There was something different between us that evening. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was simply the right time.
Despite the risk, I scuttled back to his laptop, taking my glass with me. Back to the woman with the long hair who’d fallen from the balcony. Something was bothering me. As I reread the details, Hazel’s radical haircut wasn’t mentioned once. That was a lot of hair she’d had removed. And the scissors. Not just any scissors, but they were hairdressing scissors that had been found in the deep pocket of her mini skirt. What about the selfie? Had she taken the picture? I skimmed the particulars. She had lost her balance before the shot was taken. The mobile was found shattered about three metres from her body.
Once again, I was so engrossed in the report that I failed to see Terry come back in. I wasn’t so lucky this time.
‘Hey, what are you up to?’ He was serious.
Caught in the act, I grimaced, swaying a little, still holding my wine glass.
He glanced down at what I was studying.
‘You do understand you’re not allowed access to current cases,’ he said, reproach transforming his eyes.
I nodded, not taking my eyes from his face. ‘I was curious – her hair… I mean, who carries hairdressing scissors at a party? It says here she was an estate agent, not a hairdresser. Had she just cut off all her own hair? Look at it here.’ I pointed to the shot given to the press where her sleek mane reached down to her waist. ‘This photo was taken only two weeks earlier. That’s about two feet of hair she’s had lopped off.’
He reached across me and shut the lid of the laptop, then leant back against the sink folding his arms. ‘You shouldn’t be looking at this.’ He took a laboured breath as if to imply it wasn’t the first time I’d overstepped the mark. ‘You’re meant to be looking into unsolved murders. Cold cases. This is strictly off limits.’
‘But maybe someone pushed this woman? Maybe she didn’t just “fall off” the balcony taking a selfie.’
‘It’s not a suspicious death, Sam.’
‘But what about the scissors in her pocket? Were they her scissors or the killer’s?’ I was on a roll. ‘Were they meant to be the weapon? Was the killer a hairdresser?’
Terry shook his head in despair. ‘I think maybe you’ve had a bit too much to drink.’
‘No,’ I retorted, blinking hard. I stared at the floor working out how much I’d actually had. Three large glasses? Four? I didn’t usually drink this much.
I felt my face fall and reached out to take hold of the edge of the sink. The room shifted a fraction to one side. ‘What if I have? I’m still talking sense.’
‘You shouldn’t be talking about this, at all.’ Disapproval showed in his mouth and I cringed inwardly at my transgression.
‘Shall we get you home?’ he suggested, stepping into the hallway and reaching for my coat.
Damn. I didn’t want to go. I was enjoying myself and there were too many unanswered questions left up in the air.
Although, one thing was certain. I’d well and truly blown it between the two of us.
9
My instant companion, even before I’d opened my eyes, was a hangover. The full works: nausea, dizziness, a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, topped off with a splitting headache. I turned away from the hairline crack in the curtains, as a laser shard of light stabbed my eyelids. It was as if I’d spent the entire night being churned on the tornado ride at an amusement park. Not a great way to start my weekend, but it was my own fault.
I dragged myself in slow motion to the bathroom, trying not to move my head. As soon as I staggered into the shower, I remembered there was something worse. I’d made an out-and-out fool of myself. And I’d violated Terry’s privacy. He would never trust me again. All in all, I’d made a complete hash of things.
For a fleeting moment I considered contacting Terry to apologise, but my head was so woolly I had no idea what I’d say. I’d probably only make things worse. I could either go back to bed and feel even more of a loser or bury my shame by getting straight on with the cold case job. With time, caffeine and painkillers, the physical symptoms might shift at least. I might even find myself absorbed in it.
There was no way I was climbing onto a bicycle in my wobbly state – my new intentions to get fit already out of the window – so I caught the next train.
Camden was already bustling with shoppers and tourists by the time I arrived. As I weaved along the side streets, a text buzzed in my pocket. My heart rate shot up a notch. My first thought was that DCS Claussen was ordering me off the cold case investigation after hearing I’d accessed data without consent. Then I realised Terry would need to admit he’d left his laptop open in my presence. I glanced down at the screen and let the breath I was holding go – it was my sister.
Thought we’d pencilled in Friday night at my place. Did you get a better offer?
Shit! She was right. We’d agreed I’d go over to chat about her new venture. It wasn’t like me to forget. Another reason to feel guilty.
I called Miranda straight away.
‘I’m so sorry. I got landed with some extra work yesterday and I was… following it up.’ I cringed at my half-truth.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she snapped. ‘At least everyone else turned up.’ Her best friends came from the Camden Community Art Project, where she spent most of her time. It was her safe haven, run and used by those with similar mental health issues.
‘I can come over later, if you like?’
I’d been meaning to have a chat with her for a while. She’d been avoiding me and that was usually a sign that there was something I needed to be worried about. She hated asking me for help and her response when there was a difficulty in her life was to retreat from me instead. I needed to get to the bottom of it, whatever it was.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, undoubtedly hearing background traffic and the judder in my voice from my footsteps.
‘Camden, actually. Only a stone’s throw from your flat. I’m on my way to the police station. I’m doing some work for them for a couple of weeks.’
‘Dragging information from another reluctant murder witness?’ I could picture her wagging her finger at me. A familiar gesture.
‘No, it’s nothing specific.’ She was referring to the canal case where the sole witness had been rendered mute. ‘I’m just in their office. And Aiden wasn’t reluctant – he was traumatised.’ I took a breath. ‘You okay?’
Since childhood, I’d always had an antenna tuned in her direction, trying to look like I hadn’t. I’ve always had to be more than just her sister, even though she’s two years older than me. My parents didn’t handle her schizophrenia well at all: my mother gave up on her years ago and my father handled Miranda like a broken doll, making everything worse. So it had been down to me for as long as I could remember.
She didn’t answer my question. ‘Text me when you’re finished,’ she said stiffly. ‘Can’t say I’ll be around for definite, mind you. Anyway, can’t talk now, got things to do.’ With that, the call was over.