Page 21 of Good Bad Girl

“It’s not your mother.”

“How do you know?”

Clio feels the detective studying her and the experience is unsettling. She is relieved when some police officers interrupt them and begin cordoning off the care home with tape. The detective untucks a strand of pink hair that was behind her pierced ear, then folds her skinny arms across her flat chest. Clients often do asimilar thing, it’s a classic sign of anxiety, a way to create a physical barrier when feeling overwhelmed. The young woman is clearly out of her depth. “My own beloved grandmother passed away in a placejustlike this. And before her time, if you ask me,” she says.

It seems like an odd thing to say and Clio hadn’t. She wrinkles her nose without meaning to. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“My bad, I didn’t introduce myself. DCI Charlotte Chapman,” the detective says holding out a hand. Clio notices that her fingernails are painted different colors, and can’t help thinking that the woman is too young, and too inappropriately dressed, to be a detective. “What doyouthink would make someone kill a care home manager? In yourprofessionalopinion?” DCI Chapman asks.

Clio looks shocked. “I thought you needed to inform the next of kin.”

“I do.”

“Then why are—”

“You’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you?”

Clio wrinkles her nose again. “I’m a therapist. How do you know who I am?”

“It’s my job to know who people are, what they do, what they are capable of doing. I get the impression that the care home manager wasn’t a popular woman.”

Clio shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

The detective takes out a notebook, licks her finger, and flips through a few pages. She doesn’t seem at all anxious or out of depth now. “Forgive me: You are Clio Kennedy, aren’t you? The red dress and matching red trainers made me think that you were.” Clio frowns. “You were seen and heard arguing with the care home manager earlier today. Joy Bonetta threatened to evict your mother because you can no longer afford the fees. Is that correct?”

“Seen bywho?” Clio asks, but then remembers the crusty old man loitering outside Joy’s office door earlier.

“Interesting question, but not the right one. Do you always take the stairs here, even though your mother’s room is on the top floor?”

Clio feels her cheeks flush. “Exercise isn’t a crime, is it?”

“Depends who you ask. Murder, on the other hand, most definitely is. It seems a little strange to me that you didn’t take the elevator just now.”

“It seems a little strange to me that you are wasting my time instead of doing your job.”

The detective half smiles again. “You threatened the care home manager earlier today, and were heard saying...” she checks her notes once more. “Let’s see, ‘I will end you if anything happens to my mother.’ Does that ring a bell? Now your mother is missing and Joy is dead. It’s not my first murder case, but it is the first time I’ve arrived at the scene and found a dead woman in an elevator with a sign around her neck. Whoever did this wanted the world to know that Joy, like the elevator, was out of order.”

“Should you really be telling me all of this?” Clio asks.

“Only if I want to see your reaction to what I am saying. Did you know someone else visited the care home pretending to be you this afternoon and signed the visitor book with your name?” Clio stares at her but doesn’t answer. “It is a tad suspicious finding you at the scene of the crime, snooping about the place.”

“I’m notsnooping. As you said, my mother ismissing.”

“Well, that is something we can at least agree on. And yet here you are, in the one place she isn’t. It’s early days of course, but the way I see this case at the moment, there are three suspects, two murders, and one victim. You, Clio Kennedy, are currently suspect number one.”

Patience

“This isn’thome,” Edith says as I usher her down the dark alley at the side of the art gallery.

“No,” I reply. “But it’s somewhere I think we’ll be safe for tonight. This is where Dickens has been living with me these past few months.” Edith looks suitably unimpressed. She doesn’t look like herself at all wearing my hoodie, and there is an edge to her I’ve not witnessed before.

“This street looks familiar—where are we?” she asks.

“Covent Garden.”

“I know that,” she snaps, although I’m not convinced she did. “This small world of ours has shrunk into a small town.” I’m not sure what she means, but then she softens into the version of Edith I know. “Well, if this is what you think is best. I trust you.”

I almost wish she didn’t.

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