Sweat trickles in between my shoulder blades. It is early Friday morning but already the police station is overly warm. I’ve been sitting in reception for nearly an hour now. It is harshly lit and oppressive, and I feel the grey walls are sliding towards me, the ceiling crushing down. The hard, plastic chair I am sitting on is bolted to the floor, and I clutch the seat to stop myself from leaving as I breathe in the same stale air.

Callie’s phone is tucked inside my bag. It’s the only evidence I have that someone was watching her. Following her. If she was having an affair the person following her could be Nathan but I think of how kind he was to me when I fainted and it is hard to believe he could be the cause of Callie’s fear. I don’t know if I am doing the right thing, coming here. The thought of a police car turning up at Tom and Amanda’s, an officer standing solemn in their sweltering lounge informing them Callie’s death is now being classed as suspicious, breaks my heart. Could I be making things worse?

I can’t think clearly. The constant noise is jarring; phones ring, doors slam and radios crackle with static. The man sitting next to me has barbed wire tattooed around his neck, and his clothes stink of smoke. The way his knee jiggles up and down as he flicks open his Zippo lighter before clicking it shut over and over again grates on me.

The door to my left buzzes and squeaks open and a policeman who looks too young to be here calls: ‘Jenna McCauley?’

I stand and nod. ‘I’m Jenna.’

‘I’m PC Hodges, if you’d like to follow me?’ He strides down a seemingly endless corridor.

The soles of my sandals squeak on the dirty white lino as I struggle to keep up. By the time I’m shown into a small room I’m breathless, and I sink gratefully on a chair.

‘You said you had some information for us, regarding a suspicious death?’ PC Hodges’s pencil hovers over his pad, and I’m momentarily thrown.

‘Doesn’t someone else need to be in here?’ I ask. ‘Another policeman?’

‘We’re not formally interviewing you, Miss McCauley.’

‘But you record everything?’ I look around. There’s nothing but blank walls and a small rectangle window that’s so high there’s only clouds to be seen.

‘You’ve been watching too much TV. This is just an informal chat. Let’s start with your name and address.’

His pen scratches on his notebook as I recite my details.

‘And whose death are you here about?’

‘Callie Valentine.’

‘Is she a relative of yours?’

‘No.’

‘Do her family know you are here?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘She was a friend of yours?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Sort of?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ I say, more firmly this time. I tell him about Callie’s accident. ‘But I don’t believe it was an accident.’ PC Hodges’s face remains impassive as I tell him about my visit to the pub, the conversation I’d overheard. ‘And I have this.’ I slide the phone over the table almost triumphantly, and he picks up the handset, making notes as he scrolls through the texts.

‘And this was found in her place of work?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not certain it was hers?’

‘It was in her drawer. Look can’t you just run the number through a computer? It’s proof?’

‘Proof of what? It’s not always that simple, Miss McCauley. If this is a pay-as-you-go phone it will be almost impossible to trace. Even if this phone did belong to Miss Valentine it doesn’t mean her death was suspicious. Wait here.’

He leaves the room and the door bangs shut behind him, and I get up and pace around, doing circuits of the impossibly small room, feeling like a rat in a cage.

Much later, I’ve drained the water in the white plastic cup I was given that crumpled under my grip and I’m sitting again, my head in my hands, when PC Hodges slides back into his seat.

‘It seems we investigated Callie Valentine’s death at the time and it was ruled as accidental.’

‘I know but…’

‘Her family and friends were spoken to. We were very thorough.’

‘But the phone—’

‘We’ll look into it.’ He holds out the handset to me.

‘Shouldn’t you keep it? For evidence?’ I’m insistent now.

‘At this stage it isn’t reason to reopen an investigation, but as I said we’ll look into it and be in touch if anything else comes to light. In the meantime, please feel free to pop back in.’

‘But I got a really strong feeling that…’ I raise my voice.

‘Unfortunately we need more to go on than feelings, Miss McCauley.’ His sarcasm stings. ‘I’ll see you out.’ PC Hodges presses the mobile into my hand and strides towards the door, yanking it open, and just like that I am dismissed.

* * *

Outside the station I sink onto the cold steps, the dampness seeping through my dress. The sun is breaking through the clouds but it’s still chilly, and I wrap my arms around my legs, resting my chin on my knees. The warm bloom of embarrassment I’d felt in the station has dissipated. The expression on PC Hodges’s face was much like the one on Rachel’s the other night. No one believes me, and I don’t know what to do next. I’m due to meet Nathan at the canal at two, and I’m at a loss to know whether I should go or not. At the sound of a car door slamming my head jerks up. On the opposite side of the road is a row of shops, and parked in the lay-by is a bright yellow sports car. I’ve seen that car before, but it takes me a second to remember where from. The dentist’s car park. Is it Chris?

There’s no one in the car, and my feet tap-tap-tap their anxious rhythm on the pavement but I fight against my natural instinct to run. Fuelled by the scepticism I’ve just encountered I march across the road. I’m going to confront Chris. Ask him what the hell he’s playing at. Leaning against the bonnet of the car I try to act far more casual than I feel, breathing deeply through my nose, trying to unfurl my fists. The door of the chemist swings open, and a lady with long brown hair frowns as she steps outside.

‘Excuse me. Do you mind not leaning against my car?’ she snaps, and I stutter apologies as I step away from her.

My mind and body feel detached from each other and my head swims. I reach out a hand and steady myself against the wall as though I can stop myself floating away.

Is it all in my head? The engine of the yellow car I’d been so sure was Chris’s thrums, and I am angry. Scared. Confused. I am everything but certain of my own thoughts. I know I can’t go on like this, and leaning against the rough brick I make a call.

‘Please help me,’ I beg.