the shop and went in search of the dead girl’s friend.
~ * ~
HE HAD TO GET past her mother first. ‘She’s that upset,’ said Eileen Pitcher at a peeling front door, the house peeling too, separated from the town’s tennis courts by a line of overgrown cypresses.
Hirsch was tired. ‘Won’t take a moment, Mrs Pitcher.’
Gemma Pitcher’s mother was tiny and aggrieved and didn’t want Hirsch on her doorstep. ‘Wipe your feet.’
She led Hirsch to a sitting-cum-dining room, semi-dark, a TV flickering and two boys crouched before it, thumbing X-Boxes. The dining table sat against the rear wall, and Gemma Pitcher was sprawled on a sofa, tissues in her fist, eyes damp. She was a plump eighteen, with a band of soft belly showing between the waistband of tight jeans and the scant hem of a T-shirt. Her navel looked sore to Hirsch, the flesh puckered around a thick silver ring. She wore her mousy hair long, a ragged fringe over her mascaraed eyes—the mascara currently leaking down her cheeks.
‘Hello,’ Hirsch said, telling her who he was.
Gemma was one of those teenagers who can barely speak to or look at an adult but respond to greetings with a kind of mincing grimace. Hirsch crouched so that his head was on a level with hers. ‘You might remember serving me in the shop a couple of times.’
She shrugged.
Girls like this are shruggers, Hirsch thought, and they fill the world. ‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’
‘No, she’s not,’ the mother said.
‘Gemma?’
‘Don’t care.’
‘Gemma love, you’ve had a shock.’
‘Mum, it’s all right. You can go.’
Mrs Pitcher turned her hooked, distrusting features on Hirsch. Scowled, touched Gemma’s upper arm as if conceding she was beaten, and left them to it.
‘Perhaps we could sit at the table?’ Hirsch suggested.
‘Whatever.’
Gemma took one stiff dining chair, Hirsch another. She lit up a Holiday using a pink disposable lighter. The three rings in the cartilage of each ear glinted as she sucked smoke from her cigarette and jetted it out through side-pursed lips. That was all the energy she could muster. Otherwise she was helpless, scared, a little weepy.
‘I don’t know if I—’
‘Won’t take a moment. I’m trying to fill in Melia’s movements on the weekend.’
Gemma’s knee jiggled. An old, habitual deflection of shame or guilt? Hirsch sharpened his tone. ‘Were you with her at any stage?’
Gemma didn’t want to answer. Her eyes cut across to the hallway door, her purple nails picking at the hard seam of her jeans.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Gemma. Yesterday and the day before. Were you with her or not?’
‘Might of been. For a while.’
‘You went out Saturday night?’
Another shrug.
‘You have a car?’
‘Mum’s car.’
‘You took Melia somewhere?’
‘I’m allowda.’
‘Sure, nothing wrong with that,’ Hirsch said, and he waited.
It came: ‘We went down to Redruth.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘Stuff.’
‘Pub? Friend’s house? Café?’
‘Didn’t drink and drive if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Did Melia drink?’
‘Her mum lets her,’ Gemma said hotly.
Hirsch smiled. ‘It’s all right, I’m not the underage drinking police.’ Which was a downright lie. ‘Which pub?’ he asked.
‘The Woolman.’
‘She was with you the whole time?’
‘Friends and that.’
‘There was a group of you?’
Shrug.
‘You stayed there the whole evening? You, Melia, your friends?’
Gemma launched into a blow-by-blow. They’d been joined by Nick and Julie but Julie’s ex-boyfriend Brad showed up so Nick told him to get lost and there was a bit of a fight and Lisa, that’s Jeff’s cousin, she calmed them down and Gemma’s boyfriend was like, let’s go to the drive-in. It made no
~ * ~
HE HAD TO GET past her mother first. ‘She’s that upset,’ said Eileen Pitcher at a peeling front door, the house peeling too, separated from the town’s tennis courts by a line of overgrown cypresses.
Hirsch was tired. ‘Won’t take a moment, Mrs Pitcher.’
Gemma Pitcher’s mother was tiny and aggrieved and didn’t want Hirsch on her doorstep. ‘Wipe your feet.’
She led Hirsch to a sitting-cum-dining room, semi-dark, a TV flickering and two boys crouched before it, thumbing X-Boxes. The dining table sat against the rear wall, and Gemma Pitcher was sprawled on a sofa, tissues in her fist, eyes damp. She was a plump eighteen, with a band of soft belly showing between the waistband of tight jeans and the scant hem of a T-shirt. Her navel looked sore to Hirsch, the flesh puckered around a thick silver ring. She wore her mousy hair long, a ragged fringe over her mascaraed eyes—the mascara currently leaking down her cheeks.
‘Hello,’ Hirsch said, telling her who he was.
Gemma was one of those teenagers who can barely speak to or look at an adult but respond to greetings with a kind of mincing grimace. Hirsch crouched so that his head was on a level with hers. ‘You might remember serving me in the shop a couple of times.’
She shrugged.
Girls like this are shruggers, Hirsch thought, and they fill the world. ‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’
‘No, she’s not,’ the mother said.
‘Gemma?’
‘Don’t care.’
‘Gemma love, you’ve had a shock.’
‘Mum, it’s all right. You can go.’
Mrs Pitcher turned her hooked, distrusting features on Hirsch. Scowled, touched Gemma’s upper arm as if conceding she was beaten, and left them to it.
‘Perhaps we could sit at the table?’ Hirsch suggested.
‘Whatever.’
Gemma took one stiff dining chair, Hirsch another. She lit up a Holiday using a pink disposable lighter. The three rings in the cartilage of each ear glinted as she sucked smoke from her cigarette and jetted it out through side-pursed lips. That was all the energy she could muster. Otherwise she was helpless, scared, a little weepy.
‘I don’t know if I—’
‘Won’t take a moment. I’m trying to fill in Melia’s movements on the weekend.’
Gemma’s knee jiggled. An old, habitual deflection of shame or guilt? Hirsch sharpened his tone. ‘Were you with her at any stage?’
Gemma didn’t want to answer. Her eyes cut across to the hallway door, her purple nails picking at the hard seam of her jeans.
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Gemma. Yesterday and the day before. Were you with her or not?’
‘Might of been. For a while.’
‘You went out Saturday night?’
Another shrug.
‘You have a car?’
‘Mum’s car.’
‘You took Melia somewhere?’
‘I’m allowda.’
‘Sure, nothing wrong with that,’ Hirsch said, and he waited.
It came: ‘We went down to Redruth.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘Stuff.’
‘Pub? Friend’s house? Café?’
‘Didn’t drink and drive if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Did Melia drink?’
‘Her mum lets her,’ Gemma said hotly.
Hirsch smiled. ‘It’s all right, I’m not the underage drinking police.’ Which was a downright lie. ‘Which pub?’ he asked.
‘The Woolman.’
‘She was with you the whole time?’
‘Friends and that.’
‘There was a group of you?’
Shrug.
‘You stayed there the whole evening? You, Melia, your friends?’
Gemma launched into a blow-by-blow. They’d been joined by Nick and Julie but Julie’s ex-boyfriend Brad showed up so Nick told him to get lost and there was a bit of a fight and Lisa, that’s Jeff’s cousin, she calmed them down and Gemma’s boyfriend was like, let’s go to the drive-in. It made no
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