‘I’ll put my clothes in a bin liner if you want?’
From his jacket pocket he pulled out two large clear plastic bags. ‘I’d prefer you to put them in these.’
Alex rose wearily to her feet. ‘There’s a tyre mark. On her jacket, there’s the imprint of a tyre.’
Turner frowned. ‘Whereabouts on the jacket?’
‘Across her chest. She was crushed.’
‘Did you move her when you got to her?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she answered sharply. ‘She might have had spinal injuries!’ She heaved for breath and made a small cry. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘It’s understandable. You’ve had a rough day.’
‘Why did you ask me that?’ she asked. ‘Why did you think I might have moved her?’
He shrugged. ‘It was just a thought.’
Greg Turner didn’t strike her as someone who just had a thought unless there was a reason behind it, but she didn’t think he’d tell her what it was. She would have to work it out herself when she was less tired.
It was gone eleven when she finally shut the door on him. She was instructed to present at Bath police station tomorrow to give a full statement. She hoped it wouldn’t be Laura Best taking it. While she had been sitting in the back of the police car the woman had given her several appraising looks, her manner remote and cool. Police officers were still examining the car park and outside the perimeter. She heard knocks on several of her neighbours’ doors and knew they would all be giving statements, but it gave her no confidence that the police would find anything.
They had a tyre mark, but that, she bet, was all they would have.
Like a domestic animal finding its usual place to sleep, Alex found hers. Her back against her living-room wall, she huddled with a duvet pulled round her shoulders and heard again the woman’s final words: ‘Wants to play doctors .?.?.’
Until this moment she had thought the woman was referring to her; her being the doctor and her doing the saving. But suppose that wasn’t the case, that in fact the dead woman had been referring to the person who had knocked her down?
Some doctor .?.?.
Supposing the person who knocked her down was a doctor; why hadn’t he or she tried to save her or called an ambulance? Could it be that it was deliberate? Could it be the same person who had targeted Alex? An awful thought consumed her. Had he been on his way to attack her again, only Lillian Armstrong had somehow got in the way? Did he know she lived here?
Wants to play doctors .?.?.
Lillian Armstrong’s words could have been nothing more than the last feeble attempt of a dying woman to make sense of what was happening to her. Alex prayed it was. Otherwise he was out there; he was still active and she wasn’t a one-off. He was still playing at being a doctor, but now he was killing his victims.
Chapter seventeen
They met at a restaurant that neither of them had been to before. A French bistro on Pulteney Bridge with stone floors, bare wooden tables and plenty of red, dripping candles. It was informal and a bit scruffy, yet expensive, and on weekends almost always full, which was why they hadn’t been before. On this Wednesday night, however, there was only one other table occupied and Patrick was seated at one with a panoramic view of the weir.
He was staring at the menu when she arrived, wearing a burgundy shirt she had helped him choose and a smart black jacket. In the candlelight his handsome face looked flushed. A large glass of red wine sat in front of him on the table. His posture was relaxed and she wondered if it was his first drink.
He was surprised when she slipped into the chair opposite him, and she was pleased at placing him so quickly at a disadvantage. He rose to his feet and had to reach awkwardly across the table to kiss her. The lit candle and single flower between them hampered his movements, and her averted face only allowed him to brush his lips against her cheek. If she had turned her head slightly he could have kissed her properly, but she wasn’t ready for that.
An awkward silence filled the next few seconds, until he opened the second menu and handed it to her.
‘Food looks great. We should have come here before.’
A waiter appeared and poured her a glass of water and enquired what she would like to drink. Alex chose dry white wine. The dryer the better. It would make her sip instead of guzzling it back. Alcohol was her enemy at the moment, and she mustn’t forget that. It would be so easy to knock back a couple of glasses of red or a sweeter white before the main course was even served if she allowed herself. Conversation would flow better, awkward moments would be dealt with more easily. But at the end of the evening Alex would want more. She would think of the unopened bottles back at her flat like friends and forget that they were the enemy. Far better to stick to a single glass of white wine.
‘I’ll have the moules followed by the monkfish,’ she said to the waiter before even being asked if she was ready to order.
Patrick ordered the same, and asked for another glass of Merlot.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said predictably when they were alone again. Then he cleared his throat and moved his hand in an awkward gesture. ‘Sorry. That sounded crass. I sound like a host at a party.’ He waited for her to look at him. ‘I need to explain how sorry I am. Not just for my unforgivable behaviour over Caroline, but for the weeks before when I refused to allow you to talk about what happened. I behaved badly, rushing you off to Barbados like that as if I could simply make it better for you by offering you a bit of sunshine and a pretty beach.’
Alex felt the hold on her insides begin to loosen, and an ache across the bridge of her nose and in her throat as she held back her tears. She wasn’t going to forgive him this easily. She needed to hear more.
The waiter arrived with their drinks, and then a few minutes later with warmed bread and bowls of steaming moules, and for the next ten minutes there was a peace between them. Il Divo were singing ‘O Holy Night’ in the background, Christmas tree lights were twinkling, and conversation was limited to the place they were in and the food they were eating as they relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company again.
When the main course arrived, she was laughing and Patrick had ordered a bottle of fine Bordeaux. She had forgotten how funny he was, had forgotten that laughter could be an aphrodisiac. She wanted to make love to him so badly she almost asked him if they could get up and leave. She restrained herself by fixing her attention on the décor and then jumped when his fingers caressed the back of her hand.