Private Lives

‘What’s so funny?’ said Ruby.

‘Sorry, it wasn’t you,’ said Anna. ‘I deal with the papers for a living, remember? And yes, you’re right, perhaps there are some deceitful journalists. But then again, there are lots more very good, very honourable ones too. People who make a difference and who risk a lot to make politicians and companies accountable.’

‘Does that sort of journalism even exist any more?’ said Ruby doubtfully.

Anna thought about the endless debates she and Andrew used to have about the state of the media. Andrew’s complaints about the overstretched budgets. The pressure on the news team to get the most up-to-date stories, not necessarily the most probing ones. ‘It’s the death of investigative journalism,’ he’d once told her. ‘With our budget cuts and media lawyers strangleholding us every two minutes, how can we ever get the world-class scoops we used to?’

‘It exists. Perhaps not as often as it should,’ she said guiltily, knowing that Andrew blamed lawyers such as herself for the demise in reporting. ‘But it does.’

They reached a patch lined with trees and sat on a bench in the shade of a poplar.

‘I still haven’t quite worked out how I can help you,’ said Anna, turning to Ruby.

‘My sister was murdered and no one believes me.’

‘Then why should I?’

‘Maybe you won’t, but I thought you might at least pay attention to me.’

Is that what this is about? thought Anna with a sinking feeling. This poor girl just wants someone to talk to? She glanced at her watch and took a deep breath.

‘Okay, so perhaps you should start at the beginning.’

Ruby glanced away and began chewing her nail again. A flake of black polish came off and stuck to her lip.

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘My sister died six months ago. The inquest took ages. Finally they ruled an open verdict.’

‘And you’re unhappy with that?’

‘She was found dead at her flat by her landlord. Apparently she’d fallen down the stairs. She was wearing heels and the steps were steep.’

‘It sounds plausible. What was the cause of death?’

‘A broken neck.’

‘Because she’d fallen down the stairs?’ said Anna, trying to work out the sequence of events.

Ruby nodded. ?

?That’s what the coroner said. But I think she was pushed.’

Anna leaned closer.

‘Is that a possibility?’

‘The pathologist spoke at the inquest. He said it was impossible to know for sure, but the injuries that caused her death were “largely consistent” – she put up her fingers to denote quotation marks – ‘with a tumble down the stairs.’

‘Then why did the coroner not pronounce accidental death?’

‘No one knows for sure what happened. And the coroner admitted there were some things out of character. For instance the amount of alcohol she’d taken. Amy rarely drank. Plus a neighbour in her apartment building saw a man in the stairwell near her apartment the evening she died. The police followed it up, but nothing came of it. They didn’t think it was suspicious.’

Poor Ruby, thought Anna. She was clearly just a traumatised kid looking for something to cling to. Anna couldn’t blame her for that, but she wasn’t sure how she could help her either.

‘Ruby, I can’t even begin to understand how awful this has been for you,’ she said gently. ‘Sometimes trying to make sense of something helps us work through the grief. But I have to say that this sounds like a very tragic accident.’

Ruby nodded. It was as if that was the reaction she had been expecting.

‘That’s what my mum says. She says it’s my coping mechanism. She wouldn’t even let me speak at the inquest. No one ever takes a seventeen-year-old seriously anyway. But it just doesn’t sound right.’