But she answers before I can ask my question.

“As you probably know, he got a train to London the day after the murder. We’ve been working with the Met, trying to locate him, when today a member of the public identified him on a train to Plymouth, where he was detained. Two of my officers are currently questioning Mr. Davis but I’m afraid he isn’t being cooperative. He’s made an . . . unusual request.”

“Right.”

“He says he wants to talk with you.”

I bang my head back against the headrest. Is this a joke? “With me?”

“In any other circumstances, I’d dismiss his demands. But, you see, it’s rather delicate. I can explain everything when you get here.”

I remember meeting Simon in that café, how he moved slowly, like it pained him to be alive at all. Talking to him, I felt the full horror of the fragility of life, how it could have been me sitting where he sat, how close my own son was to death, how my own neck had been in the noose. It was like meeting a nightmare version of myself. I felt a sort of tragic kinship with him then. How would I feel about him now, knowing what he might have done to Meg, to his own daughter?

“When do you want me to come in?” I ask.

“Immediately, if possible. I can send a car if you want.”

“No need. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I put my foot down hard on the accelerator, all the exhaustion I felt just moments ago replaced by adrenaline. What if the dress wasn’t Grace’s, what if she is still alive? If I don’t fuck up, I could help save her. And, in the back of my mind, I think how this could be the interview of my career, a story that could be reprinted for years to come, translated into many languages.

Simon wants to see me, will only talk to me. He must think I have some kind of authority. Perhaps he wants me to tell the world what he’s done. Perhaps I’m the only journalist he knows. Or perhaps he wants to talk to me because I’m the only person who’s ever listened to him. I don’t know, but it feels like my chance, possibly my only real chance, to help Grace, and there’s no way I’m going to let her down.

I swerve into the fast lane, feeling the world open up before me because Grace might still be alive and I feel like I’m driving away from the wreckage of my old life and towards a brighter, better future.

11

Cara

Down on the beach the police put a tent over her. They won’t tell us anything. The crowd jostles around me. Whispers of “What’s happened?” or “Is it the disabled girl?” make me want to hide. I need to leave, I need to be with Mum. My body moves robotically, getting me first to the car and then driving me to the salon, to Mum.