‘A suspect profile. So you think they might arrest me?’
‘The police will certainly be gathering as much evidence as they can: witness statements, forensics, whatever background they can find on the victim. They won’t be idle, you can be sure of that, and as soon as they feel they have enough to prosecute, they will.’
‘But what about me?’ she repeated with panic.
Gould hesitated.
‘Sophie, the British justice system is founded on the strongest principle: innocent until proven guilty, and it will be the police and the Crown Prosecution Service’s task to produce evidence which proves who did this. And clearly, as you did not, they will certainly struggle to find a case against you.’
She wondered whether her solicitor actually believed in her innocence.
‘But they’re going to pin it on someone, aren’t they?’ she said, with an air of resignation. She’d had plenty of time to think about it while the police sorted out her paperwork. A murder at the Riverton was high profile. ‘It’s not good for the Met, it’s not good for the hotel. Not good for London tourists.’
‘Of course the police and the CPS are going to want a successful conviction. But they don’t want to go round throwing innocent young women in jail either.’
Gould glanced at his watch.
‘Look, I have to get back to the office. When your mother called, I came down immediately, but I’m in the middle of a trial at the Old Bailey, you understand?’
She nodded, glad that her mother had arranged for him to come. It wasn’t as if she had a criminal solicitor on speed dial. Before today, the only thing she’d ever done wrong was exceed the speed limit.
Oh yes? said a mocking voice in her head. You’ve spent the last week lying through your teeth.
She closed her eyes. Uncomfortable as it was, it was true. She’d taken on another woman’s home, her clothes, lied her way into a party, then told her new boyfriend a string of lies about who she was, where she lived, what she did for a living. Perhaps that was what had brought her to this horrible concrete police station
in the middle of London, dried blood under her fingernails. Maybe it was all karma.
A taxi had pulled up to the kerb.
‘Go home, Sophie,’ said Gould. ‘Get some rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’
She nodded sadly and watched the car drive away, suddenly feeling very alone.
Where was home, exactly? Where should she go? She thought of Lana’s stuccoed townhouse and shivered. A week ago she thought it had been the answer to her prayers, but now it was like an empty shell, filled with her own guilt and echoes of Nick’s footsteps on the pavement outside. Returning to her parents’ place held even less appeal; Wade House would be empty and somehow even more sad than the last time she had been there for the funeral. Julia Ellis had agreed to come back from Copenhagen but would not be home until morning.
Sophie threw her bag over her shoulder and crossed the road towards the Edgware Road tube station. It was packed with rush-hour crowds, and being surrounded by the swell of people going about their ordinary lives somehow made her feel better. She got off at Sloane Square and walked the rest of the way home to Battersea, wanting some early evening air to clear her mind. She had been at the police station all day, and the sun was beginning to fade, sending smudged ribbons of peach and lilac across the sky. The heat of the day was still coming up from the sun-warmed pavements, and the summer smells of cut flowers and fresh tarmac mingled with the fumes of the cars rushing past. As she approached Albert Bridge Road, she could even hear a few birds still singing in the park, but none of it made her feel at home. She felt alien, and disconnected. Nothing seemed to make sense any more, nothing looked as it should. Only a few days ago, she had been so sure of everything. It had really felt as if her life had finally turned a corner: a new job, a new exciting life in London – a new boyfriend. The last image of Nick jumped into her mind and she shivered. It was horrible, truly horrible. Who could have done such a thing? She genuinely had no idea: DI Fox was right, she didn’t know much about this man she had professed to love. But she had felt so sure of the connection between them, and you couldn’t fake that, could you?
She shook her head. All she wanted to do was sleep. Her eyes were heavy and her mind was so foggy that she could hardly think. Her body, usually so strong and vital, felt weak and depleted.
She came to her building and fumbled in her bag for her keys. The policeman – or had it been the woman? She couldn’t remember; the whole thing was a terrible blur – had made a big deal about how Sophie had never invited Nick back here. She supposed she could understand that, given the circumstances. But that was just dating, wasn’t it? Who really told a new partner everything about themselves in the first week? ‘Hi, my name’s Sophie, I’ve had my heart broken twice, I’m still hung up on my ex and I once thought I’d caught an STD, but it was only thrush.’ People only revealed the best version of themselves in the early days of a relationship, because if everybody was that honest, nobody would get beyond the first drink.
She pushed open the door and walked into the communal hallway, a large if rather shabby room dominated by the wide staircase. For some reason, Sophie’s mind flashed on to the memory of her first visit here, walking through the hallway with the letting agent and her dad. Peter Ellis had sniffed the musty air and whispered in his daughter’s ear: ‘I think I can smell the last tenant.’ Sophie had giggled then. Her dad had made her laugh a lot; it was one of the things she missed most about him. After his financial troubles, he always seemed preoccupied, but he always had time for a joke, even if it was just something corny. Back then, she hadn’t really tried to understand how he must have been feeling; struggling to keep everything together, fighting to keep his family afloat. Had he felt as wretched, as helpless, as she did now? At least he had faced it with a smile.
After checking her pigeonhole for mail – nothing, why would there be? – she began to climb the stairs.
She stopped on the second landing, holding her breath. Somehow, she knew something was wrong. She walked slowly down the corridor towards her flat, all her senses jangling, ready to run at any moment. She tried to dismiss the feeling, believing it was just the tensions of the day making her nervous. But she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her front door. It was open, the wood splintered around the lock.
She hesitated and then crept inside, every nerve ending jangling.
‘Who’s there?’ she called. ‘If there’s anybody in there, I’ve already called the police.’
She edged forward and ducked her head around the door frame, expecting to see – what? A burglar in a black balaclava and stripy jumper? There was nobody there, but the place was a mess. A complete and utter mess. Someone had been there, pulling out drawers, turning over chairs; they’d even upended her bookcase. There were clothes everywhere, and her duvet had been torn open. Why? What do I have that anyone would want? I don’t even own a TV.
Had it been the police? But surely they weren’t allowed to tear down curtains or slash pillows open? This was trespass, vandalism. There were laws against that whether you were the police or not.
Another thought hit her that turned her cold. Had it been Nick’s killer? But why? What on earth could they have been looking for? Did they think she had something of his? Whatever Nick had done to get himself killed, perhaps they thought she knew about it.
Her heart was pumping fiercely. ‘What do you want?’ she yelled out loud, her voice trembling.