If you would have told me five years ago that I would become this dependent on a dog, I would have laughed. I was never one of those children who adored animals. I was brought up in North London, my parents were both academics and the only animal we owned was a cat called Medusa who was rudely uninterested in anyone but my mother. But, when I got divorced and moved to Sussex, I decided that Georgie needed a dog. A dog would be motivation to get out into the countryside, to go for walks and cut down on the hours spent staring at her phone. She could pour out her teenage angst into its uncomplaining canine ear. I’d benefit too, I thought vaguely; a dog would keep me fit and allow me to meet other dog-walkers. Much better than a book club where there was always the danger that someone would suggest The Girl on the Train.
So we went to a rescue place and we chose Herbert. Or he chose us, because that’s how it works, isn’t it? I wanted a dog that was small enough to pick up in emergencies but not so small that it somehow ceased to be a dog. Herbert’s origins are murky but the rescue place thought that he might be a cross between a cairn terrier and a poodle. He looked, in fact, just like an illustration in a child’s picture book. A white Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy, a creature made by blobbing white paint on the page and adding legs.
And, of course, it was me that fell in love with Herbert. Oh, Georgie loves him. She takes him for walks and endows him with all sorts of anthropomorphic emotions. ‘Herbert feels shy around other dogs. It’s because he’s an only child.’ But I’m the one who dotes on him, who tells him my troubles and lets him sleep on — and often in — my bed. I love him so much that sometimes, when I look at him, I’m quite surprised to see that he’s covered in hair.
Andy, the owner of Doggy Day Care (I know, don’t judge me), is pleased to see me. He’s a genial man who loves a chat. But, at the first sight of Herbert, with his cheerful, understanding woolly face, I find myself wanting to cry. I gather him into my arms, pay Andy and almost run back to the car. I just want to get home with my animal familiar. I stop off at the shops to buy wine and chocolate biscuits, Herbert panting in my ear.
I live in a town house, a terraced two up, two down with a black front door and wrought iron railings. It’s just that this row of town houses is in the middle of the countryside, sheltered by a chalk cliff at the back. They were built to house workers at a cement factory but that’s now derelict (sightless windows, rusting machinery, wind howling through the iron rooftops at night). The houses stay on though, pretty and gentrified, facing a meadow with grazing cows and resolutely ignoring the nightmare edifice behind them. We’re used to the house now; it’s quite convenient for school and not far from Steyning, where there are some nice cafes and a great bookshop. But once in a while I catch sight of the factory and all those gaping windows and think: why would anyone choose to live here?
The slip-road leads only to the houses so it’s a surprise to see a car parked outside mine. Or is it? A feeling of foreboding has been following me all day. In fact, it’s with a dull sense of inevitability that I recognise the car. As I park and unload an excited Herbert, a woman gets out of the vehicle.
‘Hallo,’ she says, ‘are you Clare Cassidy? I’m DS Kaur. Can I come in for a moment?’
Chapter 3
DS Kaur is small with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s probably ten years younger than me, around mid-thirties. She’s a slight, almost girlish, figure but somehow she exudes authority, the way some teachers do. Behind DS Kaur is a man, older than her, greying and loosely put together. He introduces himself as DS Neil Winston. A pair of them, just like on TV.
Herbert tries to jump up on Kaur but I pull him away. After countless training sessions, he’s still determined to embarrass me.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I like dogs.’
She brushes herself down all the same. Actually Herbert’s part poodle so he doesn’t shed much but DS Kaur is not to know this. She’s wearing black trousers with a white shirt and a dark jacket. Plain clothes but anonymous enough to be a uniform. I’m certain that she and Winston are the two people I saw in the car park yesterday.
‘Come in,’ I say. We walk up the path and in through the shiny, urban front door. I pick up the post with one hand and direct my visitors towards the sitting room. Off the lead, Herbert rushes into the kitchen and starts barking at nothing.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I say to Kaur and Winston.
‘No, thank you,’ says Kaur just as Winston says, ‘White, two sugars.’
The bottle in my carrier bag clanks incriminatingly when I put it down in the kitchen. I hope Kaur hasn’t heard. Already I know she’s the one to be reckoned with. I make the tea and put some biscuits on a plate. Then I head back to the sitting room with Herbert frisking at my heels.
‘We’re investigating the murder of Ella Elphick,’ says Kaur as I sit down. ‘I understand that you’ve been informed about this?’
‘Yes. Rick Lewis, my head of department, phoned me yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Kaur. ‘I know it must be an awful shock for you, but we want to talk to all of Ella’s friends and colleagues as soon as possible. We want to try to get a picture of her life so that we can work out who would have done this awful thing.’
‘I thought . . .’ I stop.
‘What did you think?’ says Kaur.
‘I thought — I assumed . . . that she was killed by a stranger. A random attack. A robbery gone wrong.’
‘Most murder victims are killed by people they know,’ says Kaur, ‘and we have reason to believe that this is the case here.’
‘Rick said Ella was stabbed . . .’
‘She was,’ says Kaur. ‘Multiple times.’
‘Oh my God.’
There’s a silence. Winston drinks his tea and Herbert whines softly.
‘So,’ Kaur gets out a notebook. ‘You taught with Ella at Talgarth High. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. We both teach English. Taught. Oh God.’
Kaur waits while I pull myself together.
‘I’m head of Key Stage 3. Ella’s head of Key Stage 4.’
‘Key Stage 3 is . . . ?’
‘Years 7 to 9. Eleven to fourteen-year-olds. Key Stage 4 is Years 10 and 11. The GCSE exam years. Roughly fourteen to sixteen-year-olds.’
‘So you must have worked pretty closely together?’
‘Yes, it’s a small department, only six people. We have weekly meetings and Ella and I worked together on schemes of work, tracking progress, targets, that sort of thing.’
‘Did you get on well?’ asks Kaur. She has no problem with the past tense but then she never knew Ella when she was in the present tense.