Turner stares at me, freaking me out, until eventually she asks my name and how long I’ve worked at Mattie’s. Then she shows me a photo.

‘Do you know this woman?’ she says, her eyes focused on mine.

‘No. But isn’t she the woman I saw on the news?’

‘Has she ever made contact with you?’

‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m certain.’

‘Facebook, Twitter, anything like that?’

‘No, just the news.’ Shaking my head, I move towards the door. ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I have to get back behind the bar, why do you think I’d know her?’

‘We’re asking the questions.’

‘And we’re not finished, miss,’ the male cop says.

‘But I have to get back to work, sorry, I have to run.’

I hurry down the hallway with my heart pounding louder than the band on stage. I probably shouldn’t have bailed like that, but I’ve never been questioned by cops before, and it made me nervous. Why would they think I know Katie Collins?

Back pulling pints, I see the cops moving through the crowd, showing the photo around. Every now and then Turner looks over at me, making it hard to concentrate. When I get the chance, I make straight for Brian.

‘She just asked me if I’d seen the woman in the photo,’ he says when I finally get him alone.

‘Did she say anything about me?’

Brian stops pouring, looks at me sideways. ‘Why would she say anything about you?’

‘No reason. I’m just trying to figure out why she questioned me.’

‘She questioned everyone, Becca,’ he says, walking away with his drinks. ‘No need to be paranoid.’

Well, at least that’s something. Or it is until I hear Turner’s voice in my ear, dead, as if coming through a device that removes any evidence of personality.

‘A quick word before you go,’ Turner says.

‘About what?’ Fuck, why won’t she leave me alone?

She flicks through her notebook, stops, and nods to herself.

‘Rebecca, right?’

I nod.

‘Okay, Rebecca, I need you to really think about this. It’s very important. Are you certain Katie Collins didn’t get in contact with you?’

Her staring is making me nervous. Like she’s trying to see behind my eyes, into my head. I’m not getting why I’m being questioned for a second time.

‘No, she didn’t. I’m certain.’

She hands me a card with her name and number on it.

‘Rebecca, I need you to go home and check all your social media accounts. Contact me when you’ve done it.’

‘I don’t get it,’ I say. ‘Why would you think she’d get in touch with me?’