London, the inquest
‘I would like to offer on behalf of the court my sincerest condolences to Ms Witherall’s family, not least her mother and her daughters, Stella and Rose. The inquest is now closed.’
Death by suicide.
The words rattle through Madeleine’s mind as the journalists move out of court ahead of the family and friends, each reporter desperate to be the first to file their piece.
Harry’s face drops as she walks towards him, his fingers fidgeting with a cigarette outside the court. He has lost weight since the last time she saw him.
‘Madeleine?’ When he leans forward to kiss her on the cheek, his skin is sharp with stubble. ‘Good to see you,’ he says unconvincingly, his attention moving to the door.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘I knew Anna.’ He inhales, looking away, releasing the smoke in a controlled line.
‘Really? How—’
Harry interrupts, his voice urgent, as if the thought has been sitting there waiting to tumble out. ‘I just can’t believe it. Those children. Sadie, Callum … I wondered at first if it was staged—’ He scratches his chest with his free hand, visibly upset. ‘Do you suspect anyone?’
‘Who do you think?’
He bites his lip, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Fuck. I should have stayed with them longer. The girl, the older one, she asked me to stay. She …’
‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Madeleine says, more abruptly than she intends.
Harry looks over her shoulder, spotting someone out of the corner of his eye. His expression changes. ‘Look, I have to go. It was good seeing you. You take care.’ He pats her distractedly on the arm and moves quickly away, past the entrance to the court.
Madeleine turns and watches him moving towards the stairs leading to Granary Street and King’s Cross station, beyond. She waits a few moments before following.
At the bottom of the stairs the road veers left towards Camden Road on one side, and to the other, sweeps under a small bridge towards the newly developed Coal Drops Yard and Granary Square.
She has barely taken a step onto the pavement when she spots a flicker of movement under the footbridge twenty or so metres away, followed by raised voices. Stopping, she instinctively takes a step back so that she is partially obscured by the wall. From here she watches the arguing figures. She can see them both clearly – Harry, and the red-headed woman from the family table at the front of the court. She is the one attendee Madeleine hasn’t been able to identify in the nights she has spent trawling the internet for clues about the case.
There was Anna’s mother, her father-in-law, Clive Witherall, and Anna’s former boss, Clarissa Marceaux. But this woman, she could find no trace of.
After a moment, Harry disappears. Madeleine moves slowly towards the footbridge, and when she gets closer the woman leans against the wall and lights a cigarette.
‘Are you OK?’ Madeleine asks as she gets closer.
The eyes that look up at her are at once alert and remote, as if she has been disturbed in the deepest of thoughts.
‘Hmm? Oh,’ she says, realising Madeleine must have seen the argument. ‘I’m fine. Thanks. Just having a catch-up with an old friend.’
‘Right,’ Madeleine says without moving, watching the woman’s expression shift into vague recognition.
The woman inhales deeply, exhaling the smoke in a controlled line. ‘When I say friend I mean total fucking arsehole.’
‘It’s an important distinction,’ Madeleine nods.
‘You were in court, weren’t you?’
Madeleine nods.
‘You’re not a journalist?’
‘No,’ Madeleine replies, hesitating. ‘I’m police.’
It’s not strictly true, she reminds herself, but NCA officers often identify as such given the majority of the public wouldn’t know what the National Crime Agency is, let alone what they do. Besides, they have the same policing powers – even if the old sweat officers would scoff at someone from the NCA calling themselves cops, not least someone like Madeleine.
‘Police?’ The woman lifts the cigarette to her lips and inhales again, looking away. ‘Bit late, aren’t you?’
‘My name’s Madeleine,’ she says, ignoring the woman’s tone.
‘Meg,’ the woman replies after a moment. ‘So why were you in court, if Anna’s death isn’t being treated as a crime?’
Ignoring the question, Madeleine asks, ‘What did you mean when you said we were a bit late?’
‘Anna’s already dead, isn’t she?’ Meg waits a moment. ‘Is there a suggestion that Anna’s death wasn’t suicide?’
Madeleine’s eyes narrow. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Why else would you be here?’
Madeleine pauses, ignoring the question once again. ‘The man you were arguing with just then …’
Meg exhales sharply, flicking away her cigarette and crossing her arms over herself, laughing sardonically. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
Madeleine doesn’t flinch. ‘Try me.’