But I don’t know what I’ll do if this body is Edie. Only hope has allowed me to survive this long.
I don’t have to know the truth. I could get out at the next set of lights and walk away, start a new life and never come back, as I imagine Edie did. At this moment she could be harvesting grapes in the Loire or surfing in California. It can’t be her lying on a table, her bones being picked over, photographed and catalogued.
Detective Inspector Vilas sits in the front passenger seat, his hands smoothing the light creases in his grey trouser suit, with his hair swept back from the temples, his appearance speaks more of business executive than serving police officer. He’s polite but distant. The driver, Detective Sergeant Craven, is a little friendlier.
‘I’ve daughters of my own. I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you,’ he said when he picked us up.
We turn off the main road, then down a small lane running between two neat rows of semis, the inhabitants probably unaware of the horrors adjoining their pristine lawns.
Craven pulls up next to a police car and two other unmarked vehicles parked in front of a low concrete building with ramps either side of its main entrance.
DI Vilas leads us inside and talks to the receptionist, who passes him two lanyards, one each for Dad and me. We’re then buzzed through a set of double doors and led down a long, narrow corridor to a windowless room with a desk and chairs and a large mirror on one wall.
‘I’ll just be a moment,’ Vilas says and leaves us.
He returns, carrying a sealed black bag, and takes the chair on the opposite side of the table.
‘Are we going to see…’ I don’t know what to say, Edie, the corpse? I settle for ‘her’.
Vilas looks confused.
‘No. I thought you knew. The body’s been in the water for twenty years. We found a skeleton, no soft tissue.’
Is his coldness an attempt to stop a torrent of emotion from us?
‘Then I don’t understand what we’re doing here,’ I say.
‘Certain items were found, which the lab are hoping you’ll be able to identify.’
Lab. Images of cold examination tables with metal tools designed to scrape, break and probe. This girl is no one to them, whoever she is. With no soft tissue, no face, no eyes, she’s just a bundle of bones and ‘items’. They could be items in a shopping trolley. Under the table, Dad takes hold of my hand.
Vilas removes a clear plastic bag from the larger black one and places it in front of us. Dad looks away. I lean over. Inside is a short-sleeved polyester dress, dirty and degraded. I can see that it used to be bottle green with a thin white stripe and a white Peter Pan collar, now badly stained with brown blotches.
‘I’ve been informed this was the standard summer dress at Joseph Amberley Girls School from 1994 to 2001,’ he says.
‘I had the same dress,’ I say.
Dad’s grip on my hand tightens.
‘Can you see anything that indicates this belonged specifically to Edie?’
Dad still won’t look.
‘I can’t see the size,’ I say.
‘It’s a medium,’ Vilas says.
‘Lots of girls would have been a medium. Lots of girls would have worn that uniform.’
Vilas’s face softens. Perhaps he’s human, after all.
‘This uniform was found wrapped round the remains of the girl found in the reservoir. Her height and age match Edie’s and forensics estimate they’ve been down there for around two decades.’
I push the bag away. Vilas waits a moment before placing another, smaller bag on the table.
‘Could you look at something else for me?’ he asks.
The contents are too small to see clearly. I lean down so that my nose nearly touches the plastic. A silver chain lies flat against the table surface. Attached to it is a pendant, its once silver wings eroded but still identifiable. I raise my left wrist. A tiny matching pendant swings round on the chain of my bracelet.
‘It was a set?’ Vilas says. ‘So this belonged to Edie.’
The room goes very cold and I start to shake. Vilas leans over to examine my bracelet.
‘It’s some sort of bird. What is it, a dove?’
‘A swift,’ I say. ‘It’s a swift.’
Dad makes a strange gasping sound. Mum’s maiden name was Swift. Grandpa Len bought the necklace for her, with a matching bracelet, for her eighteenth birthday. After she died, Edie wore the necklace and I took the bracelet.
‘Is there any chance…’ I trail off.
Vilas takes a deep breath.
‘We’re running dental records and checking DNA, but even before you identified the necklace and dress, we believed this to be Edie.’
I won’t accept what he’s saying. There must be another explanation. I look to Dad. He’s turned away from me, so that I can’t see his face.
He says softly, ‘I knew it was her this time.’ His back rises and falls in silent sobs. I can’t stop shaking.
‘I’m sorry, this must be a terrible shock,’ Vilas says.
The empathy doesn’t reach his eyes. He stands up, places the dress back into the black bag and reaches for the necklace. I put my hand on it.
‘No,’ I say.
Vilas glances at Craven, who leans forwards.
‘Tess,’ Craven says. ‘This is evidence. It will help us find out what happened to Edie. DI Vilas will need to take it with him.’
I let go and fall back on the chair. Vilas picks up the bags. I watch the bulge of Edie’s dress press against the plastic.
‘Was it…’ I hardly dare speak the words. ‘Was it an accident?’
Craven sits back down.
‘All the evidence points away from an accident,’ he says.
I think of the stain on the dress collar, it wasn’t brown originally, it was red, bright red.
‘Edie was wrapped in plastic sheeting and weighted down. There’s little room for ambiguity,’ Vilas says. ‘DS Craven will be assigned as your family liaison officer. Edie’s case is being changed from a missing person to a murder inquiry.’
