‘Forty-two.’
‘Full name?’
‘Nicki Clements.’
‘No middle name?’
‘Yes, one that I hate, which is why I don’t mention it. Do you really need to know my middle name?’
‘We always take full names,’ Sam says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Jasmine.’ It’s a big clue to the kind of daughter my parents wanted: uncomplicated, sweet, compliant. I hate flower names. I might label a packet of potpourri ‘Poppy’ or ‘Daisy’, but never a person.
‘Just Nicki?’ Waterhouse asks. ‘Not short for anything?’
Bastard.
‘Nichola.’ Which would be OK if my father’s name weren’t Nicholas.
‘Are you employed?’ asks Sam.
‘No. Not since I had my two children.’
Damon Blundy, murdered. I can’t believe it.
Gone. Irreplaceable.
I never met him, but I know he was unique – somebody the world couldn’t afford to lose. No one else will ever think what Damon thought, or write what he wrote. Why can’t it be some boring average person who died instead? Someone like me.
‘Names and ages?’ Sam asks.
‘I … Pardon?’
Get it together, Nicki.
‘Your children.’
‘Sophie and Ethan. Ten and eight.’
‘And before you had them, what did you do?’
‘I was an NHS manager. I supervised a team of midwives and health visitors in North London. We only moved to Spilling very recently.’
‘How recently?’ Sam asks. ‘And from where?’
‘Just over six months ago, from London. Highgate. On 20 December last year.’
I’m surprised to find that answering these questions is doing me some good. Listing facts about myself makes me feel as if I have a solid presence in the world that couldn’t easily be erased.
‘And your husband? What’s his name, and what does he do?’
He doesn’t erase me. None of this is his fault. I love him.
The only person threatening the Nicki Clements that Sam and Waterhouse are looking at now, the only person likely to want or need to erase her, is the other Nicki, the secret one.
If the only danger I’m facing comes from within me, there ought to be something I can do to stop it. So why do I feel as if I can’t?
‘Nicki? Your husband?’ Sam prompts.
‘Adam. Clements – same surname as me. He works in IT support. For the army.’
‘Did the army transfer him from London to the Culver Valley?’
‘He got a transfer to the Rawndesley army careers office when we moved, yes.’
‘Thank you.’ Sergeant Sam smiles, my reward for good behaviour. ‘And your address?’
‘Nineteen Bartholomew Gardens, Spilling.’
The urge to pull my phone out of my bag and check my Hushmail account is overwhelmingly strong. Has Gavin emailed me since I last looked?
Who cares? How dare he call Damon Blundy evil? If that’s what he really thinks, then he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
He might have emailed to say sorry.
Maybe I could subtly slide my phone out and …
No.
Crazy.
I clench my fists in my lap.
Waterhouse says, ‘If you’re wondering why you’re here, it was your car that gave you away. We were trawling CCTV for anything unusual around Elmhirst Road. Do you want to have a stab at telling us what we saw?’
All right, Nicki. This is the bit you’ve prepared, your chance to come across as honest. This should be easy
.
‘I don’t know where your CCTV cameras are positioned, so I don’t know what you saw, but I’ll tell you what I did,’ I say. ‘I set off mid-morning in the car to go to my children’s school. My son had left his sports kit behind and he needed it for the afternoon. My normal route takes me down Elmhirst Road, but there was a delay on my side of the road. The traffic was slow, and I could see police officers further up, stopping drivers. I realised that if I carried on up Elmhirst, they’d get a good look at me and my car, and I couldn’t let that happen.’ I swallow. All true, so far.
‘Because?’ Waterhouse asks. He shuffles his chair closer to the table.
Calm. Focused. You can do this
.
‘For the past week or so, my
‘Full name?’
‘Nicki Clements.’
‘No middle name?’
‘Yes, one that I hate, which is why I don’t mention it. Do you really need to know my middle name?’
‘We always take full names,’ Sam says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Jasmine.’ It’s a big clue to the kind of daughter my parents wanted: uncomplicated, sweet, compliant. I hate flower names. I might label a packet of potpourri ‘Poppy’ or ‘Daisy’, but never a person.
‘Just Nicki?’ Waterhouse asks. ‘Not short for anything?’
Bastard.
‘Nichola.’ Which would be OK if my father’s name weren’t Nicholas.
‘Are you employed?’ asks Sam.
‘No. Not since I had my two children.’
Damon Blundy, murdered. I can’t believe it.
Gone. Irreplaceable.
I never met him, but I know he was unique – somebody the world couldn’t afford to lose. No one else will ever think what Damon thought, or write what he wrote. Why can’t it be some boring average person who died instead? Someone like me.
‘Names and ages?’ Sam asks.
‘I … Pardon?’
Get it together, Nicki.
‘Your children.’
‘Sophie and Ethan. Ten and eight.’
‘And before you had them, what did you do?’
‘I was an NHS manager. I supervised a team of midwives and health visitors in North London. We only moved to Spilling very recently.’
‘How recently?’ Sam asks. ‘And from where?’
‘Just over six months ago, from London. Highgate. On 20 December last year.’
I’m surprised to find that answering these questions is doing me some good. Listing facts about myself makes me feel as if I have a solid presence in the world that couldn’t easily be erased.
‘And your husband? What’s his name, and what does he do?’
He doesn’t erase me. None of this is his fault. I love him.
The only person threatening the Nicki Clements that Sam and Waterhouse are looking at now, the only person likely to want or need to erase her, is the other Nicki, the secret one.
If the only danger I’m facing comes from within me, there ought to be something I can do to stop it. So why do I feel as if I can’t?
‘Nicki? Your husband?’ Sam prompts.
‘Adam. Clements – same surname as me. He works in IT support. For the army.’
‘Did the army transfer him from London to the Culver Valley?’
‘He got a transfer to the Rawndesley army careers office when we moved, yes.’
‘Thank you.’ Sergeant Sam smiles, my reward for good behaviour. ‘And your address?’
‘Nineteen Bartholomew Gardens, Spilling.’
The urge to pull my phone out of my bag and check my Hushmail account is overwhelmingly strong. Has Gavin emailed me since I last looked?
Who cares? How dare he call Damon Blundy evil? If that’s what he really thinks, then he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
He might have emailed to say sorry.
Maybe I could subtly slide my phone out and …
No.
Crazy.
I clench my fists in my lap.
Waterhouse says, ‘If you’re wondering why you’re here, it was your car that gave you away. We were trawling CCTV for anything unusual around Elmhirst Road. Do you want to have a stab at telling us what we saw?’
All right, Nicki. This is the bit you’ve prepared, your chance to come across as honest. This should be easy
.
‘I don’t know where your CCTV cameras are positioned, so I don’t know what you saw, but I’ll tell you what I did,’ I say. ‘I set off mid-morning in the car to go to my children’s school. My son had left his sports kit behind and he needed it for the afternoon. My normal route takes me down Elmhirst Road, but there was a delay on my side of the road. The traffic was slow, and I could see police officers further up, stopping drivers. I realised that if I carried on up Elmhirst, they’d get a good look at me and my car, and I couldn’t let that happen.’ I swallow. All true, so far.
‘Because?’ Waterhouse asks. He shuffles his chair closer to the table.
Calm. Focused. You can do this
.
‘For the past week or so, my
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