‘But eventually he told you where it was?’
‘Eventually. I persuaded him.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘I sat on his chest and stuck a needle in his eyeball.’ Tanner sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, as if he was developing a cold. ‘Then he told me. He kept them in a plastic wallet taped under the seat of his motor bike, together with his passport and a stack of money. His insurance — always ready for a fast getaway. That’s probably the way you think if you’ve lived in Beirut. Well, then I had to kill him, didn’t I?’
‘What sort of needle was it?’
‘What does it matter? It was on a trolley I passed on my way in. I was looking for something else to use — a scalpel or something. There were lots of needles sticking in a sponge and I reckoned that might do. My first thought was to stick it in his balls, but the eye was better. I could watch his face while I did it.’
He began to move towards her again, the blade poised. Instead of backing away she came at him, swinging the laptop towards his head. But it was just a little too heavy, the case a little too smooth to hold properly, and he raised his left hand and stopped her in mid-flight without any apparent effort. Then he brought up the blade in a graceful arc and sliced her right arm.
She recoiled, stumbling backwards over Brock’s body, arterial blood spurting from her arm, and fell in a clatter against the gas fireplace, scattering the elements and almost knocking herself out with the impact of her head against the tiled surround. She could hear herself making some kind of noise, snuffling in panic, then her scalp was seized with pain. She opened her eyes and realized he was gripping her hair and forcing her head back She stared at his eyes, wide, excited, only inches away, studying her fear and then, as his head drew back, fixing on her throat.
‘Goodbye, Kathy,’ he whispered.
She had no way of calculating the blow, left-handed, as she tried to thrust the toasting fork up and into him somewhere, anywhere, before he could bring the knife down. Afterwards she would tell her friends — especially the men, who seemed very troubled by it — that she hadn’t aimed there particularly: it just happened to be the spot that the long steel prongs met as she stabbed upwards. And at first she didn’t think she’d done him any damage, for he just froze, kneeling over her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. While he seemed to hesitate, she frantically pulled the fork away and tried to target his upper body in case he struck at her. And then his whole frame suddenly convulsed, and she thought in panic of that glittering razor-edged blade. She cried out and turned her head. She gripped the fork that Gordon Dowling had toasted crumpets with just a month before, and jammed it into his throat.
The ambulance men found her by the open front door, shaking like a motor on broken mountings, trying to control the bleeding in her arm with an improvised pressure pad.
‘There’s two upstairs,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Please be careful. There’s a lot of blood and broken glass.’
One went upstairs, then reappeared in a hurry, calling down for help.
‘One of them’s alive,’ he shouted. ‘Which one?’ Kathy called to him.
‘Well, it’s not the geezer with the fork in his bleedin’ throat! Get the coppers here quick, Jimmy.’
‘I’ve called them,’ Kathy said, ‘I can’t understand why they’re taking so long.’
Like her on that first visit, they had missed the archway into Warren Lane and had to circle the block before they spotted the blue ambulance lights in the courtyard. She didn’t recognize the two young men. One came running and spoke to the ambulance man binding her arm.
‘Domestic?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Kathy replied, ‘nothing like that. I’ve just killed someone.’
In the odd, jangled state of her mind, she thought it must sound as if she was boasting about it instead of asking for forgiveness, which in an absurd sort of way she was. He looked closely at her, then called his mate over. After a few words he went upstairs and returned a couple of minutes later, ashen-faced.
‘Can you identify the man you killed, madam?’
‘He’s a police officer,’ Kathy sighed. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Richard Tanner.’
‘I see …’ They were both staring at her as if she was a freak. ‘And you are …?’
‘Kolla, Kathy Kolla. And I think you should step aside.’
‘And why is that, madam?’
‘Because I’m going to throw up.’
They waited till she had finished communing with the bushes on the other side of Brock’s lane before they formally cautioned and arrested her for murder. She nodded, her eyelids heavy with fatigue and shock, and muttered. ‘This is my first time.’ It wasn’t until they were sitting in Casualty, the bright morning sun dazzling through the tall windows, that it occurred to her to tell them to ring Penny Elliot at Crowbridge.
Three weeks later, on the evening of 3 May, Jerry and Errol threw a party to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Organized by two women friends, one with pink, cropped hair and the other dressed entirely in black leather, it was held at the home of another friend outside Edenham, whose private lawn ran down to the river. Kathy and Patrick stood by the water’s edge drinking champagne, watching the current swirl around the roots of the willow trees. On the far bank, hidden under the overhanging grasses, they could make out the dark hole of a river creature.
‘Interesting friends you have,’ Patrick said, looking back with fascination at the crowd. They formed every possible combination, it seemed, of age, gender, smoking habit and personal adornment.
‘I think I’m only here as the token law-enforcement officer,’ she smiled. ‘But it was nice of them to ask me.’
‘Jill tells me you’re soon going to be doing your law-enforcing in the big smoke.’
‘Yes. I’m going to work with someone I know in the Met.’
‘Brock? Yes, I met him, remember? I thought you might have brought him here tonight.’
‘He’s in traction at the moment. Should be back on his feet in a week or two. But I wanted to ask you — you didn’t mind coming, did you?’
‘Of course not. I thought I got around a fair bit in this area, but I don’t recognize a single face here. Want another drink?’
Kathy nodded. Her right arm was still bandaged under the sleeve of her blouse, but by now she was used to drinking with her left.
As they strolled up the slope of the lawn, Kathy caught Patrick giving her an odd look. It was the second time she’d noticed it.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Did I mess up my make-up?’
‘Sorry,’ he smiled, and shook his head, i just can’t really believe that you …’
She stopped walking. ‘That I what?’
‘Well, that you actually … killed someone. Do you mind me saying that?’ She shrugged.
‘It’s not the sort of thing that happens in the real world, is it? I mean, I’ve never actually seen a dead body, let alone…’
‘It seemed very real at the time, Patrick. Now … no, it isn’t real. At least, not in daylight. What is real, anyway?’
There was an explosion of whistling and cheering from the house, and they turned to see the tight black trousers, red silk shirt and carefully groomed head of Jerry emerge triumphant through the french windows on to the terrace. Behind him Errol followed, a pair of cowboy boots conspicuous from his second honeymoon in the States, complete with spurs. He raised a glass to acknowledge a further burst of applause from the group standing around the drinks table.
Later, when the party had splintered into small groups chattering and dancing, Kathy and Patrick got the chance to talk to their hosts.
‘Well,’ Errol looked approvingly at Patrick, ‘and how is your relationship working out?’
Patrick looked surprised, and Kathy replied, ‘Oh fine. He does the cooking and I do the washing-up.’
‘Lucky you!’ Jerry said, ‘I have to do both.’
‘Never mind.’ Errol put an arm around his shoulder and led him off towards a photographer, his cowboy boots jingling. ‘There are worse things in life.’