Dying Bad by Maureen Carter Page A

shoulder. ‘I doubt that, Mrs Hunter. You said your daughter was playing with fire. Not that she’d been burned.’ Burned was a weird kind of euphemism. Amy had been raped, abused, buggered, psychologically and emotionally scarred. And the man who’d orchestrated it was still on the streets.
    Of course Caroline couldn’t comprehend it. No one could, unless they’d been there. It was why she’d inveigled herself in here. Why she’d cooked up a sob story featuring a fictional child and putative groomer. Why she’d told Mrs Hemming on the phone she desperately needed to talk to a family who’d gone through the experience in the hope of saving her non-existent daughter from the same awful fate. The last part was true, except it was other people’s flesh and blood the reporter wanted to help. If writing a book exposing the crime, describing the sort of people who got caught up in it, stopped one child from stepping into a groomer’s car then Caroline would spin any number of lies. And not apologise for it. ‘Forgive me. It was a crass remark.’
    â€˜Yes it was.’ Unsmiling, she passed tea to Caroline, nodded at milk and sugar on the bar, then sat on the stool opposite. Small hands cupped round a thick red mug with gold lettering, she fixed the reporter in her sights. Fighting the urge to squirm, Caroline could just make out the words: Keep Calm And Carry On. She swallowed.
Easy for you to say
.
    Saying nothing, Mrs Hemming sipped her tea, studied Caroline over the mug’s rim. Piano chords drifted into the silence. It
was
a Beatles’ number, but Caroline couldn’t name it just now. Not that she was trying, her mind on more pressing matters. The reporter had no doubt she was being measured up, feared she was falling short. Suspected her cover was blown.
    â€˜OK. Let’s talk.’ The woman drained the mug, pushed it to one side. Caroline breathed a huge mental sigh of relief. ‘What do you want to know, Mrs Hunter?’
    Everything.
Shuffling forward she rested open hands on the bar, keen to bridge any gap between them. ‘Whatever you can tell me. Anything that might help.’
    The woman talked for twenty-five minutes. At some stage the piano music must’ve stopped. Caroline may have interrupted once. It was as if a verbal floodgate had opened, pent up grief, fury, fears, frustration narrated in a dry monotone. Every word of it was on tape, Caroline was still covertly recording. She’d probably pick up nuances when she transcribed it. Either way, the material was stark, detail graphic. Amy’s story was truly shocking, profoundly moving. The flat delivery only underlined its heart-shattering content. It was rare the reporter welled up.
    Mrs Hemming’s apparent lack of emotion during the telling would be her way of distancing the appalling events. The automaton mode was a coping mechanism Caroline had seen many times before. But the woman’s emotional armour had chinks: the tic in her right eyelid had become difficult to ignore, the compulsive worrying at loose skin round badly bitten nails had drawn blood.
    Caroline reached out a tentative hand. ‘I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs Hemming.’ The sympathy was real and the need to talk to Amy greater than ever. The story had everything, but was nowhere near complete. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
    â€˜Yes there is.’ The woman sat back out of arm’s reach. ‘Drop this ridiculous pretence.’ She raised a hand. ‘Please. The injured look cuts no ice. I know who you are, knew almost from the word go.’ Slipping down from the stool, she rescued the bread from the Aga. Caroline opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Hemming hadn’t finished. ‘I won’t report you to the police, don’t worry on that score. It was my decision to let you stay, my decision to talk to you. I know you have clout in the media and I want people out