The It Girl(7)

Neville’s lawyer, Clive Merritt, said that his client was in the process of preparing a fresh appeal when he died. “He went to his grave protesting his innocence,” Merritt told the BBC. “It’s a huge injustice that his chance of overturning his conviction dies with him.”

The Clarke-Cliveden family were unavailable for comment.



Hannah’s hands are trembling. It’s been so long since she voluntarily sought out news of Neville that she’d forgotten how it feels to be confronted with his name, with the memories of April, and worst of all with their pictures. There are only a few shots out there of Neville—the one used most is his college ID, a glowering image like a police mug shot, where he stares uncompromisingly out of the screen at the viewer, his gaze discomfitingly direct. Seeing his face is enough of a jolt, but the pieces Hannah really hates are the ones that focus on April—lissome social media snaps of her sprawled in punts, draped over other students, their faces pixelated to protect a privacy long since ripped away from her.

Worst of all are the shots of her dead body.

Those pictures aren’t supposed to be out there, but of course they are. You can find anything on the internet, and before Hannah learned to stop searching, long before she figured out how to use incognito tabs, Google’s algorithm identified her as someone with an interest in the Pelham Strangler, offering up clickbait articles on the subject with a sickening regularity.

Is this helpful? her phone would ask, and after she had clicked Not Interested enough times, stabbing the screen with such force that her shaking fingers felt the shock of impact long after she had put the phone away, eventually it got the message and stopped showing her the links. But even now, occasionally one will slip through, prompted by some inscrutable inner quirk deep in the workings of Google’s news algorithm, and she will open up her phone to see April smiling out at her, with that clear direct gaze that still stabs her to the heart, even ten years on. And every now and again someone will track her down, and an email will ping, unsolicited, into her inbox. Are you the Hannah Jones who was involved with the April Clarke-Cliveden murder? I’m writing a piece a college essay a psychological profile / an article on John Neville’s appeal.

At first she replied, angrily, using words like morbid and vulture. Then, when she’d learned that only made them keep trying or include her furious emails in their article as attributed quotes, she changed tack. No. My name is Hannah de Chastaigne. I can’t help you.

But that was a mistake too. It wasn’t just that it felt like a betrayal of April. For the researchers to have gotten this far, to have tracked down her email address, they knew. They knew who Will was, and they knew who she was, and the fact that she had taken Will’s name on marriage did nothing to obscure her tracks.

“Why don’t you just ignore them?” Will asked, baffled, when she told him about them. “That’s what I do.”

And of course he was right. Now she simply doesn’t reply. But still, she can’t quite bring herself to delete them. So they sit there, in a special folder buried deep at the bottom of her inbox. It’s titled Requests. Just that. And one day, she keeps promising herself, one day when it’s all over, she will erase the whole lot.

But somehow that day has never quite come.

Now she’s wondering if it ever will.

She is about to shut down the screen when she looks, for the first time, at the photograph accompanying the article. It’s not one of April. It’s Neville. But it’s a shot she’s never seen before—not the hatchet-faced ID card she knows so well, nor the snatched paparazzi snap of him sticking two fingers up at reporters outside court. No, this one must have been taken much later, at one of his many appeals, probably quite a recent one. He looks old, and more than that, he looks frail. He has lost weight, and although it’s not possible that he’s lost height, he looks so far removed from the towering figure Hannah remembers that it’s hard to believe they are the same person. He’s dressed in a prison uniform that seems to hang off his gaunt frame, and he is staring at the camera with a haunted, hunted expression that seems to suck the viewer into his nightmare.

“Excuse me.” The terse voice comes from behind her and she jumps, realizing that she has ground to a halt in the middle of King’s Stables underpass, and a woman is trying to get past.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammers, shutting down the phone with hands that aren’t quite steady and shoving it into her pocket as though it has been contaminated by the image on the screen. “Sorry.”

The woman pushes past with a shake of her head, and Hannah starts for home. But even as she comes out of the dark underpass, into the autumn sunlight, she can still feel it—still feel his eyes upon her, that dark, hunted gaze, like he is beseeching her for something—she just doesn’t know what.



* * *



IT’S QUITE DARK BY THE time Hannah finally turns into Stockbridge Mews, her feet sore with walking, and she has to search in her handbag for the keys, cursing the fact that no one has replaced the burned-out bulb above the shared front door.

But at last she is inside, up the stairs, and the door of their flat is closed behind her.

For a long time she just stands there, her back against the door, feeling the silence of the flat all around her. She is home before Will, and she’s glad—glad of this moment to just stand there in the cool, quiet welcome of their little flat, letting it wash over her.