The Secret Place Read Free Page A

mouth older, less simple. Layering something under her voice. ‘No. I didn’t tell anyone.’
    ‘OK. I’m going to make this call, and then I’ll take your statement. Do you want one of your parents to sit in?’
    That brought her back. ‘Oh, Jesus, no. Does someone have to sit in? Can’t you just do it?’
    ‘What age are you?’
    She thought about lying. Decided against it. ‘Sixteen.’
    ‘We need an appropriate adult. Stop me intimidating you.’
    ‘You don’t intimidate me.’
    No shit. ‘I know, yeah. Still. You hang on here, make yourself a cup of tea if you fancy one. I’ll be back in two minutes.’
    Holly thumped down on the sofa. Coiled into a twist: legs curled under, arms wrapped round. Pulled the end of her ponytail round to the front and started biting it. The building was boiling as per usual, but she looked cold. She didn’t watch me leave.
    Sex Crime, two floors down, keep a social worker on call. I got her in, took Holly’s statement. Asked your woman, in the corridor afterwards, would she drive Holly back to St Kilda’s – Holly gave me the daggers for that. I said, ‘This way your school knows for definite you were actually with us; you didn’t just get a boyfriend to ring in. Save you hassle.’ Her look said I didn’t fool anyone.
    She didn’t ask me what next, what we were going to do about that card. She knew better. She just said, ‘See you soon.’
    ‘Thanks for coming in. You did the right thing.’
    Holly didn’t answer that. Just gave me the edge of a smile and a little wave, half sarcastic, half not.
    I was watching that straight back move away down the corridor, social worker duckfooting along beside her trying for a chat, when I copped: she’d never answered my question. Swerved out of the way, neat as a rollerblader, and kept right on moving.
    ‘Holly.’
    She turned, hauling her bag strap up her shoulder. Wary.
    ‘What I asked you earlier. Why’d you bring this to me?’
    Holly considered me. Unsettling, that look, like the follow-you stare off a painting.
    ‘Back before,’ she said. ‘The whole year, everyone was tiptoeing . Like if they said one single wrong word, I’d have a nervous breakdown and get taken away in a straitjacket, foaming . Even Dad – he pretended to be totally not bothered, but I could see him worrying, all the time. It was just, ahhh !’ A gritted noise of pure fury, hands starfished rigid. ‘You were the only one who didn’t act like I was about to start thinking I was a chicken . You were just like, OK, this sucks, but big deal, worse stuff happens to people all the time and they survive. Now let’s get it done. ’
    It’s very very important to show sensitivity to juvenile witnesses. We get workshops and all; PowerPoint presentations, if our luck’s really in. Me, I remember what it was like, being a kid. People forget that. A little dab of sensitive: lovely. A dab more, grand. A dab more, you’re daydreaming throat-punches.
    I said, ‘Being a witness does suck. For anyone. You were better able for it than most.’
    No sarcasm in the smile, this time. Other stuff, plenty, but not sarcasm. ‘Can you explain to them at school that I don’t think I’m a chicken?’ Holly asked the social worker, who was plastering on extra sensitive to hide the baffled. ‘Not even a little?’ And left.
     
    One thing about me: I’ve got plans.
    First thing I did, once I’d waved bye-bye to Holly and the social worker, I looked up the Harper case on the system.
    Lead detective: Antoinette Conway.
    A woman working Murder shouldn’t rate scandal, shouldn’t even rate a mention. But a lot of the old boys are old-school; a lot of the young ones, too. Equality is paper-deep, peel it away with a fingernail. The grapevine says Conway got the gig by shagging someone, says she got it by ticking the token boxes – something extra in there, something that’s not pasty potato-face Irish: sallow skin, strong sweeps to her nose and her cheekbones,