All These Perfect Strangers (17 page)

A murmur from behind me and my attention quickly moved back into the room. I watched Rogan turn and settle down in the bed, not missing me. Pulling the dressing gown back on, I sat at my desk, studying the shape of his body. Rogan didn't need to know what I had done. No one did. I would take this terrible thing and tuck it away deep inside me where I kept all the other terrible things. Locked away for good. My own personal vault.

There would be a funeral, of course, but then it might not even be here. Her parents could fly in and take Rachel to be buried far away. Even if it was here, I could cope with that. I had coped with worse. The policeman's funeral had been held in my town's church, all sandstone and stained glass. People had crammed into it, including Tracey and her family. Her dad was standing in the council elections and had a good chance at becoming mayor. He had been in Rotary with the policeman. Hundreds more stood in the park outside, including Mum and me, and listened to a crackling Police Minister vow that ‘no stone would be left unturned to bring the perpetrators to justice', on the temporary PA that had been rigged up. Mum snorted when she heard that. ‘Take them out the back and beat them to death, more like it.' We waited on the main street behind the line of blue uniforms that made up a guard of honour. It stretched past the church, along the park and reached the court house. The hearse drove past slowly, following the drones from a lone bagpiper. ‘Wouldn't want your house to get robbed today,' said Mum, as the black car turned the corner. ‘Not a copper working west of the mountains. They're all bloody here.'

Rogan stirred again, and as I turned to look at him, Mum, the hearse, the bagpipes, all vanished. Rogan in my bed was more than I'd hoped for. There had been a high price but already I was telling myself that it was too late for regrets. Rogan and I could outlive what happened to Rachel. It would be a tragedy with a happy ending, I thought, mesmerised by the way his hair fell across his forehead, the hollow of his collarbone, his face relaxed with all of the anger and tension from the night gone. I wondered if this was what it felt like to be in love.

There was the gunning of an engine, a screech of tyres, and laughter spilled from the dark. Peering out of the window, I could see Emelia's car had pulled into the car park. She killed the engine and more people than seemed possible to fit in began getting out. They were coming home from the nightclubs in town. I wondered how far she would go to get Rogan into her bed. Not as far as I had.

‘I should leave,' said Rogan.

He turned to face me, his head resting on his arm.

‘You don't need to.'

‘You're not sleeping.'

I moved from the window, back to the bed. ‘That's not your fault.'

But he was already getting dressed, reclaiming his clothes from a couple of hours before. His fingers fumbled on zips and buckles. There was something furtive about the way he was doing this, like he was trying to escape.

‘I need another shower anyway.' His voice was deep, not quite awake yet.

‘All right.' I was not well acquainted with after-sex etiquette. My limited experiences had been fumbled encounters in looking for affection with boys who wanted to screw the ‘bad' girl in town and then would pretend not to know me when I saw them next.

‘Marcus said his office at ten. Remember, we hardly saw her.'

I didn't look at him but stared up at the ceiling. The bed held a residue of his warmth.

‘How's the foot?' he asked, grabbing one of his shoes.

I tried to flex it, stiff from bandages, and felt a gasping streak of pain.

‘Guess I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, not waiting for my answer.

‘Guess so.'

He turned and reached for the door and as it opened, I could feel the outside world come rushing in. Alone in my room, I fell back on the bed with guilt pressing down on me, sitting on my chest, clutching at my throat. I lay there a long time, paralysed, on sheets that smelt sour.

Limping badly down the stairs, arching my foot so I didn't put pressure on my cut, I steeled myself for hearing Rachel's name and pockets of silence when people saw me. But I passed discussions comparing hangovers, plans for the rest of the weekend and the general whir of college life. It seemed unbelievable, in a place where minor rumours travelled at warp speed, that somehow people didn't yet know. But as long as they didn't, I could cling to the last moments of normality.

I almost made it to the dining hall when I heard Kesh calling out my name.

‘Wait up,' she said, apologising her way through people who had finished breakfast.

I tried to look like I was in a hurry and couldn't stop but I was walking at a snail's pace.

‘I've been looking for you but you weren't at breakfast. Did you have a good time last night? I heard you were kissing Rogan at the bar.' She gave a squeal and luckily seemed to think this was answer enough to her question. ‘Anyway, have you seen Rachel? I've knocked and knocked on her door but no answer. She probably had a big night as well but it's just her clothes are all dry and she wanted them back.'

Right then I envied Kesh more than I could believe possible. If only clothes could be my biggest problem this morning. It was tempting to shrug my shoulders, say I didn't have a clue. Don't ask me, I know nothing about it. But I knew I couldn't do that.

Pulling Kesh out of the line of human traffic, my mind clicked through the euphemisms on offer. All inadequate. ‘Are you all right?' she asked, confused.

‘Rachel's dead.'

She blinked slowly with surprise but then began to laugh.

‘You're kidding? She must be furious. She had her heart set on winning, especially after she killed Joad. Maybe I'll leave her alone for a bit ‘til she's calmed down.' Her smile disappeared when she noticed the bandaging on my foot. ‘That looks nasty.'

I nearly left it there. I could tell her it was just an accident, hobble away and let someone else explain to her what I meant. But as I looked back down the corridor I saw the Sub-Dean walking towards us with two solid shapes behind him.

‘No, she really is dead. It happened last night.'

My words were too loud as the corridor suddenly silenced on seeing the police. Heads turned our way and then back to them.

‘What do you mean?' Tears began to roll down her cheeks and I felt conspicuously dry-eyed, detached from the reaction which was beginning to swell around me.

‘I can't explain now. The police are here.'

I couldn't keep looking at her and I began to walk away. She grabbed my arm to stop me. ‘Tell me what happened.'

I pulled away and my hand accidentally hit her. ‘Not now, Kesh.'

The Sub-Dean, wearing an ugly brown suit, bobbed like a cork as he worked his way through the throng. I watched students do a double take as they saw who was walking behind him. Some slunk away, clearly unnerved, probably disappearing to dispose of any evidence of their own petty law-breaking. Kesh's arm fell to her side. The Sub-Dean passed us, saying curtly, ‘Ms Sheppard, this way.'

I waited until after the police walked by, a man and a woman. Kesh shrunk back, making room to let them through. But I felt a flicker of hope at the sight of their uniforms, the crisp light-blue shirts and dark-blue pants. They were not detectives. This was not a homicide investigation. Rogan was right. Maybe this could be a formality. Something inside me shifted and I realised that it wasn't just guilt that I had felt. It was also fear.

I walked down the corridor, leaving Kesh quietly sobbing behind me. Rogan was already sitting outside Marcus's office. His face was beautiful with his hair slicked back. There was a nick on the underside of his chin where he had cut himself shaving. Carol, wearing a black suit as if in mourning, was sitting at her desk, her eyes solemn. ‘Go straight in,' she told us.

Marcus was standing by the French windows, contemplating the garden, a dark-blue suit on today, but no tie. A chink in the armour or a nod to the weekend, I wasn't sure. He turned towards us.

‘Sit down. The Sub-Dean is organising coffees for the police.' Marcus gestured to a row of wooden chairs perched opposite his table. They had been placed in a u-shape formation. He sat down and frowned at us.

‘This has been a most unfortunate accident but we mustn't allow things to get out of hand. It is important that I do the talking here. You are not to volunteer anything. Only answer if they ask a direct question. If it starts to get difficult I will halt proceedings and state we want a lawyer present. Do you understand?'

Rogan nodded and I did the same. This was how you dealt with the police. I felt instinctively grateful that Marcus was protecting me.

A knock on the door and the Sub-Dean ushered in the police. The man was balancing a fine china cup and saucer. Carol was hovering in the background.

‘Thank you, Bryan,' said Marcus. ‘No need for you to stay.'

The Sub-Dean rocked back and forth on his heels at this dismissal, but then after an audible exhale of disapproval said, ‘Very well.'

The police sat down, perched on chairs in front of Marcus. It was as if he was conducting the interview, not the other way around. A subtle power play.

He introduced us and them, Sergeant Durham and Constable Morriset.

Sitting across from blue uniforms brought up old memories and my stomach clenched at the thought of them. My hands trembled, so I laid them in my lap, pressing hard against my legs. Rogan was staring straight ahead, his foot tapping the floor. Trying to keep calm, I remembered what Bob had told me to do in the witness box. Listen. Focus. Breathe. I kept saying to myself that this was not three years ago. This was different.

I shuffled around with my chair but really I was looking at the woman, the constable. She sat nearest to me with the sergeant on the far side of her. Mid-twenties, I thought, though the uniform gave her an ageless quality. Strong swimmer shoulders and hair scraped back in a perfect bun under her cap. She was looking around the room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling books, the photographs with politicians, the shiny emblem from his last university. She frowned when she caught sight of the picture of the boy hanging behind the desk. Her steady brown eyes swung back to Marcus, her face changing from neutral to disapproving. The man with her was older, dark hair, greying temples, a stomach beginning to bulge over his belt. Her superior. You could tell because she was the one with the notebook out. He had the type of face that had seen too many night shifts and motor accidents. At the moment he seemed more interested in Marcus's desk than the artwork, his hand gently running along it, large square fingers tracing the grain.

‘Nice table,' he said. ‘Lovely bit of wood.'

Marcus sat back in his chair, looking agreeable. ‘Yes, isn't it, Sergeant Durham.'

The sergeant nodded, impressed. ‘Cost a bit.' He held his coffee cup above it. ‘Got a coaster?' Marcus nodded and Carol scurried off to the sideboard and then left.

I began to relax. It was going to be OK. This was all for a file that would end up in some cabinet, forgotten about.

Sergeant Durham put his cup down and sighed. ‘Best get started.'

Marcus cleared his throat. ‘First, let me say, that whatever we can do to assist, will be done. I understand Joshua already spoke to the police last night.'

Rogan nodded his head as if he was a windup toy. Sergeant Durham said that there would be a few questions and Rogan leant forward on his seat. Marcus picked up a file on his desk and, putting on a pair of half-moon glasses, began to leaf through it, as if he was only present as a formality and this didn't require his full attention.

‘Did you see Rachel Brough at the university bar last night?'

Rogan jumped in, talking too quickly. We had seen a lot of people from college and had chatted to Rachel early in the night but she had left before the band started and we didn't see her after that. His answer sounded rehearsed.

‘She left alone?'

‘Yes,' said Rogan. He was definite.

Constable Morriset put down her pen and spoke for the first time, her voice friendly and informal. ‘Wasn't she worried walking around campus at night? What with the attacks?'

Marcus looked up distracted, as if he couldn't quite follow the reasoning. ‘Surely, Ms Brough's death was accidental?'

The constable gave the sort of look which said she was the one asking questions.

Rogan shrugged. ‘She didn't seem worried.'

‘Other people told us that they saw her with you, Joshua,' she continued, ignoring Marcus, focusing on Rogan.

Rogan refused to budge, which was a mistake. He didn't realise that the police listen to lies all the time. They know the sound of them, can see them in your face, eyes, the shape of your body. The sergeant sat next to her, arms folded, not so interested in the table now.

‘Had she taken any drugs?' he asked.

Rogan went all wide-eyed and shook his head, as if we didn't do that sort of thing at Scullin. Both of the police openly smirked at this. Rachel had taken drugs and an autopsy would only confirm it. Constable Morriset turned to me. ‘How about you, Penelope? Did you see her later on?'

‘Yes,' I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Rogan . . . I mean Joshua didn't know.' I turned to him and tried to look apologetic, as if I had only just this moment remembered it. ‘It was in the girls' toilets. She was fine.'

All the time I was speaking, Marcus watched me. His eyebrows disapproved. I was talking too much.

‘Did Rachel regularly take drugs?' the constable asked me.

I started saying that she didn't but Marcus interrupted again. ‘I was under the impression that Ms Brough drowned in the river.'

‘Drugs are believed to be involved,' said the sergeant.

His words hit me sideways. I had told myself I was responsible but hearing it out loud was still a shock. Bile rose and for a second I thought I would be sick. Next to me, Rogan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.