Amy shook her head.
‘Then what did she say?’
Amy went through it again, beat by beat. The woman had said she was a heating engineer on her way home from an emergency call-out. Amy didn’t remember seeing a logo or name on the van, perhaps there had been, she wasn’t looking. She’d talked about her husband – who was useless at all things practical – and her kids – two of them. She asked them where they were going on a cold winter’s night then offered them a drink.
‘What words did she use?’
‘She noticed I was shivering a bit and said, “You could do with warming up.” That was it. Then she offered us her flask.’
‘Was the drink hot? What did it smell of?’
‘It smelt like what it was. Coffee.’
‘And the taste?’
‘Fine.’
‘What did she look like?’
When would this end?
‘She had short blonde hair. She wore mirror sunglasses on her head. Overalls. Stud earrings, I think. Short, grimy nails. I could see them on the wheel. Dirty hands. Only saw her face from the side. Strong nose, fullish lips. No make-up. Height, average. She looked normal. Completely fucking normal, ok?’
And with that Amy walked out of the sitting room and straight upstairs, choking with tears, struggling to breathe. Assailed by the most awful guilt, she allowed herself a flash of anger. Sam had got it easy. He was dead. His suffering was over. But hers would endure. She would never be allowed to forget what she’d done. Looking down to the paving stones below from her attic bedroom window, Amy wondered if Sam would welcome her if she decided to join him. Suddenly she was seized by the idea and tugged at the handle, but the window lock was on and the key had vanished. Even her family were torturing her now.
‘What did she look like?’
Peter Brightston shivered. Ever since they’d picked him up, he’d been shivering. His whole body was quaking, beating out the rhythm of his trauma in some weird, primal way. Helen was certain he was going to keel over at any moment. But the hospital doctors had given them the all-clear to talk to him, so…
He wouldn’t look at her. Just stared down at his hands, pulling at the IV tubes that emanated from him like tentacles.
‘What did she look like, Peter?’
A long beat and then through gritted teeth:
‘She looked bloody gorgeous.’
Helen hadn’t been expecting that.
‘Describe her.’
A deep breath, then:
‘Tall, muscular… black hair… raven black hair. Long. Down to below her shoulders. Tight white T-shirt. Good tits.’
‘Face?’
‘Made up. Full lips. Couldn’t see the eyes. Tinted glasses – Prada ones.’
‘You sure, Prada?’