my bag. I could hear them.
I just couldn’t get my fingers round them.
I slumped onto a sliver of stone step in front of the college doors; November cold chilled my bum. I dumped out my bag—lipsticks,phone, wallet—into the hammock my skirt made across my lap. I don’t usually wear a skirt, but it was an evening out. I’d made an effort.
A capless pen, four pound coins, a cluster of safety pins. Then the flimsier stuff: a folded photocopy of lecture notes, a hair slide, an emery board. Business cards from two men in the pub who’d bought us drinks. They’d given them round before we split up at the end, like passing out sweets. I don’t think they minded which of us might call which of them, but it’s not like any of us were going to. I scraped around the crumbs and scraps at the bottom; nothing. But I could still hear the metallic rattle of the keys.
At last my finger caught a rent in the cloth lining. The keys must have worked their way through there and got stuck between the cotton and the leather. I had to tear the hole worse to get them out, fingering it till it widened and pulling the sharp cluster through. Victory! I leaned back against the door, just for a minute. Don’t sleep . I hadn’t drunk that much. One pint and some wine. I just hadn’t been getting enough rest.
The CCTV camera hummed, swivelling to change its view. That’s the same camera as outside my room window. It’s been set to never look in; it aims at the Corpus College gate, the pavement alongside King’s College, and down towards Silver Street. Not ever into my room. It even looks down if it just has to sweep across from one target to another. It looked down and swept across me now.
I got up. The bolt made that hard click , and I eased open the cutout door in the main gate. My second foot caught on the lip and I landed hard on the first. Balance, hop, slippery stone. I got my feet together and swayed just a little.
No one noticed. That was the normal way of things.
I don’t know why people don’t see me. I don’t eavesdrop on purpose, but people talk in front of me. Katja thinks I like listening in because I didn’t watch enough television when I was a child. She’s wrong; I like listening because it’s easier than talking myself.
The courtyard spread out in front of me, all grass lawn and stone walls. I was lucky, right? I was a Cambridge girl. I was through the door. I was in.
CHAPTER 13
CHLOE FROHMANN
I don’t remember feeling this way before Keene’s injury. Was he less pushy then? Or was I content to be his sidekick? Maybe it’s the promotion gone to my head, but I lean right past him and start in: “What makes you think Grace Rhys is the Katja you knew?”
Stephen sulks. He tugs on the ends of his hair. He doesn’t like being in the police station. “I recognised her.”
We have Grace’s family’s contact information from Louis the porter, but the phone at her family’s home has rung unanswered. We’ll be able to track down more about her in the morning. For now, Stephen is all we have.
We collect a sample of his hair to compare with the hairs found on the sweater. His hair is long for a man, and fair, which is consistent with the sweater being his. He confirms that her hair had been dark and shoulder-length, which is consistent with the hair on the hammer from Brookside. No chance of DNA from our waterlogged evidenceand body, so “consistent with” is the best we can do. “Consistent with” is a dressed-up way of saying “maybe.”
“I—I’ve been trying to get in touch with her. For a few months now. We met over Christmas. She was nannying, and I was borrowing my uncle’s flat. Look, can I have something to drink? Nothing fizzy. I have a sensitive stomach. Just—is there water? Do you have any water?”
“Sure,” Keene says. He nods at me to go get a plastic cup of water.
“Sink’s broken,” I say. I ignore Keene’s incredulous glare.
Stephen blows air hard out of his mouth,
I just couldn’t get my fingers round them.
I slumped onto a sliver of stone step in front of the college doors; November cold chilled my bum. I dumped out my bag—lipsticks,phone, wallet—into the hammock my skirt made across my lap. I don’t usually wear a skirt, but it was an evening out. I’d made an effort.
A capless pen, four pound coins, a cluster of safety pins. Then the flimsier stuff: a folded photocopy of lecture notes, a hair slide, an emery board. Business cards from two men in the pub who’d bought us drinks. They’d given them round before we split up at the end, like passing out sweets. I don’t think they minded which of us might call which of them, but it’s not like any of us were going to. I scraped around the crumbs and scraps at the bottom; nothing. But I could still hear the metallic rattle of the keys.
At last my finger caught a rent in the cloth lining. The keys must have worked their way through there and got stuck between the cotton and the leather. I had to tear the hole worse to get them out, fingering it till it widened and pulling the sharp cluster through. Victory! I leaned back against the door, just for a minute. Don’t sleep . I hadn’t drunk that much. One pint and some wine. I just hadn’t been getting enough rest.
The CCTV camera hummed, swivelling to change its view. That’s the same camera as outside my room window. It’s been set to never look in; it aims at the Corpus College gate, the pavement alongside King’s College, and down towards Silver Street. Not ever into my room. It even looks down if it just has to sweep across from one target to another. It looked down and swept across me now.
I got up. The bolt made that hard click , and I eased open the cutout door in the main gate. My second foot caught on the lip and I landed hard on the first. Balance, hop, slippery stone. I got my feet together and swayed just a little.
No one noticed. That was the normal way of things.
I don’t know why people don’t see me. I don’t eavesdrop on purpose, but people talk in front of me. Katja thinks I like listening in because I didn’t watch enough television when I was a child. She’s wrong; I like listening because it’s easier than talking myself.
The courtyard spread out in front of me, all grass lawn and stone walls. I was lucky, right? I was a Cambridge girl. I was through the door. I was in.
CHAPTER 13
CHLOE FROHMANN
I don’t remember feeling this way before Keene’s injury. Was he less pushy then? Or was I content to be his sidekick? Maybe it’s the promotion gone to my head, but I lean right past him and start in: “What makes you think Grace Rhys is the Katja you knew?”
Stephen sulks. He tugs on the ends of his hair. He doesn’t like being in the police station. “I recognised her.”
We have Grace’s family’s contact information from Louis the porter, but the phone at her family’s home has rung unanswered. We’ll be able to track down more about her in the morning. For now, Stephen is all we have.
We collect a sample of his hair to compare with the hairs found on the sweater. His hair is long for a man, and fair, which is consistent with the sweater being his. He confirms that her hair had been dark and shoulder-length, which is consistent with the hair on the hammer from Brookside. No chance of DNA from our waterlogged evidenceand body, so “consistent with” is the best we can do. “Consistent with” is a dressed-up way of saying “maybe.”
“I—I’ve been trying to get in touch with her. For a few months now. We met over Christmas. She was nannying, and I was borrowing my uncle’s flat. Look, can I have something to drink? Nothing fizzy. I have a sensitive stomach. Just—is there water? Do you have any water?”
“Sure,” Keene says. He nods at me to go get a plastic cup of water.
“Sink’s broken,” I say. I ignore Keene’s incredulous glare.
Stephen blows air hard out of his mouth,
Similar Books
