Forget Me Never

investigated. I’ve got new information.’
    ‘So’ve I,’ Reece said, not to be outdone.
    ‘One at a time,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll get someone to speak to you.’
    Another officer appeared. She took us to a side room and asked us to explain. ‘I’ll need to take your details,’ she said. ‘Do you have the case reference number – or precise dates?’
    ‘You know they only want your details so they can use them later,’ Reece whispered. ‘Wake up tomorrow and I guarantee your inbox will be full of spam warnings about drugs and unlicensed minicabs. It’s direct marketing. They did a feature about it on Watchdog . Once you’re on a list there’s no escape.’
    ‘The police are the ones protecting us from that kind of thing, idiot.’ I elbowed him in the ribs and gave the officer the information she’d asked for. She took everything down, then told us someone would be in touch to ask us to come for an interview in the company of an appropriate adult. We found ourselves politely but firmly escorted to the door, a wave of heat and sunlight hitting us as we stepped out.
    ‘Waste of time,’ Reece said. ‘Suppose we should have anticipated that.’
    I nodded, trying not to show my apprehension. Somehow I couldn’t see Julie being thrilled about this. Why was nothing ever simple?
    The police rang later that day and asked me to come in the next morning. Julie, who’d taken the call, shook her head as she put the receiver back into its cradle.
    ‘All right, Sophie. What’s this really about?’
    ‘There isn’t any “really”.’ I felt irked by the hint of accusation in her voice. ‘I didn’t realize you’d need to get involved.’
    Julie didn’t look convinced, but the following morning we went to the police station. There was a different officer on reception this time and we were told to wait for a Detective Inspector Perry. Ten minutes later a man walked in. He was probably around fifty, with a thick beard and moustache that were going grey. He looked a bit like Father Christmas.
    ‘Sophie Hayward? And you must be Sophie’s foster-mother. I’m DI Perry.’
    ‘Julie Coombes.’ Julie shook his hand.
    Perry took us into a small, brightly lit room with a rectangular table and more plastic chairs. Another man, whom Perry introduced as Detective Constable Grace, was setting up a tape recorder. He was quite young and a bit spotty. I wondered if this was one of his first cases.
    ‘So . . .’ Perry said, leaning back in his chair. I decided I liked his manner; it was relaxed, leisurely even. ‘I’ve looked at the notes the sergeant took yesterday and had a word with my colleagues in Bournemouth. I understand you came across some photographs of your cousin.’
    I was distracted from replying by a noise from down the corridor; it sounded like someone yelling. I wondered if Reece was being interviewed today too.
    I told them about the USB. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Julie giving me a hard look and realized how sketchily I’d explained this to her. I’d be in for it later. I handed the USB to Perry when he asked for it and was given a receipt. I’d copied the photos on to Edith before coming out.
    ‘This might not seem like a big deal, but I really don’t think she jumped because she was depressed,’ I said. I described all the plans Danielle had been making. ‘She had . . . issues, but she was doing OK. Reece will back me up.’
    ‘We’ve seen Danielle’s medical records,’ said Perry. ‘She had a history of depression. The conclusion my Bournemouth colleagues came to was that this was almost certainly a contributory factor for her death – especially as the post-mortem showed she hadn’t been taking her medication. How did she seem to you that weekend?’
    I was going to answer, ‘Normal,’ but changed my mind – Dani didn’t really have a ‘normal’ mode in the way most people did. ‘OK, I guess.’
    ‘How close were you to your cousin?’ Perry asked. ‘Talk me through your relationship.’
    I hesitated. Perry seemed kind, but he was still a stranger and this was personal.
    ‘I didn’t know her well when I was little,’ I said. ‘She was eleven years older than me, and I went into care when I was seven. We got close after . . . well, our mums died together.’
    It had been a car accident five years ago. It wasn’t clear where they’d been heading, but it was clear that both of them were well over the limit. They’d swerved off the road at a