So they waited, while Denise Finn stood in front of the viewing area where her daughter’s body was laid out. The pale blue sheet pulled up to her neck. Blood washed away, her scuzzy hair combed – they’d have done that for the post-mortem, collecting trace material that might lead to her attacker. Denise Finn wore the same clothes as the previous evening, perhaps she had not slept. Perhaps she was a mucky one. She was huffing and puffing, a tissue balled in her hand. The FLO, Christopher Danes his name was, asked her the question: ‘Can you tell me if this is your daughter, Lisa Anne Finn?’
‘Yes,’ Denise said in a sob, her shoulders heaving. The FLO put his hand on her shoulder, suggested she sit down for a minute. She stared at him, looking lost, he repeated the question and she nodded. He showed her into the visitors’ room and came back out. The mortuary assistant closed the blinds. Rachel heard the squeal of the trolley as he wheeled it to the freezer.
Rachel’s phone went. Alison calling. She let it go to voicemail. Her sister could talk for England; she went on about how overstretched she was at work, how big her caseload was, yet she still found time to make social calls in the day.
Janet spoke to the FLO: ‘We’d like to talk to her again.’
He nodded. ‘We’re going back to the house now.’
‘How’s she been?’ Janet said.
‘Not said much,’ he said. ‘Dumbstruck.’
‘She fit to talk?’ Janet checked.
‘Just about. She’s on sedatives, as it is. GP’s been, given her some sleeping tablets.’
‘I get to listen again?’ Rachel said on the way up, hoping she was wrong.
‘I think that’s wise,’ Janet answered. ‘You’re not exactly going to be her favourite person, are you?’
‘She’ll have forgotten by now,’ Rachel objected, ‘with all she’s got going on.’
‘You think?’ Janet gave her a knowing look. ‘You don’t give a toss, do you?’
‘We’re police officers, not agony aunts,’ Rachel said. ‘She can’t be much of a mother, can she? If Lisa was taken into care.’
‘Maybe Lisa was hard to handle. You can’t go making assumptions. We don’t know these people, we don’t know what their lives are like.’
‘Got a pretty good clue – trash.’
‘An interview is a conversation,’ Janet said, ‘whether it’s a witness or a suspect, it is a conversation – not a confrontation.’ Repeating it as if it were some mantra she’d learnt. ‘They need to trust us, we show respect, we listen, we don’t judge.’
‘I know.’ Rachel flung her head back against the headrest.
