‘Very well.’
‘Did you socialise outside work?’
Socialise. It’s an odd word and seems too organised for the kind of relationship we had: walks with Herbert, meals where we ate and drank slightly too much, long chats on Facebook Messenger about Strictly Come Dancing.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘When did you last see Ella?’
‘On Friday night. We went to the cinema then out for a meal.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘With Debra Green. She teaches history at Talgarth High.’
‘What film did you see?’
‘The new Blade Runner,’ I say.
‘I want to see that,’ says DS Winston, speaking for almost the first time. ‘Was it any good?’
‘A bit long,’ I say, ‘not as good as the first film.’ I’d slept for most of the second half, could only remember Ryan Gosling walking very slowly through the snow, a single tear trickling down his face. I can hardly believe that we’re sitting here discussing a film while Ella is lying dead somewhere.
‘Did you hear from Ella on Sunday?’ asks Kaur.
‘No. I texted her before the Strictly results but didn’t get an answer.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Seven-ish.’
‘Is that what you were doing all evening? Watching television?’
‘Some of the time. And I did some preparation for Monday. For the creative writing course.’
‘Were you on your own all evening?’
‘No, my daughter Georgia was with me.’
‘All evening?’
‘Yes. She was in her room for most of the time but she was in the house.’
‘And on Monday you were teaching a creative writing course? That’s at Talgarth High too, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. They run adult education courses during half-term.’
‘Where is your daughter now?’
‘She’s gone to visit her dad. I took her to the station on Monday morning. She’ll be back tomorrow.’ Simon’s driving her down, which is good. Except that I’ll have to see him. Which is bad.
Kaur and Winston exchange glances. This must indicate a change in tone because Kaur leans back in my sagging armchair and says, ‘What sort of a woman was Ella?’
It seems very important that I answer this question in the right way. Ella is the victim here, I don’t want her to end up being blamed for her own murder, in the way that women often are. DS Kaur might seem like the sort of person who would wear a ‘This is what a feminist looks like’ T-shirt but I don’t trust her. The question is inviting me to say that Ella had a sex life and so must, therefore, bear some responsibility for the fact that she has ended up dead. Stabbed. Multiple times. So I scroll through my memories of Ella; copying, replaying, deleting.
‘She was a lovely person,’ I say. ‘Very intelligent, a lot of fun. Everyone liked her.’
Except someone obviously didn’t. I plough on, ‘Ella was a great teacher. The kids loved her. They’ll be devastated when they find out . . .’
Kaur seems not to register this. ‘Did Ella have a boyfriend?’ she asks.
I knew it. ‘Not that I know of,’ I say.
‘Any exes?’
‘In the past,’ I say carefully. ‘Nobody recent.’
‘Did she talk about any one in particular?’
‘She mentioned someone from her old school in Wales. Bradley something.’
Kaur makes a note. ‘And she never mentioned anyone bothering her? Stalking her on Facebook? That sort of thing?’
Later I’m going to have to force myself to look at Ella’s Facebook page. But not until I’ve had at least two glasses of wine.
‘No,’ I say.
I think they are going to ask more, so am surprised when they start up, as synchronised as if responding to a secret signal.
‘Thank you,’ says Kaur. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ says Winston, on his way out. It sounds like a line from an American cop programme. Kaur, who stops to pat Herbert in a firm way that keeps him away from her trousers, says nothing.
When they’ve gone I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. As I do so, I notice the post that I scooped up earlier. There are a few official-looking letters in brown envelopes, which I ignore, and one that looks very different, with thick, creamy paper and an embossed stamp from St Jude’s College, Cambridge.
I know it’s ridiculous but my first thought was Georgie. She’s only fifteen, she hasn’t taken any exams yet, why would a Cambridge college be writing to me about her? And, while Georgie is undoubtedly clever, it’s clear that her intention is to glide through her school years on the minimum of work. I’ve already revised my expectations down from Oxbridge, through the Russell Group, to any good university with en-suite halls of residence. But I could read the words as if I’d already opened the envelope. ‘Come to our attention . . . supremely gifted student . . . open scholarship.’
But the letter isn’t offering Georgie an unconditional place at Girton. All the same, it is interesting.
Dear Ms Cassidy,
I understand that you are in the process of writing a book about the life and works of R.M. Holland. I have recently come into possession of some letters which I think might interest you. I would be happy to show them to you if you care to visit me. I have some free time in the week beginning 23rd October.
Yours sincerely,
Henry H. Hamilton
Senior Lecturer in English
I look at this missive for a long time. It’s as if I’ve received a letter from the nineteenth century, almost from Holland himself. There’s a Victorian feel to that prim middle initial. Where did this Henry Hamilton even find my postal address? My email address is easy enough, it’s on the school website and is, anyway, not hard to work out. Is that how this august-sounding personage found me? Please God, don’t let him have watched the TV programme. Has HHH been watching me on YouTube? And what could these letters be, too precious to post or even scan?
My phone buzzes. I hope that it’s Georgie but it’s Debra.
‘Are you home?’ she says.
‘Yes, got in about an hour ago.’
‘I’ve just rung Ella’s parents.’
I should do this too, but I’m dreading it. I met Nigel and Sarah Elphick once and they seemed a sweet, gentle couple. Ella was their only child.