Chapter 4: Eleven Meters
The officer's name was PC Hartley.
She was younger than I expected, calm in the way that people are calm when they have seen worse things before breakfast, and she sat at our kitchen table with a notepad and asked us to start from the beginning.
We told her everything.
The state of the house.
The neighbours who heard nothing.
The camera.
The footage.
What Mia had said.
The jewellery box.
The missing ring and watch.
She wrote without looking up.
"And the babysitter.
Chloe.
She's still next door?"
"As far as we know," my husband said.
"Has she contacted you since she left this morning?"
"Nothing."
PC Hartley looked up.
"What time did she leave?"
I thought back.
The shock of walking in had compressed the timeline.
"Around five, maybe?
We came in at four-ten.
We were dealing with Mia, then we started asking the neighbours.
She must have gone while we were outside."
"She left before you could question her further?"
"Yes."
PC Hartley wrote something down.
"I'll need to speak with her," she said.
"And her parents.
Are you on good terms with the family?"
My husband and I looked at each other.
"We were," he said.
She nodded like that answer told her something.
She walked through the house with us room by room.
She photographed the jewellery box, the wardrobe, the mess in the hallway and the kitchen and the garden.
She took a statement from Mia — gently, briefly, with a small stuffed rabbit she produced from her jacket pocket that made Mia relax enough to talk.
When she was done with us, she said she was going next door.
We watched from the living room window.
She knocked.
A pause.
The door opened and Chloe's mother, Sandra, appeared in the frame.
Sandra is the kind of woman who is always composed — hair done, good posture, the sort who brings a dish to every street event and remembers everyone's birthday.
She looked at the officer and her composure didn't crack, not exactly, but something behind it shifted.
PC Hartley spoke.
Sandra listened.
Then Sandra stepped back and let her in.
The door closed.
My husband stood with his arms folded.
"She knew," he said.
"Sandra knew something was wrong this morning.
She was watching from the window when you were talking to Dave."
"You saw that?"
"I saw her move back when you looked over."
I sat down in the armchair — Chloe's armchair, the one she'd been sitting in when we came home, phone face down, performing calm — and I pressed my hands flat on my thighs.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then the door opened again and PC Hartley came out, and behind her, Chloe.
Not Sandra.
Just Chloe.
Chloe was in a different hoodie now, hair pulled back.
She walked to the police car with her arms wrapped around herself and got in the back without being asked.
My husband turned from the window.
"They're bringing her in."
I nodded.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I looked at the screen.
Sandra.
I let it ring.
It rang out.
Then it rang again.
On the third call I picked up.
"I think you should let me explain," Sandra said.
Her voice was steady but there was something underneath it, something pressurised, like a lid held down by both hands.
"I'm listening," I said.
"Chloe made a mistake.
She knows that.
She's going to cooperate fully, she's going to tell them everything, and I want you to know that whatever was taken, we will replace it.
Every single thing.
Whatever it costs."
I looked at my husband.
He was watching my face.
"Sandra," I said.
"My grandmother's ring can't be replaced."
A silence.
"I know," she said.
"I know that.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry."
"Where is it?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"I don't know," she said.
"I don't know yet.
But I will find out.
I promise you I will find out."
I ended the call.
My husband sat down across from me.
"She knows more than she's saying."
"Yes," I said.
Outside, the police car was still at the kerb.
Chloe was still in the back of it.
And somewhere, my grandmother's ring was in the hands of someone I had never met, in a house I didn't know, and I had no idea yet how far this was going to go.
My phone buzzed again.
May you like
Not Sandra this time.
A number I didn't recognise.
