Chapters (50)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication Page
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Ninteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Epilogue
- Letter From the Author
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
‘You swore on your life. You swore on your sister’s life. And then you betrayed me.’ Without warning, she let out a terrible noise, a high-pitched wail that rose with distress and then dipped with fury.
‘Charlie . . .’ I began.
She pointed at me again, her eyes ablaze with hatred. ‘You’ll never be happy,’ she said. ‘You think you can just walk away from this. But I’m going to haunt you, Andrew. I’m going to fucking haunt you.’
Before I could respond, ask her what she meant, she was gone, running across the little park and out through the gate.
I could barely breathe. I needed to talk to the police but my phone was dead. I didn’t want to go back to Sasha’s, didn’t want to face her right now (had we had sex?), so I made my mind up. I would go home, plug my phone in, call DC Moseley.
My flat was only ten minutes’ walk from the park. I felt so sick, my head thumping with every step, that I could only walk slowly. After what felt like the longest walk of my life, I reached my building. As I felt in my pockets for my keys, I heard a car door shut and looked up.
It was DC Moseley. Great. That would save me from making the call.
‘Mr Sumner,’ he said, sauntering over to me. ‘Will you come with me, please?’
‘What for?’
‘I need to ask you some questions.’
Thirty-six
Thirty-six
This time, there was more than one detective in the room. Beside DC Moseley sat a female officer with chestnut hair, wearing a suit that, unlike Moseley’s, looked cheap and worn, though she was a higher rank than him. This was Detective Inspector Hannah Jones. She sat back in her chair, head crooked to one side, regarding me like I was an interesting yet slightly repulsive painting in a museum. They had kept me waiting in the room for over an hour and a half before coming in to talk to me.
‘Why didn’t you talk to Charlie?’ I asked. ‘She came to find me. I’m worried that she’s going to—’
Jones cut me off. ‘We will talk to her, don’t worry. But we want to talk to you first.’
‘Ask me more questions, you mean?’
They exchanged a glance.
‘Tell us again about finding the bag of heroin in your flat,’ Moseley said.
I went over it for what felt like the hundredth time. This was how the police wore people down, tripped them up if they were lying. They asked you to repeat the same story again and again until you got so tired that you let your guard down, made mistakes. This thought was chased by another: Do they suspect me?
‘You don’t think I had anything to do with Karen’s death, do you?’
Jones motioned for Moseley to do the talking.