he says, ‘find out what people think of the parents.’

‘Their alibis checked out to a point, sir,’ she tells him. ‘We’ve CCTV of Ian leaving Liverpool Street Station on the early train, and arriving into Audley End a little later, but we don’t have anything placing him back home. In Rachel’s case, the estate agency confirmed her viewing in Little Chesterford, but again, no way of telling exactly what she did afterwards.’

‘So there’s a pocket of time?’ the DCI asks, frowning at her.

‘Well, technically,’ Madeline says, nodding. ‘The time during which they say they were waiting for Clare to come home, leading into the time when Ian was supposedly out looking for her.’ She shrugs. ‘We’ve no reason to suspect that that’s not true, though, have we?’

Rob is still staring at the photographs of Clare, his face unreadable. ‘Get a sense from the neighbours anyway,’ he says. ‘Find out what they – Rachel and Ian – are really like. Little town like this, people might talk.’

DS Lorna Campbell keeps up a steady stream of chatter as she and Madeline drive towards Ashdon, telling Madeline about how she’s just moved in with her boyfriend, how he worries about her working in the police.

‘He thinks I’ll get shot or something,’ she tells her, laughing nervously. She can only be in her late twenties, must be at least ten years younger than her superior. She’s got a slight overbite and the movement is awkward, unattractive.

‘You won’t get shot in Ashdon,’ Madeline says to Lorna, trying to reassure her, but then again none of them ever thought they’d find a dead body in Ashdon either, did they? They cannot be sure of anything at this stage. The DCI’s words ring in her head as they drive. So there’s a pocket of time, she thinks.

Chapter Ten

Jane

Wednesday 6th February

We’re having dinner all together tonight – I’ve just set the table when Jack walks in, shrugging off his jacket, earlier than expected. Our eyes lock for a second and I know he’s heard the news about the door to door enquiries, probably ten different versions from every patient he’s seen today. The doctor’s surgery is a great place for gossip; there’s nothing people love more than offloading their woes in a quiet little room. I’ve been a tiny bit tense all evening, waiting to see if they knock on our door. I’ve got long sleeves on, just in case, although I know that’s not what Madeline Shaw will be looking for. Domestics don’t seem to concern the constabulary these days. If they ever really did.

Finn wraps his arms around Jack’s leg, hangs there like a small monkey, his feet suspended just above our shiny dining-room floor. His socks don’t match: tiny elephants wave at red and blue stripes. Harry emerges as I’m plating up, blinking as though he’s just made his way from a dark cave, which judging by the state of his bedroom last time I popped my head in, he probably has.

‘How was your day, darling?’ I ask Jack, keeping my voice light with an edge of warning: yes, I’ve heard too, don’t bring anything up right now. We’re trying not to talk about Clare Edwards in front of Sophie and Finn. They know now, of course – the school told them all this morning, the kiddie version, one classroom at a time, but they don’t really understand. We all got a text message about it; the new way of communicating with parents, or so it seems. Your child’s well-being is of the utmost importance to us, it said. Well that’s good to know, I thought.

Sophie is mainly sad about the buttercup field, as she calls Sorrow’s Meadow – we used to go there a lot on Saturdays, especially when she was younger. She liked to test us all, hold the flowers underneath our chins, reveal our culinary appetites. I’ve got a photograph of her with a buttercup crown twisted into her hair, smiling up at the camera – it used to be on the mantelpiece but I took it down before I went to bed last night. She looked too vulnerable, it made my head spin. Clare was someone’s daughter too. Well, she was Rachel’s. Beautiful Rachel Edwards. Perfect Rachel who thinks too highly of herself to ever attend our book clubs or wine evenings. The thought pops into my head before I can stop it, and I chastise myself. That happens sometimes.

‘It was fine,’ Jack says, going to the fridge. His eyes flick to the window, but the Edwards’ curtains are closed tonight, the wine bottles hidden from view. I watch as he takes a brown bottle of beer from the side door, flicks off the top. It skitters across the work surface and I close my fingers around it before he can.

‘Can I have—’ Harry says, and I shake my head before he can finish the sentence.

‘Not tonight, Harry,’ I say, ‘it’s a school night.’ We – or rather Jack – lets him have a beer sometimes, on special occasions only. I’m keen to keep it that way.

‘How many people did you make better today, Daddy?’ Finn asks, back in his seat at the table, head tilted back, trying to balance his dessert spoon on his nose. He fails; it clatters onto the table, clanging against his plate. Harry rolls his eyes.

Jack laughs, but it’s mechanical, practised; it’s not the warm chuckle he had when we met. It makes my stomach churn. ‘Ooh, about five today. Careful with that spoon, buddy. You don’t want to end up with bogeys in your pudding, do you?’ He sniffs the air. ‘Smells like Mummy’s made apple pie.’

Of course I’ve made apple pie: it’s Wednesday. God forbid I went off-piste.

Jack smiles at me. I smile back.

Sophie slides into the room, her socked feet skidding on the wooden floor. White with frills, matching. At least something’s gone right. Her hands grab my waist and I lay my palm on her curly head.

‘Careful, missy. We don’t want any accidents. Have you washed your hands for dinner?’

Jack is religious about hygiene – we wash hands before and after eating, anti-bacterial gels dot the house. I flout the rules occasionally, but he’s right about the children.

Sophie runs her hands under the tap as I finish serving up our meal – shepherd’s pie with a side of green beans. Finn makes a face. Jack swigs his beer. The bottle’s half empty already; I catch Harry eyeing it longingly.

‘Beans are good for you,’ Jack says, pre-empting Finn’s complaint, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I am too tired to take this one on today. I need to save my energy for later, for when the children have gone to bed.

I want to ask Harry what they’ve said at the secondary school, how they’re dealing with Clare’s death, how he is dealing with it, but he’s eating his dinner in near silence, one eye on his phone which sits on the table alongside us all.

‘Shall I set a place for your iPhone next time?’ I ask him when it vibrates yet again, the words coming out more snappily than I meant them. Jack frowns but Harry barely reacts, and somehow, it’s worse than a retort. Since when have I become invisible?

‘Harry,’ Jack says, and finally our son looks up. ‘Do as your mother says – no phones at the table please, mate.’

He slips it into the pocket of his trousers, but not before I see another eye roll. I feel a little bubble of frustration, then remember that Rachel Edwards will never see her daughter roll her eyes at her again. The thought silences me, and for a moment I lose myself, thinking of next door.

The food tastes funny in my mouth; no matter how hard I try, I’m not a good cook. Forks scrape rhythmically across the plates, white china from our wedding. I don’t believe in saving things for special occasions, everything gets lumped in together in this house. Besides, I’m not sure our wedding is really something to celebrate any more. It doesn’t feel much like it to me.

‘Jane?’ Jack is looking at me strangely, his eyes narrowed. ‘Did you hear what Sophie said?’

‘Hmm?’

Looking across at my daughter, I see her blue eyes are milky with tears. My heart drops.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’

Sophie whispers something, so soft that I can’t hear it. Her head is bowed now, the ends of her curls dangerously close to the whipped peaks of mashed potato. I frown.

‘Sophie?’

‘A boy at school said there’s a monster in the buttercup field,’ she says, louder this time. Her little voice breaks, turns into a sob. ‘He said he’s been let out and he’s coming back to get me.’

It’s at that moment that the doorbell rings.

Jack and I go together, a united front, leaving Harry to put the television on for Sophie and Finn. I gesture to him to go into the back lounge, away from the front door. My heart’s racing; I didn’t even hear the car pull up.

DS Madeline Shaw has dark blonde hair that looks like it might grey soon, and lines on her face that suggest she doesn’t bother with the rituals I subject my own skin to every night. Cleanse, tone, moisturise. Repeat ad infinitum, Mrs Goodwin. There’s a younger woman with her, someone I’ve never seen before.

‘Mr and Mrs Goodwin,’ Madeline says, ‘sorry to disturb your evening. This is DS Lorna Campbell from Chelmsford Police.’ She gestures to her colleague and I extend my hand, careful to keep my arms covered. The latest bruises aren’t a pretty sight. I can see Jack watching me, and I want to scream at him that the police have got bigger things to worry about than a less-than-perfect couple. They’ve got a dead girl, and that trumps us, doesn’t it?

‘I expect you’ve heard the news, Jane,’ Madeline says, and I nod, bite my lip.

‘Can I offer you some tea, officers? Would you like to come in?’ I ask, but Madeline shakes her head, her ponytail flicking from side to side.

‘We just need to check a couple of things with you both, please,’ the other woman says, and Jack turns to her, all smiles, his handsome face shining in the half light spilling from our house. If I look right I can see the pile of flowers and teddies outside the Edwards’ – it’s doubled in size. Rachel and Ian have left it all in the cold. I wonder if it’ll rain. There are more cars on the road now, their headlights highlighting the pavement; I can’t see whether there are figures inside. Suddenly, I’m overcome by the desire to shut the front door, drag the curtains across the windows, hide us all away from the glare of the events unfolding next door.

‘Of course,’ Jack says to the policewoman, ‘anything you need. Jane and I were so devastated to hear the news. I think the whole town is still in shock. We’ve been looking out for Rachel and Ian, of course, but – well, we didn’t want to pry.’

If they’ve clocked how good-looking my husband is, neither of them show it yet.

‘Did either of you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary on the night of Monday the 4th?’ Madeline asks, her face serious. I wonder whether this is her first really big case here, whether she’s out to prove herself. God knows she doesn’t seem to have much of a personal life, from what I can gather. No kids. No partner. Maybe this is her chance to shine.

I shake my head, thinking back to that night, pushing away the more painful parts, Jack’s words. The way he looked at me, the disgust. He didn’t really mean it.

‘I didn’t, I’m afraid. My friend Sandra did the school run, took the kids to hers for an hour or two while I made dinner. Jack got home from the surgery just after five. I went to get Sophie and Finn. Then we were here all night.’ Arguing.

‘I’m a doctor,’ Jack interjects, mainly for Lorna’s benefit I think, but to her credit, her face doesn’t change at all. Most women go weak at the knees for a handsome doctor. I should know – I was one of them.

‘And your eldest son, Mrs Goodwin?’ Madeline asks, her face turned towards me. ‘Was he in all night with you both too?’

She’s smiling at me, her face open, calm. She may as well have You can trust me tattooed on her forehead.

‘Yes,’ I say quickly, ‘Harry was upstairs. He went out with some friends from the football team after school, but he was back early on.’ The image comes to my mind: a flash of blonde hair, my son’s eyes watching her from the window. I’m talking too fast.

The policewoman nods, makes a note in her pad. I don’t look at Jack.

‘And did you see Clare that day, Mr and Mrs Goodwin? Monday morning, around 8 a.m.? Her parents say she left for school after breakfast.’

‘I think I saw her leave at the usual time,’ I say slowly, ‘but she was in a hurry, going to school I suppose, like you say. I was busy with the children’s breakfast. You know how it is.’ Madeline nods at me and I look away; she obviously doesn’t. I see again the swing of Clare’s black rucksack as she walked down the front path, not knowing it would be the last time she ever would.

The younger woman is nodding along. I wonder how she sees me. A boring mother? A rich wife? Do I have the life she wants to emulate?

‘No unusual cars round here? No one hanging around the school that morning? You’re usually there, aren’t you Jane?’ Madeline asks, smiling at me. I try to think, although I know Sophie and Finn will be wanting a bedtime story round about now; I can almost feel their pull dragging me back inside the house. Jack’s presence beside me hums.

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ I say. ‘My eldest son took the little ones to school that day, as a favour to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for her poor parents.’

‘Do you know them well?’ Madeline asks, focusing her gaze on me. ‘Ian and Rachel, I mean. Would you say you were friends?’

I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t say we were close,’ I say, ‘I mean—’ I pause, glance next door. ‘I would have liked to be,’ I say at last, ‘but it never really happened.’

Beside me, Jack nods. ‘My wife’s pretty involved with the town,’ he says, with a little laugh. ‘PTA, book club, you name it. But some people don’t join in in quite the same way, I suppose.’ He looks down at me and I smile at him as he puts an arm around my waist.

The younger detective, Lorna, makes a note on her pad.

‘And did either of you see Mr or Mrs Edwards that afternoon?’

I frown, Jack’s arm still tight around me.

‘I didn’t notice,’ I admit. ‘I wouldn’t normally pay attention – like I said, we weren’t close or anything. Their cars came and went all the time, and their garage is around the other side – well, you’ll have seen.’

Lorna nods. ‘Thank you, Jane. And don’t worry. We knew it was a long shot, coming down this end of the town, but we wanted to make sure we covered all bases, spoke to all the neighbours. We’re hoping someone a bit closer to Sorrow’s Meadow saw something.’

‘Don’t you live up near there?’ Jack asks Madeline, and she nods, the ponytail bobbing again. Her face is pale, tired-looking. I wonder who looks after her, if anyone does. I want to ask her if they’ve got any leads, but I don’t want to sound hysterical. I don’t want Jack to laugh at me when we get behind closed doors.

‘Yep. First major crime I’ve ever had on my doorstep. And yours, too.’ She smiles grimly.

‘We had word just now from your receptionist, Dr Goodwin,’ Lorna says, clearing her throat before looking down at a notepad in her hand. ‘Danielle Andrews. Saying she thinks she might’ve seen Nathan Warren that night, on her way home from work. He was the one who reported the body.’ She pauses. ‘Did you leave at a similar time? The meadow’s not far from the surgery, is it?’

There’s a split second; perhaps only I can feel it. ‘No,’ Jack says then, ‘I was a bit earlier, I’m afraid. Danni tends to stay late, we’ve a bit of a backlog at the moment with the records.’ He shakes his head, looks down. ‘She’s a star for doing so. But I didn’t see anyone on my way home.’

Madeline nods. ‘OK. Worth a shot. Thanks for your time, both of you,’ she says, and Jack reaches out, shakes both their hands again.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘We hope you bring whoever did this to justice.’

The words are formal, they stick in my mind. Justice. Justice for Clare. What does that word mean? I don’t think Jack even knows.

‘If you think of anything relevant,’ Madeline says, reaching into her jacket pocket, ‘will you give me a call?’

I take the card from her. ‘Of course.’

Back inside the house, we don’t speak, except to the children. Sophie is still at the table, little tears rolling down her cheeks, and I feel awful for leaving her like that. Finn has scampered off to the living room with Harry and I hear Jack coaxing him away from the television, the sounds of CBBC echoing through the wall.

After I’ve calmed Sophie down and taken her upstairs, I sit by her bedside for a bit. The light has fallen outside and the familiar room is shrouded in darkness, save the little white rabbit nightlight plugged into the wall. She won’t sleep without it on, these days. I look out onto the quiet road, thinking of Madeline Shaw’s questions. Thinking about Clare and her family.

Carefully, I stand and draw the curtains across, the coloured balloon pattern Sophie chose herself covering up the dark sky. Sitting back down on the soft chair beside the bed, I stroke her hair, wind a curl around my finger, careful not to tug. Finn is sleeping now in the next room; we moved them into separate bedrooms when he started school. I miss the days when they shared, when I could listen to them both breathing at once, make sure they were both safe. There are no guarantees. I know that now.

I don’t know what Sophie’s heard at school, what’s really being said about Clare’s death. They’ve released hardly any details, save for the fact that Clare was found dead in the wooded area of Sorrow’s Meadow by Nathan Warren on Monday night, and that anyone who saw anything is asked to please come forward. I think back to that evening, sitting on the sofa with Jack, the whiskey bottle on the floor beside us. I wonder if anyone did see anything, if the police will act quickly. I hope so, for all our sakes. I can’t stop picturing that smile of hers in the paper; so confident that she’d live for ever. So horribly, heartbreakingly wrong.

Sophie stirs slightly in her sleep; I watch her little chest rise and fall in her bright pink pyjamas. As I watch her, I feel a shadow fall behind me and turn to find Harry framed in the doorway of the bedroom, tall against the yellow of the hallway light. Startled, I get to my feet, pressing one finger to my lips.

We step out into the corridor and I pull Sophie’s bedroom door gently shut behind me.

‘Are you alright?’ I say to my son, placing one hand on his arm. He’s still wearing his school shirt, there’s an ink stain on the hem.

‘Mum,’ he says, and his voice is different to the teenage grunts we’ve become accustomed to; it’s softer somehow, more childlike, more like the Harry of old, before hormones hit.

I stare at him. ‘What is it?’

He’s holding something in his hand, a piece of paper, crumpled slightly as if it’s been in his jacket pocket.

I hold out my palm, and he hesitates.

‘I found it,’ he says, ‘yesterday morning. I was looking for Dad’s headphones, mine broke, and it was on his desk in the study.’

My heart is beating a little too fast as I stare at the piece of paper. I can tell Harry is worried, is trying not to be; his face at seventeen is the same as it was at seven: the tell-tale pull of his lips to the left, the wrinkling of the nose to dissipate anxiety.

Unfolding the paper, I recognise it immediately – it’s Jack’s schedule for the surgery. His secretary Danielle sends them every night, and he prints them in his study. I used to laugh at him for it, tell him he was old-fashioned, a dinosaur, that most people would just look at their phone. What can I say, he always said, I’m a paper kind of guy. All those years in medical school poring over books. It makes me feel more organised.

The chart is as it always is, a list of names and times, ten-minute slots, half an hour for lunch. No rest for the NHS, Jack always says. I run my eyes down the list. Dongal, R. Andrews, C. Wilcox, S. And then I see it. Edwards, C. 4.30 p.m. My heart clenches as I see her name.

‘Look at the date,’ Harry says, and then he reaches out, touches the paper, the right-hand corner denoting the figures. February 4th 2018.

‘It’s not long before she was found,’ Harry says, ‘is it, Mum? Why hasn’t he told us?’

I stare at my son, the paper hot in my hands. The blood is thrumming a little in my ears, and I take a small step towards my son, praying that my husband doesn’t walk in at any point. I can see how much he wants my reassurance.

‘Oh, darling,’ I say, smiling at him, trying to think fast, ‘how unfortunate – I’m sorry you found this.’ I pause, my mind racing as I think what to say. ‘You know he can’t tell us his appointments, though, don’t you? He never does. Patient confidentiality is important.’

‘But,’ Harry says, and I can see his mind working, my clever son, ‘wouldn’t that have made him one of the last people to see her? Alive, I mean?’

Our voices are low, but I can hear the sound of Jack downstairs, the tread of his footsteps, the opening and closing of the kitchen cupboards.

‘Harry,’ I say, ‘please, this is nothing to worry about. The police already know.’ I glance at my watch. ‘It’s late already, you should go to bed. We can talk more in the morning, if you like.’

He looks unhappy, his teenage features twisting uncomfortably, caught between the lure of the Xbox in his room which he must know I won’t tell him off for tonight, and the unease of what he’s found, the piece of paper not quite linking his dad to a dead girl just hours before her death.

I smile at him again, touch my hand to his hair. It feels greasy, unwashed. I make a mental note to buy him more shampoo, not that he will notice.

‘Goodnight, Harry,’ I say, and then I lean forward and kiss his cheek, my cool lips grazing the teenage stubble on his jaw. ‘Forget about this – I promise it’s nothing to worry about.’

He retreats, and I see some of the tension slip from his face as the burden is passed from him to me, the slip of paper nestling between my fingers now. His bedroom door closes and I hear the electronic noise that denotes the start of another video game; for once, I will let it go. Out on the landing, I take deep breaths, my back pressed against the white wall. Edwards, C. I open the page once more, just to check, but the words are there in black and white, the NHS logo emblazoned across the top. I think of Madeline Shaw on my doorstep, the pile of disintegrating flowers on the garden next door. Why didn’t my husband mention it to the police? A bite of panic pushes its way up my throat but I force myself to count to ten, inhaling through my mouth, breathing out through my nose. It must have slipped his mind, I tell myself.

Carefully, I fold the piece of paper in half, slip it into my back pocket.

Downstairs, I hear the sound of the fridge door shutting, the hiss and flick of another beer. I stand in the half light of the corridor for another few seconds, listening to the sounds of our house around me, the life I’ve worked so hard to create, then I turn to go downstairs to my husband. My heartbeat quickens with every step. My rib, though outwardly healed now, still twinges with pain. I think of the way Clare looked at our house that last morning, of the way Jack paused before answering the police. Before my mind can go there, I push the thoughts away, to the back of my brain, where I store the things I’d rather not think about. I know my husband. I know what he’s capable of.

Don’t I?

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