‘I’M TELLING YOU, I don’t know anything about it. How could I?’
Ashley curled her hand around the beaker of water DS Platt had given her. She was sitting at a small grey table in a small grey room. DS Platt and DCI Turner sat opposite her, a shallow pile of papers in front of them. At the top of one page, Ashley could see the name of the boy she had found in the woods. Her eyes were drawn to it. Robbie Metcalfe.
‘Normally, when someone takes us to a body, Miss Whitelam, it’s because they know plenty about it.’ Turner sat rigid in her chair, her shoulders so tense they were nearly up by her ears.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’ Platt asked softly.
‘Only that this has been a pretty awful day and I’d like to go home.’
‘Do you really expect us to believe that you just picked a random place and that was where Robbie Metcalfe had been left?’ Turner leaned forward in her seat. Underneath her freckles, she was pale. ‘That you had no prior knowledge whatsoever?’
Ashley shook her head, smiling slightly. Ever since she had found what was left of the boy, her heart had been beating rapidly, strong and fast enough that she could feel her pulse in her eardrums, in her gums. How long could her body keep it up?
‘I’m a psychic, DCI Turner. That’s the whole point of being a psychic. It’s all in the job description. The ability to pluck information out of the air, to be guided by spirits to a place of truth.’ She thought of the Heedful Ones, their smoky bodies flocking into the tree line, and she coughed, a hint of bile at the back of her throat. Why were they back? ‘All I’ve done is exactly what I said I’d do. Now you’re acting surprised that I did it.’
DCI Turner made a strangled noise in the back of her throat and leaned back again. The detective was angry because she was frightened. Ashley had seen the attitude before on a couple of unfortunate occasions – when a reading had struck an unexpected chord. It was an effect she usually tried to avoid. When she eventually phoned Aidan to let him know just how successful his idea had been, her brother laughed, assuming she was making some sort of terrible joke. When she finally got him to understand that she had indeed found the body of Robbie Metcalfe, he was silent for almost a minute. When he spoke, his voice had a strained, frightened quality to it. Her father had been the first to reach her through the trees, crashing through the undergrowth like an enraged bear, and even he had been struck silent by the sight of the dismembered boy in the forest dirt. He had looked at her, an expression on his face she knew she would not soon forget – he had been horrified, frightened. Frightened of her. Since then, however, he had gone into full protection mode; when the police insisted she come back to the police station and wait, he came back with her and then drove to Ulverston to consult with their lawyer.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 10:00 PM.
‘Perhaps you could make this easier for us to understand,’ Turner said eventually.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Explain the process to us,’ Platt said, his tone incredibly reasonable, as though he were asking her to fill in a form. ‘How did you go about finding the body?’
Ashley pressed her lips together. The Heedful Ones flickered through her mind’s eye, their movements too quick, too angular.
‘I … Robbie’s spirit reached out to me,’ she said. She took a big gulp of water and placed the beaker carefully on the table. She did not look at the two police officers. Could she tell them instead that it had been a weird coincidence? Would they be any more likely to believe that? ‘I had thought that I had failed, because we’d been looking all morning and I’d felt nothing, but then, just as we passed that road …’ Ashley cleared her throat. ‘I felt him there, in the dark. He wanted to be found.’
‘And you just happened to find that tiny space where he was hidden, amongst all those trees?’
Ashley forced herself to look up at the woman. ‘You asked me how I did it. And I’m telling you.’
‘Are you protecting someone, Miss Whitelam?’ Turner’s voice was quieter, as though inviting Ashley to confide in her. ‘Someone you’re close to?’
‘People will phone in anonymously sometimes,’ Platt added. ‘When a member of their family has done something wrong. Could this be your version of that?’
‘A member of my family?’ Ashley raised her eyebrows. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your father is a man with an interesting past,’ said Turner, looking down at the papers in front of her.
Turner took the first page off the pile, and Ashley caught a glimpse of a very old picture of her father, from the bad old days. Her heart began to beat even faster, almost seeming to crash against her ribs. Faintly, she was aware that she was very close to being sick. How had they found that so quickly?
‘You still live with your parents, don’t you, Ashley? And you’re thirty-two years old. It can be difficult to stand up to someone when you have to share a home with them. Perhaps this is your way of escaping him?’
Ashley forced herself to laugh, although it was little more than a short, ugly sound in her throat. ‘Oh, here it is. My dad has been harassed by the police before, and none of the charges stuck then either. I think I’ve had enough of this.’
She stood up, a little unsteady on her feet. Reluctantly, the two police officers stood too.
‘You can, of course, leave,’ Turner said stiffly. ‘But if there’s anything you know, Ashley, I strongly recommend you tell us now. It’ll be better for you in the long run.’
‘Thank you so much for the advice.’ Ashley snatched up her bag, her head swimming – how long had it been since she had eaten anything? – and left the small grey room.
She made her way to the doors of the police station with her head down, concentrating on not being sick, so she did not spot the crowd of people waiting outside until she was already out in the cool air. At once, a number of men and women surged forward. They were carrying microphones and TV cameras; some of them were wearing TV makeup and had expensive haircuts, and others – the ones behind the cameras – looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed.
‘Ashley Whitelam, can you tell us how you found Robbie Metcalfe?’
‘Has the body been officially identified?’
‘Did you speak to his ghost, Ms Whitelam?’
‘Ashley! Ashley, look this way, love, if you could …’
Horrified, she threw herself through the crowd, using her slim frame to slide between people, her long, pale hair hanging in her face. Hands grabbed at her arm once or twice, and she wrenched herself away violently, until she reached the far side of the crowd. The press took more photos as she went, but as a group, they seemed reluctant to leave the front of the police station.
Her own car was parked down the road a little, and when it came in sight, she felt a wave of relief that made her head swim. She placed her hand on the door handle and briefly rested her forehead against the glass.
What a day. What a fucking day.
When she closed her eyes, she saw him again. A boy who’d once had a family and had gone to school and been alive. Now he was something that was a part of the forest floor, a thing that had been taken and accepted by the green place even as the close attentions of insects and other scurrying things had slowly taken him apart.
She opened her eyes, and that was when she saw the piece of paper stuck under the Parma Violet’s windscreen wiper. She plucked it out and unfolded it, her hands trembling slightly.
The note said, I love this car! And I’ d love to get your side of the story, if you have time to speak to me. Please get in touch. There was an email address underneath – freddiem@murderonthemindpod.com – and a mobile phone number.
Frowning, Ashley put the note in her pocket and got into the car.