She clicked on Libby’s tag and went through to her page. Two hundred and four pictures. Swipe, swipe, swipe. The most recent ones all moody, fish-faced selfies, in a bathroom or bedroom, wearing make-up in a haphazard way, always trying to look older, more sexual, hand on hip, chin out, the universal teenage pose for social media. Ellie wondered where they learned it. At that age Ellie had been a bumbling, childish mess, painfully shy, no social skills. She could never have imagined posting pictures of herself in a tight dress for everyone to see, opening herself up to so much hurtful spite, psychological damage. What was the obsession with being connected?
She flicked back to Logan’s page and posted quickly.
So missed, always, xxx
She clicked ‘like’ on Melissa’s comment then turned away from the sea and back into town.
12
The street looked normal. No flashing lights, no police cars, no news reporters hanging around. Ellie didn’t know what she was expecting, but maybe in the back of her mind she thought there would be a fuss, a sign that something out of the ordinary had happened here. But of course that’s not how it worked. Someone gets stabbed, taken to hospital, the police ask around then leave. That absence seemed the most obscene thing. When Logan died she wanted people to stay around forever, fussing about it, collecting information, seeking answers. As soon as they were all gone and she was alone in the house with Ben she thought she would die. She wanted to die. As long as other people were there, distracting her, she could keep breathing.
As she walked down Inchcolm Terrace she thought about being here earlier today, touching the front door, seeing Sam’s dad on the floor, running out the back door.
She approached Sam’s house making sure to keep her pace steady, one foot in front of the other. She walked past it, only glancing at the house casually, as if it was any old place. The lights were on all over the house, curtains closed. She pictured Sam’s mum sitting with her head in her hands. A large brandy at her side, maybe. How much did she know? Where did she think Sam was?
Ellie walked past two more houses until she was at one with no lights on. Without breaking stride she turned up the path, round the side of the house into the back garden. Over the wall, into a crouching run across the neighbours’ grass, then over the low fence into the McKennas’ place.
Lights were on at the back of the house, the kitchen where Ellie had been earlier. She pictured her fingerprints on the patio door. A movement inside the kitchen made her shift back into the shadow of an elm tree. Alison, a tousle of dark hair, hoodie and joggers, her face crumpled with worry. She held a large wine glass loosely by the stem, dregs of red in the bottom. She stood at the sink and stared out the window, then grabbed a wine bottle and filled her glass up, took a big swig.
Alison turned and Ellie saw Libby come into the kitchen. She was wearing an oversized Aran jumper and checked jammy trousers. Alison spoke but Libby ignored her, opening the fridge and taking out a can of Diet Coke. Alison moved towards her, spoke again. Libby closed the fridge and left the room without making eye contact. The silent treatment, not even a hard stare. Alison rubbed at her forehead and took another slug from her glass.
Ellie had seen enough.
She left over the back wall, landing in the same street she’d been in earlier, the approach road to the bridge just over the embankment. She began walking home past the bridge visitor centre, through the tour-bus car park. She stopped to watch the traffic on the bridge. It took on a different character at night, more lonely and somehow ominous, as if each vehicle carried an individual’s fragile hopes with it, people striving to get somewhere. The street light near her buzzed and she felt a thrumming energy through her body.
She checked the local news apps on her phone. No updates on Jack McKenna that she could find. She wondered about Twitter, if there might be more stuff on there. She should set up an account, get Ben to show her how it worked.
She headed down the access road, felt her heart sink as the traffic noise receded. All those people zipping overhead, trundling along in their metal bubbles, connected through the concrete and steel of the bridge.
She gave up checking her phone as she reached the bottom of the hill. Stood at the junction and looked both ways. To her left was Shore Road, the marina at the end. To her right were her home and the police station.
She had a thought and checked her watch. 9.45 p.m. Not so late it would seem weird. She walked to the police station, its blue-and-white chequered sign a beacon outside. The station was a jumble of low stone boxes, anonymous except for the sign and the bright blue handrail by the wheelchair ramp outside. A small half-barrel of flowers sat beneath the noticeboard at the front door and two cop cars were parked outside the garage alongside.
She tried the door. Locked. Lights were on inside, though. She pressed the buzzer. A woman, younger than her, peered out from behind a desk and reached underneath with her hand. Ellie heard a buzz-click and pushed open the door. Her breath seemed to be narrowing her throat.
‘Can I help you?’
The policewoman had a copy of Glamour magazine in front of her and the look on her face said she didn’t like being taken away from it.
Ellie put on a smile. ‘Hi.’
The officer had a name badge pinned above her left breast. Lennon. She was in her mid-twenties, and Ellie thought of that line about police officers getting younger. Lennon was trying her best with the uniform, the shapeless blouse cinched at her waist to a tight skirt, her hair backcombed in a big bun like girls were always doing these days, subtle make-up, enough for a work situation but not so much to arouse comment. Her nails were impeccably matched to her make-up and her skin looked beautiful and soft. Ellie wanted to reach out and touch her cheek.
‘I love your nails,’ she said.
Lennon held them out and smiled. ‘Thanks. What can I do for you?’
‘I was just passing and I thought about that terrible thing that happened today, up the road. The police officer who got hurt.’
Lennon shook her head. ‘It was awful.’
‘Is the officer OK?’
‘Do you know him?’
Ellie tilted her head. ‘No, I was just concerned. I only live round the corner from here and thought I’d pop in and ask.’
Lennon sized her up. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eleanor,’ Ellie said. ‘Eleanor Sharp.’
Her voice sounded ridiculous in her own ears, wobbly and neurotic. Her pulse roared in her head.
Lennon looked Ellie up and down. Ellie wondered what she saw, a middle-aged busybody sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. She probably got ten of them every shift.
Lennon shook her head. ‘I can’t say anything, it’s an ongoing investigation.’
‘Can you at least tell me if he’s going to be OK?’
Lennon. ‘I’m really not at liberty to say.’
‘Is he still in hospital?’
Lennon’s gaze narrowed. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Just wondered,’ Ellie said. What was she hoping to achieve here?
‘I can’t say any more, Ms . . .’
Ellie struggled to remember the name she gave. ‘Sharp.’
She turned to go, trying not to move too fast. ‘Well, I hope the officer is back home soon with his family. And I hope you find whoever was responsible.’
Lennon sat up straight. ‘Don’t worry, we will. We don’t muck around when it comes to one of our own.’
‘I’ll bet.’ Ellie was heading for the door.
Lennon stared after her. ‘Where did you say you lived, Ms Sharp?’
Ellie had the door open. ‘Just up the road. Anyway, thanks, sorry to be a bother.’
She turned and left without waiting to see if Lennon had anything else to say. She strode along Shore Road and got her phone out, Googled the number for ERI and called it.