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‘I’m sorry,’ says the DCI. ‘But given what you’ve told me I think we’ve got our killer. Robert Marwood basically confessed to the murder of Hannah Jennings in his suicide note. We might not know exactly what happened, or whether it was intentional, but as he lied about his alibi, the drug-taking and the erotic asphyxiation, I think we have enough to conclude he was responsible for Hannah’s death.’
‘I agree,’ says Zuri. She looks at Jennie apologetically. ‘I also agree that in an ideal world we’d have been able to put the charge to Robert Marwood, and dig deeper into his faked alibi and what happened that night. But we can’t.’
Jennie lets out a heavy breath. She’s knows even if she fights this she won’t win, but she’s far from convinced they’re making the right call. And so, although she nods along as the DCI tells them to officially close the case and prepare a press statement, she’s already planning her next move.
Back at her desk, Jennie finds a Post-it note from Naomi stuck on her keyboard. As she reads the two updates on the note, adrenaline floods her body. Whatever the DCI thinks, now Jennie knows she’s right. There is more to uncover. The case isn’t over.
Suddenly she feels exhilarated, vindicated, the exhaustion of a few moments ago forgotten.
Simon Ackhurst’s alibi was fake, just as she’d suspected. He didn’t show up for work on the night Hannah disappeared and had been docked wages for his absence.
Why did he lie?
According to the school’s historical records, Elliott, on behalf of the photography club, had signed for a delivery of supplies, which included a bottle of hydrochloric acid, on the day Hannah disappeared. The next order for a bottle of hydrochloric acid was made two days later.
As everything starts to slot together in her mind, Jennie pulls out her battered phone and sends three texts. Grabbing her coat, she takes the developed photographs from last night out of the buff folder on her desk and leaves the office. The case might be closed, but it isn’t over for her. Not yet. Not until she knows the whole truth and is sure she’s got justice for Hannah.
There’s no time to lose.
Chapter 41
As the cab pulls away Jennie stands on the pavement, peering through the rusted iron gateposts at the old White Cross Academy building. The site seems deserted; there are no builders or rubbernecks today. Only birdsong and occasional road noise disturb the silence. Behind the school, the Chiltern Forest stretches up the hillside, its green foliage framing the whiteness of the 85-foot-high chalk cross. Two of her friends died here, leaving so many unanswered questions. Now it’s time to get answers.
She walks onto the site, along the weed-lined pathway to the tall wooden fence that shields the main site from view, and heads through the gate. Staring up at the once grand stately home with its boarded windows, collapsing gutters and crumbling stonework, she feels a strange affinity with the place: in the wake of the bike crash, her own facade is as crumbling and badly damaged now.
The police tape that formed the outer cordon is still up, and Jennie sends a quick text before ducking under it and striding across the yellowing lawn towards the ivy-covered portico. Her legs feel heavy as she climbs the cracked stone steps; she hopes she has the strength to do what needs to be done. She takes a breath, then opens the rotting door with a firm shove and steps inside.
The echo of her footsteps on the stone floor unnerves her. The hallway is pitch black, the boarded-up windows blocking out any light. Last time Jennie was here, the lights had already been switched on. She gropes around on the wall for where she vaguely remembers the switches are. It takes a while before she finds them and flips them on.
Nothing happens at first. Then she hears a faint humming sound overhead before the fluorescent strip lights flicker into life.
She exhales. It’s a relief the electricity is still on. She wouldn’t fancy doing what needs to be done in pitch darkness. What she has planned is already risky enough.
Hurrying down the corridor, Jennie steps over a pile of mouldy debris where the ceiling has caved in, and strides through the double fire doors hanging crooked on rusty hinges. She doesn’t stop by her old locker this time, instead rushing the rest of the way to the top of the stairs.
She slows her pace and avoids touching the rotten banister as she descends to the basement. The temperature drops as she goes down; the stench of damp gets stronger. Stepping off the bottom stair Jennie coughs, the dust-ridden chewiness of the air creeping into her lungs. A sense of dread is building inside her, just as it did when she came down here the day Hannah’s remains were found. This time the dread is for a different reason.
Jennie coughs again, her eyes watering. She clutches her ribs, biting back the pain as the movement aggravates her injuries. She doesn’t have time for that right now. This is all about justice for Hannah.
As her heartbeat accelerates, she goes through the open doorway and into the passage beyond. The first door on her left is the room she’s looking for.
Jennie pauses. Heart thumping. Then opens the door.
She flicks on the lights and watches the dust motes swirl. The darkroom looks different and familiar all at once. There’s no soft red light, and the smell of chemicals is long gone. But the rickety old external door is still there, now reinforced by planks of wood nailed across it. The dark wood-panelled walls have mould growing along them and the old burgundy sofa is years past its best. The long, thin table up against the far wall is empty now: gone is the stack of shallow trays and chemical bottles. The washing line, where they used to peg photographs to dry, hangs flaccid from a hook in the wall, its end spooling on the dusty floor. The damp smells worse in here and the air is even thicker.
As the minutes tick by, Jennie begins to feel increasingly nervous. So much so, that when she hears the voice, she almost jumps out of her skin.
‘Jennie? Oh thank God. This place is disgusting.’
She turns to see Lottie. She’s impeccably dressed as always – white blouse, camel trousers, nude sandals – with a white Prada handbag slung over her shoulder. Jennie forces a smile. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’
‘Well, your text intrigued me if I’m honest,’ says Lottie, walking across to the mildewed sofa as if to sit down, but then changing her mind when she sees the state of it.
‘It’s damp in here,’ says Jennie. ‘I don’t remember it being like this when we were at school.’
‘Me neither,’ says Lottie, frowning as much as her botox will allow. ‘Mind you, the chemicals and the weed would’ve masked it.’
‘True.’ Jennie arranges her expression into what she hopes looks sympathetic. ‘You were pretty upset when I last saw you. How are you doing?’
