Lauren Oldbury,’ the mother says, her voice cracking a little. Her face is very pale, her lips look almost bloodless.
‘Mind if I keep this?’ Madeline asks, the photograph of the girls between her fingers. Both parents shake their heads mutely, their eyes fixed on the static face of their daughter.
‘Mr and Mrs Edwards,’ the DCI says, ‘I’m sorry to ask this, but we’re going to need you to formally identify Clare’s body.’ He glances at Madeline. ‘One of my officers will accompany you this afternoon.’
Rachel lets out a little moan. Her hair is lank, hanging limply onto her collar; she’s wearing the same clothes she was in last night. Ian nods, sets his lips together in a hard, straight line. Ex-army; Lorna’s looking into the files. There is something about him that doesn’t fit with this house; he is the third wheel, the cuckoo in the nest, the second husband, no matter what story the photos try to tell. Madeline wonders how Clare felt about the marriage. Whether she had much of a choice.
‘Thank you,’ Ian says, and the DCI nods.
‘We’ll send a car.’
Madeline clears her throat.
‘Mr and Mrs Edwards, as you know, we have reason to believe that your daughter’s death was suspicious, and in light of this I have to ask you: do you know anyone, local or otherwise, who might have reason to cause harm to her? Or failing that, to you?’
Rachel’s face is anguished; tears begin to slip down her cheeks, sliding into the tracks that are already there, white against her day-old foundation. Madeline watches her. The mother without a child. Bereft.
‘No,’ she whispers, ‘there’s no one. She’s sixteen, she’s my baby, she’s never done anything wrong, never—’ She breaks off, and Ian puts an arm round her, the gesture protective. The police watch them both, noting the dynamic between them.
‘What about you, Mr Edwards?’ Madeline asks. ‘Is there anything that comes to mind? Anything about her actions in the last few days, any behaviour that was out of the ordinary?’
The glance between them is fast, but the DCI’s eyes narrow a little and Madeline tilts her head to one side.
‘No,’ Ian says, ‘no, nothing. She was a good girl, detective. Like I said last night. Everyone liked her.’
They wait a moment, but Rachel continues to cry, and Theresa comes forward, places a box of tissues on the table.
‘Alright,’ the DCI says, ‘thank you both for your time.’ They get to their feet, and Madeline feels in her pocket, hands Rachel her card.
‘If you think of anything that might help,’ she says, ‘you call me, anytime. Day or night. This is my direct line.’ Rachel’s eyes flash up at her, glassy with tears, but she swallows hard and nods. They watch as Ian closes his hand over his wife’s, Madeline’s card disappearing from sight.
As the police crunch back down their drive, Rob looks at Madeline.
‘What d’you think?’
She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t know the Edwards well – she tends to keep herself to herself in Ashdon, as much as she can, anyway. Rachel’s not part of the mum chums – Jane Goodwin and the like – but Madeline has seen her a few times with Ian, having a Chardonnay in the Rose and Crown pub of a Sunday afternoon. She sells glossy new homes to moderately wealthy clients in Saffron Walden by day, and she was bereaved a few years ago – Mark, lung cancer. They have an old coroner’s report on him somewhere. She remarried relatively fast.
‘I don’t know,’ she says at last, ‘but I want a background check on them both, and their alibis checked for that afternoon. And I want to talk to Lauren Oldbury. Clare was sixteen – at that age, you tell your friends much more than you tell your parents.’
The DCI glances at his watch. ‘Quick sandwich before we talk to Nathan Warren?’
Madeline makes a face. ‘Only sandwich you’ll get round here is from Walker’s corner shop, and trust me, you’d really rather not.’
Nathan Warren sits in interview room three at Chelmsford Station, his hands splayed on the table, his big brown eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.
Madeline slides into the seat opposite him, hands him a cup of filter coffee and pours them all a glass of water. The DCI winces as Nathan’s hand grips the polystyrene cup too hard, splashing liquid onto the grey-coated table.
‘Sorry,’ he says immediately, stuttering slightly, and Madeline grabs a couple of paper towels from the corner of the room, dabs up the mess.
Nathan Warren has been standing on Ashdon High Street corner nearly every day for the past eighteen months. He’s been a part of the town for as long as anyone there can remember – he used to be the school caretaker, and before that he delivered the paper, the Essex Gazette, popping it through the inhabitants’ letterboxes (usually late, but no one ever complained). Most of the time now, no one knows what he does. Madeline has seen him wandering around on the green before, sometimes wearing a hi-vis jacket. There’s a traffic cone he moves around, left over from an old accident – the council turned a blind eye to it, figured it gave him something to do. Kept him out of trouble, and the police have never bothered to get involved. Until now, that is.
‘Thanks for coming in, Nathan,’ Madeline begins, smiling at him. The nastier women in this town say he’s ‘simple, not all there,’ but she is reserving judgement until they know the full story. People are capable of one hell of a performance when they want to be.
‘I know you already gave a statement to DS Campbell on Monday, Nathan, but we wanted to run through a few things with you, if that’s alright.’
He doesn’t speak, just stares at them both, one hand anxiously clenching and unclenching.
‘Where were you on the afternoon of Monday the 4th of February, Nathan?’ the DCI snaps, and Nathan visibly blanches.
‘I was at home,’ he mutters, ‘just at home.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
The police already know that they can’t – Nathan lives alone, in the house his mother left him when she died five years ago. As far as they know, he has no other family.
‘Nathan,’ Madeline says gently, casting a look at Rob, ‘it would help us if you could walk us through that afternoon – what you did, up to and after finding Clare Edwards in Sorrow’s Meadow.’
He scratches behind one ear, the movement fast, sharp.
‘I was home,’ he says again, ‘and then I went for a walk.’
‘And what time was this?’
He looks panicked, and Madeline shifts her wrist slightly, allowing the watch face to point in his direction, wondering if he struggles with the time. The pathologist thinks Clare died some time between 5 and 7 p.m.
‘About seven,’ he says then, nodding as though pleased that he’s remembered, ‘after the news finished. I always walk around up there, I like the flowers.’
‘There are
