And yet, why would she make up such a story unless it was true? Amy was a smart, together girl with no history of mental illness. Through it all, her testimony had been clear and consistent. Her description of her ‘abductor’ had been precise – dirty blonde crop, sunglasses, short grimy nails – and she’d stuck to it religiously. Right down to the tiny details about how she over-revved the van in the low gears. And it was clear that she loved – really loved – Sam and was devastated by his death. Everyone described them as inseparable, two halves of a whole. They had met at Bristol University, then each applied to do an MSc at Warwick so they could stay together, deferring entry to working life and possible separation. They didn’t have much cash, but during their time together they had hitched all round the country, seldom holidaying with anyone else.
Forensics had linked her to the gun, so there was no doubt she did it, but they’d also confirmed her story about their captivity. Their physical state – the hair, the nails – plus the human waste in the tank all suggested that they’d been there for at least two weeks before she killed him. Had they given up hope and drawn straws? Made a deal?
‘Why him and not you?’ Amy had collapsed again, but Helen repeated the question. Eventually Amy managed to speak:
‘Because he asked me to.’
An act of love then. An act of self-sacrifice. What a thing to have on your conscience… if it was true. And that was what was nagging at her – the plain fact that Amy was destroyed by what had happened. Not just traumatized. She was destroyed, imploding under the weight of guilt. It was an emotion Helen knew all too well and in spite of everything she found herself feeling for Amy. Maybe she’d been too hard on this vulnerable young woman.
It couldn’t be true. Because why would anyone do this? What on earth did they – ‘she’ – stand to gain? She wasn’t even there to watch according to Amy, so what was the point? It couldn’t be true and yet when Helen replied to Mark’s characteristically direct question, she found herself saying:
‘I think she’s telling the truth.’
Ben Holland loathed his weekly trip to Bournemouth. To him it was pointless, a day lost. But the firm was very strong on face time between their various offices, so once a week Ben and Peter (Portsmouth) would share sandwiches and coffee with Malcolm and Eleanor (Bournemouth) and Hellie and Sarah (London). They would discuss the finer points of maritime law, banking litigation and international probate – before reverting to bitching about their respective clients. It was sometimes mildly informative, even entertaining, but once you’d factored in the travel from and back to Portsmouth it was all just a colossal waste of time.