I drained the final sip of water out of my glass and looked at the detectives.
“And you weren’t alarmed by that last message?” DCI Forrester asked.
“No,” I replied. “Guys send that sort of crap all the time, they’re usually just trying to guilt you into a response.”
Forrester ran his finger and thumb through his moustache and sniffed loudly.
“Did Freddie and Rob know each other?” Detective Lyons asked. “Either ever mention the other one?”
“No. I mean, for all I know, they could’ve been best mates, but…” I said, my voice faltering. “Are you saying Rob and Freddie were murdered? You don’t think—you don’t think I’m in danger, do you?”
“No,” Detective Lyons said. “But we may invite you to the station to give a full statement. Call us if you remember anything else that might be helpful.”
He handed me a pristine business card. When I reached to take it, I noticed him looking at my shaking hand. He fixed me with a questioning stare.
“Sorry, I’m just a bit, you know, in shock right now,” I mumbled.
“I can see that,” DCI Forrester said, looking at the rapidly congealing mess on the kitchen floor.
“Do you have anyone you can talk to?” Detective Lyons asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “My flatmate. She’s at her boyfriend’s. Fiancé’s, I mean. I’ll be okay, she’ll be back later. Like I said, I didn’t really know those men. We only met that one time. It’s just, well, it’s just…”
“Weird?” he said.
I looked at him, and he looked back at me blankly.
“I’d better clean this up,” I said.
“One more question,” DCI Forrester said. “Have you been on a date with anyone else recently?”
“What?” I said. “Why?”
“It’s just a question,” Forrester said.
“Right,” I said, pushing my hair behind my ears. “Well, yeah, a couple of other people, nothing serious. Is this important?”
Lyons threw a glance at Forrester. “It’s not,” he said.
“Right, well, I need to get to work, so…”
“Of course.” Lyons coughed. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Turner.”
“We’ll let ourselves out,” Forrester said, stepping toward the front door.
Lyons hesitated a moment. “Save my number in your phone and call me if there’s anything you need, Gwen,” he said.
There was something about the way he kept using my first name I didn’t like. I thought police officers were meant to be deferential, especially when they thought any connection between you and two dead people was purely coincidental. Well, very likely coincidental—that’s what he said, wasn’t it?
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Uh, yes,” he replied. “Well, sort of. I know you. I was four years above you at school—my sister, Grace, was in your year. You guys used to hang out.”
“No way!” I gasped. “Dandy Lyons? I don’t believe it. All my mates had a crush on you! You were in that terrible band that played at our prom. Wow, it really is you, isn’t it? How is your sister? I haven’t seen Grace in years.”
“She’s good, thanks, but maybe let’s drop the nickname in front of my superior here,” he said, glancing back toward Forrester. “No one really calls me that anymore.”
“Oh, sorry, old habits,” I said. “So you’re a police officer now? That’s cool.”
“Uh, yeah, well, sometimes. What about you?”
“Mobile café down on the seafront. Which is nuts, because I actually can’t stand coffee, but—”
I was interrupted by a loud cough from DCI Forrester’s direction.
“Sorry, Gwen, I really have to go,” Lyons said, looking back at his superior waiting for him on the front step. “Stay safe.”
I heard the door click shut, and went to the sink to get a sponge and a bottle of Flash. As I scrubbed at the floor tiles, I tried to think if there was any other link between Rob and Freddie. For all I knew, they could’ve been cousins, coworkers, anything. Eastbourne was a small town.
I left the wet sponge on the floor, grabbed my phone, and googled “Rob Hamilton + Freddie Scott.” Nothing. Lyons was right, Freddie’s death was yet to be reported, but news about Rob’s death had started to pop up everywhere.
I opened the fridge, pulled the orange juice out, and sat at the breakfast bar, shoving mouthfuls of toasted bagel into my flushed face. As I sucked every remaining morsel of butter off the knife, I found a pretty lurid account of what had happened to Rob on the Mail Online. There was a lot more detail than in the local news story, and I scanned it for any connection he might have had to Freddie. Lyons clearly thought there was one, but I couldn’t find anything that suggested they even lived near each other, or worked in the same industry, or anything. The only connection seemed to be they’d both been on one date with me. But that could be true of a hundred other girls in Eastbourne. The dating pool here wasn’t that big to begin with, and thanks to Connector, it was shrinking by the day.
As much as I racked my hungover brain, I couldn’t remember Rob mentioning much about his personal life, except for his ex. As for Freddie, he hadn’t stopped talking, but it was mostly about his mortgage repayments. I caught myself. I shouldn’t think ill of the dead. Dead. The word swung through my head like a bell clapper. I couldn’t believe it.
I looked Rob up on Instagram, but his account was private, and the only thing I could see was his profile picture, the same one he’d used on Connector. A little thinner in the face and a little more tanned than he’d been in real life, but with the same flirtatious smile that had drawn me to him in the first place. The same smile that had disappeared in an instant when I told him I wasn’t interested. I felt a pang of… what? Sadness? Grief? Fear? I wasn’t sure. I’d known the guy for less than three hours, total. How was I supposed to feel?
The rest of Rob’s social media had been shut down or deleted, probably to stop journalists from contacting the family or grabbing photos. But there was a tribute page set up for him on his old college website. I glanced through the messages from school friends and cousins. One caught my eye:
He was so kind, always looking out for people. Even when he really drove me crazy, he could flash me his little sheepish smile and inside, I would instantly give in. I wish I could tell him that I forgive him, for everything. Love, Rachel
Must be his ex, I thought. I couldn’t help but wonder what Noah would write on my tribute page if I managed to run myself over with the van one afternoon.
I put down my phone and slid it across the breakfast bar. The flat now smelled faintly of sick and detergent, I was already late for work, and there was little point in sitting there waiting for the heating to come back on (Sarah had set it to switch off at 8 a.m. and I had never figured out how to change it). I wished she were here now, instead of curled up like a croissant in bed with Richard. Not just to fix the damn heating but also to tell me to stop sulking, get in the shower, and go to work.
Without Sarah to give me a lift, I was going to have to retrieve my underused bike from the shed round the back of the flat, so I pulled on a hoodie and went out to investigate. When I pinched the tires, they felt disconcertingly squidgy, but even if I did have a clue where the hell the pump was, I had no inclination to fix them. I hadn’t ridden much since last summer, when me and Noah had taken a long ride to the Seven Sisters on a drowsy, hot afternoon. We’d got the train back that time, and my legs had thanked me for it ever since with a dull but relieved ache. But, hey, I did a spin class most Wednesday lunchtimes, so I was confident I still had the legs for a quick cycle across town to work. (Okay, fine, some Wednesdays.)
I cycled aimlessly, with no real desire to reach my destination, through what remained of Old Town. Away from the main high street, the only shops left open were faceless bookies and grim-looking fried chicken shops. The windows of the other stores were whited out, with FOR LEASE signs stickered over the doors. The trickle of tourists descending on Eastbourne had slowly come to a stop, and the cheap flights to Marbella had lured away the last of the sunseekers, leaving us with the pensioners and locals. It was only the oncoming flood of displaced Londoners, keen to escape the smog and empty skyscrapers that they no longer needed, that kept a little hope alive for local businesses (and kept the Eastbourne dating pool topped up with fresh blood).
Eventually some sort of subconscious GPS kicked in and I found myself outside Noah’s place. Leaning my bike up against the parking meter, I looked up at his bedroom window. The curtains were closed, even though it was past 9 a.m. His studio flat there had been the scene of a million unremarkable but unforgettable moments, and an equal amount of stupid fights. My memories of him were so meshed with that place that whenever I happened to pass it, my thoughts were involuntarily wrenched back to that time, like an unruly dog on a short chain.
Of course, I’d unfollowed him on everything since we broke up. Well, okay, only after a very thorough last trawl through his social media. But there was nothing. Well, nothing that revealed anything interesting. No sign of another woman, no airport selfie as he fled the country, no emotional coming-out video. Nothing. To be fair, the most he’d ever posted when we were together was a photo of the ice cream van on the day we bought it—#lazysundaes #justchillin’ (Noah had unfairly vetoed my suggestion, #teamcream).
Muscle memory almost took me up the steps to the battered blue front door, where I’d jabbed at his bell so many times before and waited to hear his footsteps coming down the stairs. It would be so easy to press that button now and have him appear at that door like magic, to save me once again.
But I resisted, and got back on my bike, pedaling on in a sort of daze, not really thinking about anything for longer than thirty seconds, until the cold began to work its way into my bones, and I turned around and dragged myself to work.