---

Sam decides to walk again between Victoria’s house and Sylvie’s, as if by going in the opposite direction he could rewind the night Victoria died. He finds himself standing at the top of the park across from the ‘halfway house’ that Peter had mentioned, deciding whether to go over.

At first glance, there’s nothing much to set it out from the rest of the large houses that stretch out down the hill like a row of dominoes. Just a small sign, if you’re looking closely, marks it out as something different. ‘Camden House’, the sign reads, a design you associate with hospitals or doctor’s surgeries. You might assume that it was a retirement home. A woman in a tabard is sorting recycling into the wheelie bin. She turns once then twice to Sam. ‘Can I help you, love?’ Her tone is open, not confrontational. Sam crosses over the road.

‘My name’s Sam,’ he says.

‘You looking for some help?’ The woman looks confused; she’s eyeing Sam up, trying to work him out.

‘Not exactly. I—’

‘I’m sorry, love. It’s referral only here. I can give you some information, though, if you like.’

‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘I see. Listen, I can’t give you any details on people staying here. Not even for family. Sorry, love. That’s up to them.’

Sam goes closer to the gate. ‘It’s not that.’

The woman shifts further round now, more defensive, the light from inside the building behind her.

‘I’m a film-maker. I’m making a documentary about the death of Victoria Preston.’

He waits for the woman to go into the house, slam the door, but she doesn’t. ‘Oh, right, I’d heard you were in town. I was wondering when you’d come over. I expected it to be sooner.’

The woman looks up at the windows above, then at her watch. Some lights are on upstairs. ‘I’ve got fifteen minutes now, if you want to come in?’

They go inside. ‘Tracey,’ the woman says. ‘Come through here.’

They go into a small narrow room with no windows. Against one wall is a table with a computer on it. One chair in front of it, one at the end of the table. It reminds Sam of a doctor’s consulting room. Tracey gestures for him to take a seat.

‘So, how’s it going? Your “film”,’ Tracey asks. She makes quote marks in the air with her fingers.

‘Not bad, you know.’

‘Like trying to get blood out of a stone?’

‘In some ways, you could say.’

‘I’ll bet.’

There’s a knock on the door.

‘What?’ Tracey says and a man pops his head in, an arm in a stripy jumper coming round to hug the door. ‘Is it urgent, Terry?’

‘I’ll come back,’ he says.

‘Thanks, love.’ She winks at the man at the door, then turns back to Sam.

‘How long have you worked here?’ he asks.

‘I’ve worked here about seventeen years or so, since I was in my mid-thirties.’

‘So you weren’t working here when Victoria died.’

Tracey hesitates, her tongue on her upper lip. ‘I said I’ve worked here seventeen years. I was here the summer Victoria died, as a resident.’

‘Right.’ Sam doesn’t know how to react.

‘I had some issues myself when I was younger,’ Tracey says. ‘I like to think it gives me an insight into where people are coming from. Or something. Except everybody’s weird; everyone has their own idiosyncrasies, don’t they? Tell you what, you could make a documentary about this place. We’ve got some great stories of people who’ve turned their lives around.’

‘You don’t find that people round here mind?’ Sam says. ‘They don’t bother that somewhere like this is on their doorstep?’

‘Somewhere “like this”?’ Tracey does the air quotations thing again.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘And I’m sure they’ve told you they mind?’

Sam holds his hands up, caught out, and Tracey raises her eyebrows, good-humoured.

‘We’ve a few Nimbys, of course. It’s to be expected. And we’ve had our moments. But I’d say we’ve a good relationship with the community now. The police, local residents. We rub along OK.’

‘So did you know Victoria?’

‘Not as such, no, but I know she lived round here. I saw her in the paper and on the telly and I’d seen her coming and going.’

‘Did you hear any rumours about what might have happened to her?’ Sam says.

‘What, because of the kind of people who stay here? They’re covering up what happened to her?’ Tracey shakes her head to herself.

‘I didn’t say that,’ Sam says. ‘Would you be up for being interviewed for the film?’ He starts to get his camera and tripod out. ‘It’s not actually commissioned yet, but I’m making a reel to start pitching it out.’

‘Not on camera.’ Tracey looks across at the door, playing with loose skin on her lip between her teeth. ‘I don’t want this place dragged through the mud.’

‘OK…’ Sam says, a flutter in his stomach. That feeling that he might be on to something. ‘Did you see something?’ he prompts her.

‘Well, it maybe isn’t much, but it’s always stuck with me.’ She picks up a biro and lets the tip bounce off the desk over and over.

Sam shifts forwards in his seat.

‘This has already been reported to the police, you know, and they weren’t interested. That’s the only reason I’m telling you. At least you’ve had the good grace to ask.’ Tracey shakes her head.

‘What did you see?’

‘I think the police thought I just wanted the reward money. That I was a drunk. I guess I wasn’t the right kind of witness.’

‘What did you tell them?’

Tracey lowers her voice. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it now. But I’m sure I didn’t. I know I didn’t.’ There’s a long pause then Tracey says, ‘Follow me.’

They leave the office and go up a staircase with a wooden bannister and a shabby carpet. At one time, this place would have been a grand old house. Tracey checks around then opens the first door at the top of the stairs with a key from a bunch hanging off her waist.

‘We’ve no one staying in this one at the minute,’ Tracey says. ‘But it used to be mine.’

In the room there is just a single bed, a small chest of drawers and a cheap, mismatched wardrobe. A paper shade covers the bright, white bulb. There’s a big window with no curtain or blind, just a deep ledge like a shelf with two flattened cushions on it.

Tracey pats it. ‘I used to sit in the window. Best seat in the house.’

Sam goes closer and looks out. From the outside, the window doesn’t stand out, obscured by the trees. But from in here you can see clearly right across the park and along the street.

Tracey comes and stands next to Sam. ‘It made me feel calmer just watching people walking around, and the traffic and the night,’ she says. ‘I’d seen the two girls before, coming and going. Hanging about in the park. I’d seen them say goodbye halfway a few times before, like they said they did that night.’

‘OK and you saw something the night she died?’ Sam asks.

Tracey steps back from the window. ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly something. It was someone. Well, not “someone”, really.’

‘Victoria?’ Sam says.

‘Yes, I saw Victoria. And she went past the park, towards the phone box. Like they said on the news and all that.’

‘OK, so…’ Sam can feel himself deflating. She hasn’t given him anything new.

‘That’s the thing, you see? I only saw one of them. The other one… Sylvie, wasn’t it…? She wasn’t there. I’m sure of it. There was just one girl.’

‘And how can you be sure it was that night?’

‘It was the first thing I thought of when I heard the story on the news. And then when I saw the reconstruction film, I was sure,’ Tracey says straight away.

‘Only Victoria was there?’ Sam says it as much to himself as a genuine question.

‘Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. I’m just telling you because I’ve tried everything else. The police, the family.’

Sam looks out across the park. ‘Hang on. You say you’ve told the family?’

Tracey nods. ‘At the time, just after she was found, I phoned the helpline like they said. But the police just dismissed it. When I saw the mum on the news a few weeks ago, I sent an email into that website they have asking for information.’

‘So it was recent then?’ Sam says.

‘A few weeks ago, a bit after I saw her on the news. I dithered for a while because I’ve tried before, like I said, but I did email. ’ Tracey narrows her eyes at Sam. ‘Do you not believe me?’

‘I didn’t say I don’t believe you,’ Sam says. ‘I’m just thinking.’

‘I’ll show you.’ Tracey sets off out of the room and waits for Sam to follow her so she can lock it. Back in the office she wakes up her computer and stands leaning over the desk, scowling at the screen.

After a few clicks the printer starts whirring. She snatches the paper off when it’s done and hands it to Sam, putting her hands on her hips. There’s an auto-response confirming the email has been received and Tracey’s email detailing what she told Sam she saw.

‘Can I keep this?’

‘Well, I don’t need it, do I?’ Tracey shuts the email down again. ‘Sorry, Sam, but I’m going to need to get on now.’

‘OK, well, thanks for the info.’

She sees him to the door. ‘And think on, you know where we are if you wanted to give people a real look at what it’s like here, who the residents are,’ Tracey says, the door already coming towards Sam.

‘Will do,’ he says, hitching his camera bag onto his shoulder.

‘Trouble is it just wouldn’t pull the viewers in like a pretty dead girl, would it?’ Tracey closes the door and becomes a dark shape behind the small pane of glass.

---

Sam gets back to the hotel as quickly as he can, not even taking his coat off before delving into the bottom of the wardrobe and retrieving the thick ring binder Judith had given him when he first contacted her. He’s already been through it once to pull out any anomalies or urgent things to follow up. Tracey’s comments didn’t ring any bells.

Judith has neatly placed all the emails and statements released to her by the police into the binder in date order. Not even the edges of the paper are curled or crumpled. There are around fifteen emails since Judith’s recent appeal on TV. One says they’ve seen someone who looks like Victoria in another town, another that they’d heard someone scream in the street that night but nowhere near the lake or Victoria’s house. The police had already ruled out a connection, but Sam planned to follow it up later anyway. Mostly they reiterate what’s already known: there was a party at the house, the girls often hung around in the park. But there’s nothing from Tracey, nothing saying that Victoria walked home, or to the phone box, alone that night.

Sam checks the date of the email and cross-checks in the file. There are emails either side, but Tracey’s… it isn’t there.