"Yours?"
She shook her head.
"Next door's."
For an instant the words caught at the back of Resnick's throat.
"You used his car, didn't you?" he said.
Sarah looked back at him.
"Yes," she said. She seemed smaller already, as if she had shrunken a little inside her smartly tailored suit. Her green eyes had ceased to glow.
"There was a list on the computer, vehicles that had checked into the hotel garage. When I saw the number had been traced through to Peter as owner, I assumed he had been using it himself." Resnick looked across at her, but whatever she had focused on was way down the garden, beyond the shrubbery.
"It took a while for all our routine checks on the car hire returns to go through the computer, but when they did, there was a Ford Granada under Peter's name."
"Two and two then, was it, Charlie?" She had turned to face him now, moved towards him; the shine was back in her eyes but it was of quite a different nature than before.
"Most of the prints we lifted from the hotel room were too smudged to be of any use; there was one inside the rim of the bath, only partial, but enough to get a match off the invitation you sent me…"
"You bastard!"
"Not enough in itself."
"Too bad. Too bloody bad!" She turned her back to him, leaned her head and arm against the mantelpiece and started to cry. Resnick left her to it. After a while, she pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
"He phoned me that morning, telling me to take the car to the garage; as if I needed reminding, like a complete child. And would I run around the house after him, picking up his dry cleaning and take that in as well?" She blew her nose.
"He said he'd ring me that evening, but, of course, he didn't. He rarely did, when he was away, and I knew why. I knew what he would be doing, some cheap little tart or other, some whore. And, of course, I was right. I was right."
She started to cry again, really cry this time, and Resnick went over to her and placed his hands, lightly, on her upper arms.
"I was outside, in the corridor, when she left. I can even describe her for you, if you want. Except that her hair was up, she was pretty much like her photograph. In the paper, g When I went in, Peter was on the floor, just past the end of j the bed. He was crawling towards the bathroom, crawling on his hands and belly and leaving these trails, like a snail,: except they were red, all along the floor. I felt sick. I| couldn't stop watching him. It was horrible, disgusting. 1 He got himself up on to the side of the bath and then stopped.
Collapsed. Unconscious. The knife, the one she'd stabbed him with, it was still on the bed; I could see the handle sticking out from the sheet. Maybe she'd looked for it and not found it, I don't know.
Anyway, I took it and went into the bathroom. Peter still hadn't moved. I thought I could still hear his breathing, but I couldn't be sure. I remember his buttocks were all flabby and loose, almost white except for these purple spots. And the awful flab of his belly, pushed out on both sides by the bath. " Resnick felt, rather than saw, her shake against his hands.
"I only stabbed him once, in the side. I couldn't believe how easily the blade went in."
Resnick had heard the car pull up a while since, back along the road.
He wondered how long they had been out in the garden, how much they had overheard? He called out and Millington and Lynn Kellogg stepped inside.
"Sarah Farleigh," he said,
"I am arresting you for the murder of Peter Farleigh…" He was glad she was looking away again, not directly up at him; glad to have got the business done before the children returned.