Julie

When I woke up on the 8th of June 2007, the world felt the same.

I sat up in bed, bleary-eyed, groggy and with a blinding head-ache. I made it to the bathroom just in time to expel the last of the alcohol from my system. After I’d vomited, I went to get the painkillers.

I had very little memory of the previous twenty-four hours. I did have that lingering sick, queasy feeling in my stomach, which had nothing to do with the hangover and everything to do with the suspicion that something particularly humiliating had happened the night before.

I tied a dressing gown around my waist, cold despite the warmth of the morning.

Downstairs, I moved gingerly around the kitchen, wincing at the noise of the coffee machine and fixing myself an Alka-Seltzer while I waited for it to brew.

I paused at the fridge when I went to fetch the milk, almost reaching for the bottle of wine I knew was sitting just inside the door. That would be how I’d normally treat a hangover this bad – hair of the dog.

But I didn’t take it out. Something made me stop – that niggling bubble of nerves in my stomach.

It was Saturday, but I couldn’t hear Harry anywhere in the house.

I presumed he’d stayed out. Then I remembered. I’d been out with him last night.

The charity event.

I’d started the night sober, so how …?

The memories drifted like wisps of cloud through my brain. Him flirting and goading me. Me drinking, vomiting, dancing.

What sort of a state had I been in when he brought me home?

I went back upstairs and looked through the spare bedrooms, then in his study: all empty.

Back downstairs, I made my way through the various rooms – the dining room, the living room; I even checked the bathrooms.

He could have gone for a walk, I supposed. Normally, if Harry was there on a Saturday morning, he’d sit and read the papers at the breakfast table.

I made my way around to the garage to see if he’d taken the car, thinking that maybe he’d driven to the village to get them.

But still I had a growing sense that he was about the house somewhere, avoiding me.

That could only mean one thing. I’d made a holy show of myself.

I opened the garage door quietly, and almost didn’t notice him. Then I saw the top of his head, bobbing up and down, his back bent as he worked at something on the bonnet of one of the cars – the Mercedes.

He looked up when he saw me, his face pinched and pale.

‘You’re awake,’ he said. He used the crook of his arm to swipe at the sweat on his forehead, and it was then I noticed the cloth in his hand.

‘Are you washing the car?’ I said, bemused. ‘Would it not be better to do that outside?’

He stood up straight, hands hanging by his side.

‘Am I … Outside? Are you serious? Don’t you remember, Julie?’

His voice was grave and strained.

He’d looked just like this when he’d told me about the girl in Tallinn and Nina Carter all those years ago.

This was bad.

‘Remember what?’ I said, and as I did, my eyes drifted to the cloth in his hand. It was stained, covered in something dark brown, something that looked like blood.

I wanted to move around to the front of the car to find out what he was doing, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate. I didn’t want to see, even though I knew I had to.

‘Last night …’

He hung his head and seemed so desolate that I couldn’t help myself. I walked over to him and looked at the car.

The side of the bonnet was dented; the headlight was smashed. But it was the dark drops staining its surface that caught my eye. That was what he was washing off with the cloth.

‘I’ll have to bring it to a garage and get it fixed and sprayed,’ he said. ‘There could be – I don’t know – DNA or something on it, and the police might have been able to get paintwork off her body. I was thinking about getting rid of it altogether, but I can’t risk it falling into somebody else’s hands and the Guards getting it that way. I have to go with my gut. There’s nothing connecting us to the girl. I’ll get it professionally cleaned and keep it off the road. Don’t worry, Julie. I’ll get it sorted. I’ll take care of this. I promise.’

My hands flew to my mouth.

I groaned.

‘Oh God, Harry. What have you done?’

He turned to me and put his hands on my shoulders, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

‘What have I done? What have you done, Julie?’