Read Online Never Look Back by Clare Donoghue - Free Book Online
Authors: Clare Donoghue
Tags: UK
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Walsh. It’s important to eliminate those connected with the victim as early as possible.’
Walsh looked as if he was going to be sick. ‘Well . . .’ he said, his eyes resuming their crazed journey around the consulting room. ‘I will need to speak to my lawyer . . . first.’
‘If you feel that is necessary, Mr Walsh, feel free to do so.’ He sat back on the couch, his jacket draped over his knees, listening to Jane as she finished off the details. He was looking at Walsh. Was the guy really as distraught as he looked?
9
24 January – Friday
Sarah sat on the long wall that ran from the pavement up to the doors of Lewisham Police Station. She had talked to herself in the car on the drive over, practising what she would say, but now, sitting here, she was frightened. She lifted her head, her hair hiding most of her face, and watched people walking in and out of the station as the damp from the freezing concrete seeped into her bones. She studied their faces through a veil of hair.
She stood up, wrapped her arms around herself and walked up to the double doors. She could see an officer behind the reception desk, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. Should she tell them about her conversations with Officer Rayner at Peckham Police Station? She didn’t want to. The main reason she had come to Lewisham was so she wouldn’t have to deal with Rayner ever again. If they thought he was her point of contact would they send her away, refuse to help? She shook her head. ‘Just walk in, all you have to do is walk in,’ she said under her breath, each step sending icy air through her jeans. She wanted to go home but when the doors hissed apart she felt compelled to keep moving.
The foyer was vast but still held the smell of industrial cleaner and something else: vomit. She imagined the kind of people who staggered or were dragged in here. Everything was blue glass and chrome. She approached the desk, her throat drying and her mind emptying with each step forward. The officer looked up and smiled at her.
‘Good morning. How can I help you?’ His voice was soft.
‘Yes, I need to speak to someone, I’ve spoken to an officer before but he was . . . he said to . . . I mean, it’s probably nothing but I wanted to come and talk to someone else.’ She stared at her hands. She wanted to disappear.
‘I will just need some details from you, madam.’
She stuttered and stumbled over her words, holding up her diary as some kind of talisman: proof that she wasn’t crazy. The officer nodded after each faltering sentence and tapped away on his computer. God knows what he had put: ‘Female, 35, deranged.’ That would be about right. He gave her a clipboard and a form to fill in and ushered her away.
A blue plastic bench ran the length of the foyer opposite the reception desk. She sat down and filled in her name and address. Her handwriting looked childlike. Other people were scattered along the bench with their own clipboards. All of them were either staring at the floor or into the middle distance. At least she didn’t seem to be the only one struggling. She couldn’t get past her own name. Her pen hovered over the box marked ‘Detail of Complaint’. She was afraid that if she started writing, nothing would be there. The more she wrote, the emptier the page would become.
‘Miss Grainger?’ Sarah looked up as a short female officer with a badly cut, Dawn-French-style fringe walked towards her.
‘Yes,’ she said, unsure whether she should stand or stay where she was.
‘My name is Jane Bennett, Detective Sergeant.’ She shook the officer’s hand, surprised by how tiny and fragile the woman’s fingers felt. ‘If you would like to come with me, we can talk about what’s been happening with you?’
What an odd thing to say. Happening with you. Not happening to you, but with you.
Sarah pulled the zipper on her jacket up and then pushed it back down again. The repetitive action was
Walsh looked as if he was going to be sick. ‘Well . . .’ he said, his eyes resuming their crazed journey around the consulting room. ‘I will need to speak to my lawyer . . . first.’
‘If you feel that is necessary, Mr Walsh, feel free to do so.’ He sat back on the couch, his jacket draped over his knees, listening to Jane as she finished off the details. He was looking at Walsh. Was the guy really as distraught as he looked?
9
24 January – Friday
Sarah sat on the long wall that ran from the pavement up to the doors of Lewisham Police Station. She had talked to herself in the car on the drive over, practising what she would say, but now, sitting here, she was frightened. She lifted her head, her hair hiding most of her face, and watched people walking in and out of the station as the damp from the freezing concrete seeped into her bones. She studied their faces through a veil of hair.
She stood up, wrapped her arms around herself and walked up to the double doors. She could see an officer behind the reception desk, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. Should she tell them about her conversations with Officer Rayner at Peckham Police Station? She didn’t want to. The main reason she had come to Lewisham was so she wouldn’t have to deal with Rayner ever again. If they thought he was her point of contact would they send her away, refuse to help? She shook her head. ‘Just walk in, all you have to do is walk in,’ she said under her breath, each step sending icy air through her jeans. She wanted to go home but when the doors hissed apart she felt compelled to keep moving.
The foyer was vast but still held the smell of industrial cleaner and something else: vomit. She imagined the kind of people who staggered or were dragged in here. Everything was blue glass and chrome. She approached the desk, her throat drying and her mind emptying with each step forward. The officer looked up and smiled at her.
‘Good morning. How can I help you?’ His voice was soft.
‘Yes, I need to speak to someone, I’ve spoken to an officer before but he was . . . he said to . . . I mean, it’s probably nothing but I wanted to come and talk to someone else.’ She stared at her hands. She wanted to disappear.
‘I will just need some details from you, madam.’
She stuttered and stumbled over her words, holding up her diary as some kind of talisman: proof that she wasn’t crazy. The officer nodded after each faltering sentence and tapped away on his computer. God knows what he had put: ‘Female, 35, deranged.’ That would be about right. He gave her a clipboard and a form to fill in and ushered her away.
A blue plastic bench ran the length of the foyer opposite the reception desk. She sat down and filled in her name and address. Her handwriting looked childlike. Other people were scattered along the bench with their own clipboards. All of them were either staring at the floor or into the middle distance. At least she didn’t seem to be the only one struggling. She couldn’t get past her own name. Her pen hovered over the box marked ‘Detail of Complaint’. She was afraid that if she started writing, nothing would be there. The more she wrote, the emptier the page would become.
‘Miss Grainger?’ Sarah looked up as a short female officer with a badly cut, Dawn-French-style fringe walked towards her.
‘Yes,’ she said, unsure whether she should stand or stay where she was.
‘My name is Jane Bennett, Detective Sergeant.’ She shook the officer’s hand, surprised by how tiny and fragile the woman’s fingers felt. ‘If you would like to come with me, we can talk about what’s been happening with you?’
What an odd thing to say. Happening with you. Not happening to you, but with you.
Sarah pulled the zipper on her jacket up and then pushed it back down again. The repetitive action was
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