Then I see her.
She’s outside the back door in her dressing gown. The man hands her something then they make their way back into the house together. But as she goes to close the door she stops and looks up at my window. Instinctively, I jump back. Did she see me? Possibly, but I don’t care. I haven’t done anything wrong. As I climb back into bed I remember the husband who works away. He must have come home. Everything is fine, I tell myself, the woman next door has her husband back, he has come home to her where he belongs. Tonight she will sleep curled up in his arms.
But as I close my eyes those screams are still echoing in my head, and as I slip off into sleep I’m no longer sure where they come from.
7
Herne Bay Police Station
17 hours detained
It is getting dark in the interview room and I watch as Shaw flicks a switch and the room fills with a sickly yellow light.
‘That’s better,’ she says as she walks back to her chair. ‘It hurts my eyes to read in the half-light. Now, Kate, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about your work.’
She smiles a weak, anaemic smile. I don’t return it.
‘I told you,’ I say, raising my voice above the buzz of the strip light. ‘I don’t want to talk about Syria. I made that very clear.’
‘Yes, you did,’ says Shaw, looking down at a fresh bundle of notes. ‘But this isn’t about Syria. I’d like to ask you about your last day at work. Something happened in the newsroom, didn’t it, Kate? Would you like to tell me about it?’
My heart freezes as she flicks the pages of her notes. How does she know all this? Who has she been speaking to? Harry? Rachel? I go to speak but my voice catches in my throat and I start to cough. Shaw looks up.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, getting to her feet. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
I nod my head and watch as she walks over to the water cooler. She pours a cup and brings it to me.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, taking the cup and sipping the tepid liquid. It tastes of plastic and I wince as I swallow it.
‘Are you happy to continue?’ asks Shaw as I place the cup on the table next to me.
‘Yes,’ I mumble, looking at the clock above her head. I need to get out. I need to get back to him.
‘You’d had a long lunch that day?’
‘Longish,’ I reply.
Shaw nods then writes something in her notebook. I look down at the floor but all I can see is Chris, his face a fragmented collection of parts, broken pieces like the bodies he exhumes. I see his beautiful mouth, the top lip curled, his stubbled jaw, his dark, close-cut hair, his blue, almond-shaped eyes, but I can’t put the parts together. I need to put them back together.
‘Somewhere nice?’
‘Yes, a restaurant in Soho,’ I reply as the street unfolds before me. I see familiar landmarks I have walked past a thousand times before: Bar Italia and Ronnie Scott’s, the Dog and Duck, all my old haunts. And there he is. I see him through the window of the restaurant, his hands clasped in front of him, waiting, preparing his speech.
‘What time did you get back to the newsroom?’
Shaw’s voice is sharp, a knitting needle stabbing at my brain.
‘I don’t know . . . Just after five I suppose.’
‘So a very long lunch,’ says Shaw, smiling patronizingly. ‘Was it for work or pleasure?’
I stare at the wall, remembering that day. I see us sitting there like two strangers.
I look up at Shaw. ‘Work,’ I reply. ‘It was a work meeting.’
‘But you had a couple of drinks, yes?’
I nod my head and remember the wine that tasted like acid. The first drink I’d had in years. Glass after glass as I sat in my club after saying goodbye to him on Frith Street.
‘Would you say you were intoxicated?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘I’d only had a couple of glasses.’
‘Your colleague Rachel Hadley says that you were decidedly the worse for wear and in no fit state to be working when you got back to the office.’
She is reading from her notes. I shake my head incredulously. Rachel bloody Hadley. She would do or say anything to get to me.
‘Why are you shaking your head?’
‘Because the person you’ve just mentioned is a parasite, a silly little girl who wants my job.’
If only she hadn’t been the first person I saw, I could have got through the rest of the day, finished my article and left without any drama. But there she was as I walked to my desk, standing like a checkpoint official, blocking my way, asking: ‘Long lunch, Kate?’ in her whiny, nasal voice.
‘That’s Rachel Hadley,’ says Shaw. ‘The woman you assaulted?’
‘Yes.’