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‘They’ve only been together three months,’ said Linda.
‘What’s she like?’
Linda and Michael looked at each other.
‘Well,’ said Linda, and the monosyllable rang with disapproval.
‘She likes a drink,’ said Michael.
‘She’s called Carmen,’ said Linda.
‘Is Martin pleased?’
‘We don’t really know,’ said Linda.
‘Might be the making of him,’ said Robin, who wasn’t convinced, but felt it was best to be optimistic in front of her parents.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Michael. ‘He’s talking about getting his HGV licence. Long-distance lorry driving, you know.’
‘Well, he’s always liked driving,’ said Robin, choosing not to mention the many near misses Martin had had, full of drink and bravado.
‘Like you,’ said her father, ‘with that advanced driving qualification.’
Robin had taken her advanced driving course in the months after the rape that had finished her university career, when command of a vehicle had given her back a sense of safety and control. Relieved to be offered a conversational topic that was neither children nor her career, Robin began to talk about the old Land Rover, and whether it would pass its next MOT.
The afternoon passed relatively peacefully because Robin found a documentary on TV which fortunately caught both her parents’ interest. Itching to return to her laptop but afraid of disturbing the precarious calm, Robin watched mindlessly until, with evening drawing in, she suggested a takeaway, and ordered a Deliveroo.
The pizzas had only just been delivered when the buzzer beside the flat door sounded.
‘Robin Ellacott?’ said a tinny male voice, when Robin pressed the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘This is PC Blair Harding. Could we come in?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Robin, pressing the button to let them through the outer door downstairs.
‘What do the police want with you?’ said Linda, looking alarmed.
‘It’s OK,’ said Robin soothingly. ‘I’ve been waiting for this – I gave a statement about something I witnessed at Chapman Farm.’
‘What thing?’
‘Mum, it’s fine,’ said Robin, ‘it’s to do with someone who wasn’t getting proper medical attention. The police said they’d get back to me.’
Rather than be drawn into further explanations, Robin stepped out onto the landing to wait for the police to arrive, wondering how strange the police might think her if she asked for the update on Jacob downstairs, in their car.
The lift doors opened a couple of minutes later to reveal a white male officer and a far shorter Asian policewoman, whose black hair was pulled back into a bun. Both looked serious, and Robin felt suddenly anxious: was Jacob dead?
‘Hi,’ she said apprehensively.
‘Robin Ellacott?’
‘Yes – is this is about Jacob?’
‘That’s right,’ said the policewoman, glancing at the open door to Robin’s flat. ‘Is that where you live?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, disconcerted by the sternness of the officers’ expressions.
