CHAPTER ELEVEN

Harper checked her phone, again: nothing. She shoved it back in her desk drawer. It’d been four days now, since Amy had said she’d be in touch. Harper had agonised over being the one to text first, but she’d stopped herself. She knew eagerness was off-putting, and anyway, it still wasn’t entirely clear what kind of thing it was with Amy. She was so hard to read. Sometimes she thought the flirting was obviously a come-on, but then Amy did that with everyone. It was probably a friendly thing, and therefore nothing really, nothing that she had to act upon, or deal with. Still, each time she saw the blank screen on her smartphone or rushed to read a notification that turned out to be from work, or spam, she considered it anew. Would it be so bad if I were to send a message? Would I really come across as desperate, or just friendly? Over friendly, maybe, which would be a disaster. And, if she pitched it wrongly, the embarrassment potential was huge. Last thing at night she couldn’t stop her mind composing the perfect not-too-bothered message, a don’t-worry-if-you’re-busy-but. She’d even typed it into her phone once or twice before deleting it.

Thrupp knocked and entered. He placed a plastic envelope on the desk in front of Harper, and she immediately knew what it was. Feeling the waves of irritation coming from him, she glanced up but didn’t meet his eye. Things she sent down to the lab were usually sent straight back to her, the investigating officer—never to the senior officer who authorised it, the signature being nothing more than a box to be ticked, an administrative matter. This one, however, had somehow ended up in Thrupp’s hand with a red stamp across it spelling out the word RETURN.

“What’s this?” he said.

Harper smiled at Thrupp, her face a picture of nonchalance. She lifted the bagged item, turned it over. “This? I think it’s the DVD of the CCTV footage, from the hospital case last week. Did I miss out some details from the description?”

“I read the information on the form, Jo. The problem is, I don’t remember signing it.”

Harper sat back in her chair, all innocence. “I’m sorry, sir. It was in with a stack of other things I asked you to sign off a few days ago. At least, I think it was—I was sure your signature was on it before I sent it. Did I accidentally send it without proper authorisation?”

“I’m not saying my signature isn’t on there. I’m saying I don’t remember signing it. I’m also saying, that if you had asked me to sign this off for analysis, and I had read it properly at the time, I would have said, ‘No, absolutely not.’ ”

Well, she thought, I knew that. That’s why I faked it. Harper arranged her features into an expression of concern. “Have you had memory problems in the past, sir?”

“I don’t have a memory problem, Jo.”