by Ali Knight
Looking into those eyes, squinted into slits against the sun, I forget momentarily the terror I’m feeling and start doggy-paddling towards the wall. ‘You’re nearly there! Come on, Eggy!’ I’m panting now as the beloved edge looms closer, Paul guiding me to safety.
‘Mummy’s done it!’ Ava shouts, her little knock knees blocking the sun.
‘Go, Kate!’ shouts Jessie. ‘You make it look easy!’ I don’t reply, too scared to try talking.
‘Three metres . . . two metres . . .’ They’re counting down, Ava’s little hands tighten into excited fists as she joins in. ‘One metre . . .’ I touch the rough edge. I’m surrounded by cheers as if I’ve swum the Channel, not one length, but I’m full of joy at my accomplishment. Josh jumps in beside me and starts splashing, and with a huge roar John dive-bombs us all.
Paul reaches out a hand and pulls me with one arm out of the water and gives me a hug. His legs burn hot against my cool skin. ‘Let’s break out some champagne. Make that vintage!’ Forwood TV didn’t bankrupt one of the FTSE‘s biggest companies. Raiph found financing at the eleventh hour. The speed with which personal rumours about him were circulating and the crashing share price brought several offers to the table.
I sent Raiph a long letter apologising for what happened. I heard nothing for weeks and acknowledged with regret that no reconciliation was ever likely to come, but one day a courier arrived with a package. Inside a heavy cardboard box was a beautiful piece of stone with a tiny multilegged creature imprinted on it. There was no message.
Paul runs a hand across my back as my family cavort around me. My name is Kate Forman and I am very lucky. We’re taking a break before Paul gets back into the television fray. A long break. I pick up a towel and wipe my face as a small black dog scoots around the barbeque.
John makes shooing noises. ‘I bet it’s a walker’s dog run up from the road and it likes the smell of sausages.’ Paul turns and we watch it for a moment.
After my interview with Marika I was badgered by three national newspapers and two supermarket magazines to do interviews, “at home” photo-shoots and a makeover (‘We want to make you more glamorous!’). I turned them all down. I mean, it’s just not me. After our lazy and loving family holiday I’ve got work to do. Crime Time has been a huge hit, there’s talk of creating a cable channel that runs Crime Time-type videos on a loop. Livvy is keen to get me back, perhaps in front of the camera. She says viewers responded positively to my “no nonsense honesty” and I am keen to get more involved. There’s a lot to think about.
The dog puts its paws on the table near the barbeque. Paul puts his fingers in his mouth and produces a screaming wolf whistle out of nowhere that makes me jump. The dog bounds over and Paul ruffles its floppy ears, making friendly noises. I hear the distant sing-song of the owner’s call and a moment later Paul directs the furball away with his whole arm. The dog hovers uncertainly, torn, but for a second time Paul commands him to leave and it obediently retreats the way it had come.
‘Oh sweet.’ He looks after the dog indulgently before glancing at me. ‘You OK? You seem miles away.’
I wrap the towel around my shoulders. Despite the heat of the day, I’m cold. Something about what I’ve just witnessed jars. The expert way he controlled that dog . . . ‘Paul, how did you knock over the dog?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did it happen? Did it run out at you or what?’
He pauses. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just tell me.’
He’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. ‘It was raining so it was hard to see. I ran right over it. Maybe it was already injured. It didn’t jump out at me, if that’s what you mean. It was very badly crushed, as you can imagine.’
He starts to fiddle with the ties on his shorts. I think of Portia; of what she said at the end: You think Paul’s with you . . . I swallow. ‘You know something? I was really convinced it was you, that you did those things in the spring.’
‘Kate!’ He looks shocked and takes a step towards me, brushing his lovely hand lightly across my cheek.
‘Come on, lovebirds, lunch is nearly ready,’ Jessie says, walking past.
He stares at me for a long moment, light playing across those eyes that pull me in with their intensity. He smiles his lopsided smile and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t you trust me, Kate?’ And then he winks. Slow, sexy and sly.
The sun disappears behind a cloud, except I know that the sky is unbroken azure. I step away, my eyes never leaving his face. A moment passes before I take a step forwards, pulled by the ties that bind us. And I wink back at him.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank my agent, Peter Straus, at Rogers Coleridge & White, and Jenny Hewson; my publisher, Carolyn Mays, and copy-editor, Sarah Coward, and the great team at Hodder for their hard work on this book. I am indebted to the police officers at Kilburn Station who took the time to answer my questions and show me what really happens behind the front desk; and to psychologists Vanessa Pilkington and Julie Read for their insights. For his unstinting support and belief, I cannot thank Stephen enough.
About the Author
Ali Knight has worked as a journalist and sub-editor at the BBC, Guardian and Observer and launched some of the Daily Mail and Evening Standard’s most successful websites. She lives with her family in London. Wink Murder is her first novel.