by Nicci French
'My boyfriend.'
'Could he bring you some clothes?'
'I guess so.'
I was X-rayed and I was photographed and then I was taken to a private room with a vase without flowers and a window without a view. The doctor said they wanted to keep me under observation for a night. Amy said that they would like to take a statement. They said they could wait if I didn't feel well enough, but the sooner I could manage it the better. I said I could do it immediately. Things were happening so quickly. Within the hour a detective knocked on my door, took his jacket off and removed a sheaf of paper from his bag. He was called Seb Brett and he looked pale, as if he were kept in the dark. He pulled a small table alongside my bed and started to take dictation.
Now things became slow. It was like being back at school. He took my name, my address and my date of birth. He laced his fingers together and pulled them back sharply in that unpleasant way that makes the joints crackle like dry sticks of wood.
'Now,' he said. 'From the beginning.'
There was no pressure of time, no shortage of paper. I gave him the story in every detail: Brendan ringing at the door, forcing his way inside, grabbing the back of my head and slamming my face into the wall, pulling the knife from somewhere and pushing it against my throat, my pleading, his smile and telling me that this was the end, then the sound of the door, Brendan jumping up in alarm, running, I couldn't see where. It had only taken a few minutes, but it took a couple of hours and fourteen pages to make the statement. At the end I was exhausted, but Detective Brett asked me to read it through and sign at the end of each page. My words seemed different in Seb Brett's rounded, precise handwriting. They were all mine, but he had selected particular phrases and made alterations. It wasn't inaccurate, but it sounded a bit like something translated by a computer into another language and then back into English by another computer. I found it difficult to concentrate, so this was a slow process as well. Halfway through there was a knock at the door. I felt a spasm of something not good. It was Rob Pryor.
'Miranda,' he said. 'I just heard. I came straight over. How are you?'
'Shaken,' I said.
'I'm not surprised.' He walked over to the bed and picked up the pages I'd finished with. 'Do you mind?'
I looked across at Brett, who just gave a shrug. So I said I didn't mind. This was even worse. I read the pages with Rob reading the earlier pages beside me. I kept losing my place, so he quickly caught up with me. Each time I signed a page, he would take it from me and read it with a tut-tutting sound that I found infuriating. I signed the last page and passed it over to Pryor, but he gave it straight back.
'You need to sign it immediately where the text ends,' he said. 'Just here.'
'Why?'
'So some wicked policeman can't add a bit at the end saying "I woke up and it was all a dream", and you would have signed it off.'
I signed my name hard against the last word, which was 'police'.
'How did you get here so quickly?' I asked.
'Mr Block is being questioned. He rang me.'
'But what are you doing here?'
'As you very well know, I've been involved with him previously, so it seemed like a good idea to have continuity…'
'But you're making it sound like he's your client.'
'Not at all,' he replied brusquely.
I turned to Brett.
'Is this legal?' I said. 'Pryor is a friend of Brendan's.'
Brett looked quizzical. Pryor walked across and they had a whispered conversation that I couldn't quite hear. It went on for several minutes with puzzled looks from Brett. At the end of it he nodded and looked at me.
'DI Pryor has asked if he can have a quick word with you. Is that all right?'
'What about?'
'It'll only take a minute,' Pryor said.
'I don't believe this,' I said, looking at Brett. 'Do you realize who this man is? This is like letting Brendan's lawyer come in and nobble me when everything has just happened. I just can't… I've just been attacked.'
'I was telling Seb about your previous connection with Mr Block.'
'So?'
Pryor walked across and sat by my bed. It was like having Brendan himself there. His proximity made me want to gag. He looked at me closely. I held his gaze.
'It looks nasty, Miranda,' he said. 'It must hurt.'
I didn't reply.
'What time did the attack happen?' he said.
'You've read the statement.'
'Your boyfriend made the call at – what was it? – five past seven this evening.'
I still didn't speak. I wasn't going to be drawn into a conversation.
'Your boyfriend,' said Pryor. 'Some sort of doctor, isn't he?' I only shrugged. He leaned in closer, his eyes narrow. 'You know what?'
'No,' I said. 'What?'
'I don't believe you.'
'What?'
'Did he help you? Your boyfriend? He could do it, couldn't he? A few bruises, things that would show, but not do too much damage.'
'What the…?' I stuttered. 'What are you saying?'
'There was a knife,' Brett said. 'He dropped it. We're checking the prints.'
'They lived together,' said Pryor. 'She could have saved it.'
'We never lived together,' I said. 'What the hell are you doing?'
He was so close to me now that I could almost smell him.
'He's got an alibi,' he said.
I took a deep breath. I had to control myself.
'I don't care,' I said finally. 'Why are you telling me this? I was there. I know what I know.'
'Don't you want to know?'
'All right,' I said. 'Who?'
'His girlfriend, Naomi Stone.' He looked at me with an expression of mild triumph. I'd seen it before. 'You don't seem very concerned.'
'Maybe I'm used to being disbelieved,' I said. 'As I said, I was the one who was there. He had his knife against my throat. Look.' I lifted my chin.
He clapped his hands gently.
'Oh, very good,' he said. 'It's a brilliant performance. Dignified. Not overdone. Pretty convincing. But then you've had a bit of practice.'
I tried to concentrate. Don't let him rile you.
'Have you ever thought that it's just possible that you could be wrong and that Brendan could be dangerous?'
'None of this matters,' said Pryor. 'He couldn't have attacked you. He was at home. He was at home when the police called and Ms Stone places him there for the entire evening.' He picked up the statement and glanced at it once more. 'You mention a dark blue shirt. When I saw him a few minutes ago, his shirt looked brown to me.'
'He might have changed it,' I said. 'Did that occur to you?'
He shook his head and smiled.
'Mr Block is making a statement. We'll make some calls and then we can bring this charade to an end. If you really want to know…' And now Pryor was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile phone. With a sigh of exasperation he took it from his pocket. 'Yes?' Suddenly his expression changed. 'What the hell are you talking about?' He looked at me with glassy eyes as he listened to the phone. 'I'll be right there.'
He mumbled something to Brett and then walked out of the room, banging the door behind him. Brett pulled a face at me. I think he was on my side, mostly. He ran out after Pryor. I was alone for several minutes and I lay back and stared at the ceiling, trying to empty my mind. I felt as if I were in another world now, unengaged by these events and disputes. When the door opened I barely looked round. It was another female police officer. She sat in the corner, but made no attempt to start a conversation. I tried to sleep although it was hopeless, but I closed my eyes so I wouldn't be bothered.
Much later, it must have been after an hour, the door opened and I was aware of someone by the bed.
'Are you awake?'
I opened my eyes. Brett.
'Sort of I said. 'You look cheerful.'
'Sorry,' he said. 'Are you all right?'
'I don't know.'
/> 'It'll feel worse tomorrow.'
'The doctor told me. I've got pills for that.' There was a pause. 'So what's happened? What happened with Pryor?'
The smile spread across Brett's face.
'He's not a happy man,' he said. 'My colleague was talking to Naomi Stone. Just to see if she was sure about that alibi. She told her about some of the hairs recovered at the scene. And the knife.'
'So?'
'She's withdrawn her alibi. And better still, we've found the dark blue shirt.'
'Where?'
'It wasn't in his drawer. It was in the bottom of a rubbish bag outside his house. It has some stains on it. They are as yet unidentified, but we already know they are drops of blood. Human blood.'
'Mine?'
'We'll see. I told Rob Pryor that he should come here and apologize to you.'
'What did he say?'
'He had a previous engagement. Off the record, I think I can tell you that we shall be filing charges against Brendan Block in the morning.' He took my hand. 'We'll leave you now.'
Brett and the policewoman left the room, switching off the light before they closed the door. I tried to go over things in my mind for a while, to get them straight, but I was tired now and slept and had no dreams.
CHAPTER 41
I spent a long time choosing the place. First I thought about somewhere with many people, Oxford Street or Trafalgar Square, because at least you lose yourself in a crowd, become anonymous and invisible. But I dismissed the idea immediately. I considered a motorway service station, heading north on the M1, say, standing in a car park or sitting at a table in the corner by a window eating doughnuts and drinking bitter, tepid coffee. But too many people pass through service stations, on their way somewhere else, and it would only take one. Perhaps outside an underground station in the suburbs: the last stop on the line, where London peters out and the countryside has not yet begun. Or in a muddy field somewhere. I could rehearse the route and draw up complicated instructions: take the M11 until Junction 10, head east on the A505. A landfill site, a laundrette in some charmless town, a lay-by off a dual carriageway, a wood at night…
On a bright and freezing New Year's Day I got up early, kissed Don's cheek very softly so he didn't wake. Before I left, I looked down at him. Yes. He'd do. I took the car and drove out of London. The roads were almost empty. I went over Blackfriars Bridge from where I could see the dome of Saint Paul 's shining in the icy light, through New Cross, Blackheath, and on to the A2. Just past Gravesend, I pulled into a garage and filled the car up with petrol. I was handing over my credit card when I changed my mind and paid in cash. I bought a cup of coffee as well, and drank it in the car before setting off again. I felt calm and, in the brightness of that winter's day, things took on a clarity and precision.
I joined the M2 and a few miles later exited towards Sheerness. I could see the Medway estuary now, the mud flats and shabby clusters of houses with a few bare trees bending in the wind and the sky vast and empty of clouds. Soon I was crossing on to the Isle of Sheppey. I pulled over and consulted my map, then drove on, right at the roundabout, right a couple of miles further, on to a bumpy minor road, left towards the church which was visible for miles, the one vertical marker rising out of the marshy. land. At the church, I parked and looked at my watch. It was ten o'clock; I had about two miles to walk and just less than an hour to do it in.
It was bitterly cold when I opened the door and I could hear the desolate call of sea birds on the wind. I pulled on my thick jacket, my scarf, woollen hat and padded biking gloves. Even then, my cheeks felt scoured. I started to walk. If Don had been with me, he could have told me the names of the birds that circled above me in the streams of air, or flew low over the water, calling. I clapped my hands together to keep the blood circulating. There was nobody around; just a few sheep grazing at the tufts of grass, birds picking their way delicately over the mud with long, hinged legs. I turned my back on the sea and walked towards the inland marshes.
After about forty minutes, I saw a dot on the level horizon. The dot became larger, clearer. Became a figure that was walking towards me. Became a woman in a heavy coat with blonde hair escaping her hat and whipping round her pale cheeks. Neither of us made a signal or lessened our pace. We just continued walking towards each other across the marshes until we were a few feet away from each other.
'Naomi,' I said.
'Hello.'
'Everything go all right?'
'I was careful, like you said.'
I had not seen her since those days in court, when I'd tried so hard not to look at her, although I'd been acutely conscious of her, aware of her even when I was looking in the other direction. Once, our glances had touched for a second, less, and then we had both looked hastily away as if we had been scorched. She had lost weight and her pallor was striking. More than that, she seemed older, years older, than the candid, sweet-faced woman I'd met in Crabtrees. Perhaps it was that the innocence had gone, blasted away in just a few months. Brendan had done that.
'Shall we walk, just for a little?' I said and she nodded and turned back on her path. We went single file for a bit, until the path widened at a mobile home park that was deserted and eerie. From here the track led to the sea wall; the wide estuary lay before us, and on the other side the low Kent coastline. There were pebbles and broken shells at the water's edge, and also old cans, broken bottles, shredded plastic bags.
'Was it easy to get away unnoticed?'
'There's no one really to notice any more.' Her voice was quiet and flat; I had to strain to hear it. 'What about you?'
'I told Don I was inspecting an empty property.'
'Oh.'
For a few minutes there was just the crunch of our feet over frosted grass. I was sure we were remembering the same thing – that strange hour when we'd met and like two witches muttered plans and exchanged tokens. From her bag, she'd produced a little sandwich bag with some coarse dark hair inside that she'd pulled from Brendan's brush, and the jagged-edged carving knife wrapped in soft paper towels that she'd handed over by the bottom of its blade, careful not to touch its handle. And then she'd unfolded a dark blue shirt and laid it out before us. I'd held out the index finger of my left hand for her, and she'd taken a safety pin, opened it, and, biting her lower lip, jabbed the point into my finger. A dark ball of blood had welled up and after a few seconds I'd shaken it over the shirt, by its collar and then wiped it there as well.
'Can I ask something?' she said at last.
'Sure.'
'How did you do that to your cheek? You looked awful in court, even all those weeks after.'
It all seemed a long, long time ago.
'When I saw Don pulling up outside, I smashed my face against the kitchen door as hard as I could, as if someone were holding me by my hair and doing it to me. I did it over and over until I couldn't see for the blood.'
'How could you do that?' she said in a whisper.
'I thought of Troy – Laura as well, but mostly Troy. Then it was easy; welcome, even. It was nothing.'
Naomi nodded as if she understood.
'Now tell me something,' I said. 'Something I never had time to ask before.'
'Yes?'
'How were you so certain about Brendan?'
She hesitated. 'Are you sure you want to know? You might find that
'Tell me.'
'He told me what he'd done to Troy. He said he'd do it to me too, if I left him.'
There was a pain in my stomach and a burning sensation behind my eyes when she said this. I squinted into the wind and kept on walking. Somehow it's easier to talk about devastating things when you're moving, your eyes on a fixed point ahead of you.
'He actually told you about Troy?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
She shrugged. 'For the same reason he kept that rope, perhaps? A kind of insane self-confidence. Some things we'll never know, will we?'
'I guess not. But why didn't you go to the police?'
'I thought of what had happened to you. I couldn't be sure.'
'What did he say?'
'He said he'd filled him up with pills and strung him up on the beam and left him to die there.'
'Go on.'
'He said,' she looked round at me and then back at the path again. 'He said he'd tried to call out.'
'What?' My voice was a whisper.
'He'd tried to say your name.'
I went on walking. One foot in front of the other. It's hard to understand how it's possible to keep on walking when you hurt so much and you just want to bend over with your arms around your stomach, curl up into a tight ball and wail like a baby. He called out for me because he thought I was coming home soon. I'd promised him I'd be there and he must have thought I could rescue him. But I was late. I didn't come.
'Are you all right?'
I managed a noise of assent.
'I think this might have been his.' Naomi pulled one hand out of her pocket; she was holding a bracelet made of leather, with three dull wooden beads on it. 'Was it?'
I took the bracelet in my gloved hand. 'Yes. Since he was small. He bought it in Italy, when we were all there together as a family. It's just a cheap old thing.' But I held it against my cheek for a moment, then slipped it over my wrist.
Naomi said, 'My car's not so far from here.'
We stopped and looked at each other.
'What are you going to do?' I asked.
Naomi looked around, as if there might be someone hiding in the reeds or in the long, rippling grass.
'I caught his eye in court,' she said. 'When I gave evidence. He smiled at me. One of his nicest smiles. That's when I was certain about what to do. I'm leaving everything. Starting over from fresh.'
'Can you do that?'
'Why not? I've got no family. Maybe that's why I fell in love with Brendan – I thought we were these two orphans who'd come together to protect each other in the wicked world.' She gave a harsh' laugh, more like a bark, and then shook her head as if to clear it. 'One day he'll be free again and then he'll try to find me.'
'Not yet, though.'
'No, but how long? How many years?'
'They gave him ten, so he'll be out in five or six – you can be sure he'll be a model prisoner; he'll charm everyone. But Pryor's said they're going to re-investigate Laura and Troy 's deaths, so… well, who knows. Maybe he'll be in for longer.'