Good Girl, Bad Blood (A Good Girl's Guide to Murder #2)(7)

That was Cara’s way of getting through the last six months; her new normal. Hiding behind the quips and one-liners that made others squirm and fall silent. Most people don’t know how to react when someone jokes about their father who murdered a person and kidnapped another. But Pip knew exactly how to react: she crouched and hid behind the one-liners too, so that Cara always had someone right there next to her. That was how she helped.

‘Note taken. Although not sure my grandma can cope with any more. You know Naomi’s had this new idea: apparently she wants to burn all of Dad’s stuff. Grandparents obviously said no and got straight on the phone to our therapist.’

‘Burn it?’

‘I know, right?’ Cara said. ‘She’d accidentally summon a demon or something. I probably shouldn’t tell him; he still thinks Naomi will turn up one day.’

Cara visited her dad in Woodhill Prison once a fortnight. She said it didn’t mean she’d forgiven him, but, after all, he was still her dad. Naomi had not seen him once and said she never would.

‘So, what time does the memorial – hold on, Grandpa’s talking to me . . . yes?’ Cara called, her voice directed away from the phone. ‘Yeah, I know. Yeah, I am.’

Cara’s grandparents – her mum’s parents – had moved into the house with them last November, so Cara had some doctor-ordered stability until she finished school. But April was almost over, and exams and the end of school were fast approaching. Too fast. And when summer arrived, they would put the Wards’ house on the market and move the girls back to their home in Great Abington. At least they’d be close when Pip started university in Cambridge. But Little Kilton wasn’t Little Kilton without Cara, and Pip quietly wished the summer would never come.

‘OK. Goodnight Grandpa.’

‘What was that?’

‘Oh, you know, it’s gone ten thirty so it’s suuuuuuuper late and past “lights out” time and I should have been in bed hours ago and not chatting to my “girlfriends”. Plural. At this rate, I’ll probably never have a girlfriend, let alone multiple, plus no one has said “lights out” since like the seventeen hundreds,’ she huffed.

‘Well, the light bulb was invented in 1879 so –’

‘Ugh, please stop. Have you got it lined up?’

‘Almost,’ Pip said, dragging her finger across the mousepad. ‘We’re on episode four, yes?’

This had started in December, when Pip first realized Cara wasn’t really sleeping. Not surprising, really; lying in bed at night is always when the worst thoughts come. And Cara’s were worse than most. If only Pip could stop her listening to them, distract her into sleep. As kids, Cara was always the first one to go at sleepovers, her light snores disrupting the end of the cheesy horror film. So Pip tried to recreate those childhood sleepovers, calling Cara while they binge-watched Netflix together. It worked. As long as Pip was there, awake and listening, Cara eventually fell asleep, her soft breaths whistling through the phone.

Now they did it every night. They’d started with shows Pip could legitimately argue had ‘educational value’. But they’d been through so many that the standard had slipped somewhat. Still, at least Stranger Things had some historical quality.

‘OK, ready?’ Cara said.

‘Ready.’ It had taken them several attempts to get the shows to run in exact synchronization; Cara’s laptop had a slight delay so she pressed play on one and Pip went on go.

‘Three,’ Pip said.

‘Two.’

‘One.’

‘Go.’





FRIDAY

Three

She knew his footsteps; knew them across carpet and hardwood floors, and knew them now across the gravel on the common car park. She turned and smiled at him, and Ravi’s feet picked up in that small-stepped half-run he always did when he spotted her. It made Pip glow every time.

‘Hey, Sarge,’ he said, pressing the words into her forehead with his lips. His very first nickname for her, now one among dozens.

‘You OK?’ she asked, though she already knew he wasn’t; he’d just over-sprayed deodorant and it was following him around like a fog. That meant he was nervous.

‘Yeah, bit nervous,’ Ravi said. ‘Mum and Dad are already there but I wanted to shower first.’

‘That’s OK, the ceremony doesn’t start until seven thirty,’ Pip said, taking his hand. ‘There are lots of people around the pavilion already, maybe a few hundred.’

‘Already?’

‘Yeah. I walked through on my way home from school and the news vans were already setting up.’

‘Is that why you came in disguise?’ Ravi smiled, tugging at the bottle-green jacket hood pulled over Pip’s head.

‘Just until we get past them.’

It was probably her fault they were here anyway; her podcast had reignited Sal and Andie’s stories on the news cycles. Especially this week, the six-year anniversary of their deaths.

‘How did court go today?’ asked Pip, and then: ‘We can talk about it tomorrow if you don’t want –’

‘No, it’s OK,’ he said. ‘I mean, it wasn’t OK. Today was one of the girls who lived in the same halls as Max at university. They played her 999 call from the morning after.’ Ravi swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘And in cross-examination, Epps went in on her, of course: no DNA profile lifted from the rape kit, no memory, that sort of thing. You know, watching Epps sometimes makes me reconsider if I really want to be a criminal defence solicitor.’