possible, she senses her phone throbbing in the back pocket of her jeans. That will be Lewis, wondering where the hell she is. But she can’t stop to argue with him now; she has to keep going.
The journey takes over an hour, and by the time she turns into the all-too-familiar Faversham Road, she’s sweating. Only her fingertips remain cold from gripping the handlebars. She changes down a gear to tackle the steady incline.
Usually the road is quiet at night, but ahead she can see several vehicles double-parked, their headlights beaming across the tarmac. People are milling about too, some of them with large cameras and fluffy sticks.
It’s the media, camped outside her mother’s front door. They must have followed them back from the press conference. Or maybe the police tipped them off. Why are they still here at this time of night?
She stops a hundred metres away, resting her foot on the kerb while she considers the problem. There’s no way of entering the house from the rear. To reach the front door she’s going to have to run the gauntlet of reporters. Will they know who she is and what part she had to play? What if they ambush her? She doesn’t want her photo splashed all over the tabloids tomorrow. She imagines the headlines: Babysitter Barges In … Babysitter Begs for Forgiveness … Babysitter Was to Blame.
But it’s either face them or turn around and cycle straight home. She doesn’t want to do that. She wants to speak to Amber privately, without George being in the room or their bloody mother earwigging. And if she won’t answer the damn phone, that leaves her with no choice …
She pushes off again and climbs the rest of the hill. When she’s about twenty metres away, she jumps off the bike and rests it against a wall. Then she starts to walk briskly along the pavement, making a beeline for the driveway. She seems to have caught everyone unawares, but then she hears voices crying out.
‘Who are you, love?’
‘Are you part of the family?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Are you the sister?’
There’s a surge towards her. It only takes a few seconds for the cameras to start flashing. She shields her face with her hand as she marches up to the front door and rings the bell three times.
The curtain of the lounge window is pulled back and an unfamiliar face peers out, then disappears. Ruby rings again. ‘It’s me!’ she shouts. ‘Ruby! For God’s sake, open the door.’
She can hear talking in the hallway, some debate going on, no doubt, about whether to let her in. The reporters crowd around.
‘Ruby! Talk to us! Any news about Mabel?’
‘How are you feeling, Ruby?’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Do the family blame you, Ruby?’
‘Tell us your side of the story.’
‘What happened, Ruby? Ruby?’
There’s a click, and the door opens on the chain. The woman who was at the window is standing in the gap.
‘I’m Amber’s sister. Please let me in!’
She shuts the door to remove the chain, then immediately opens it again, just wide enough to let Ruby slip through.
‘Oh my God, that was hell,’ Ruby says, breathing heavily.
‘You should have rung first.’
‘I tried, but nobody answered.’ She undoes her helmet and takes it off. ‘Who are you?’
‘The family liaison officer – Sally Morrison.’
‘I’m Ruby,’ she says, shaking out her thick dark hair. ‘I’ve come to see Amber.’
‘She’s resting.’
‘Oh. Where’s my mother?’
‘In the kitchen, I think.’
Ruby walks through and finds her in the middle of washing up. ‘Mum?’
‘Didn’t you get my message? I told you not to come.’ Vicky bangs a dripping plate onto the drainer.
‘I know, but I had to. It’s not fair to treat me like this. I’m hurting too, you know. I’m in a terrible state. I love Mabel as much as—’
‘Go away, Ruby. We don’t want to see you.’
‘Please …’
‘You’ve done enough damage. Now leave us alone!’
Ruby lets out an exasperated groan and goes back into the hallway, where Sally is hovering. ‘Excuse me,’ she says gruffly, almost shoving the officer to one side to get to the stairs. She walks up and knocks on the door of Amber’s old bedroom.
‘Amber, it’s me. Let me in. We need to talk.’
Silence. Then whispering.
‘Please. It’s important.’ Ruby grits her teeth as she waits. The door finally opens. Her sister is white-faced, eyes puffy with crying. George stands behind her, glaring over her shoulder.
‘What do you want?’
‘Can we talk? Please. Just the two of us?’
‘Be my guest,’ says George sarcastically, pushing past her as he leaves