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'She's withdrawn her alibi.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.