‘And the whole trial?’
‘A couple of weeks for a murder.’ It sounded so mundane, so everyday, the way she said it, though Fiona was sure she would not intend it to sound like that. And this was everyday for the court, she supposed.
‘Is there anything else you want to ask?’ Francine led the way to the exit.
Fiona decided to tell her, her throat tightening as she spoke. ‘After it happened, I had a series of panic attacks. I was off work. I haven’t had one in the last few weeks but if it did happen…’
Francine took it in her stride. ‘We can always stop, ask the judge for a break. It’s not unusual for people to get distressed while they’re giving evidence. Any problem, you let me know and I’ll alert the court.’
‘Thank you.’
Joe offered her a lift home. She accepted. It was a high summer’s day, the sky a perfect blue, the city traffic impatient, everyone hot and sticky. Joe’s car smelt of hot plastic. He wound the windows down. Fiona rested her elbow on the window edge.
‘So, you’re back at work,’ he said. ‘How’s that?’
‘Frantic. We’re really short-staffed. They are recruiting more people but the birth rate’s still rising so we can’t meet the demand. It’s a constant frustration, not being able to do the job as well as you can because you’re spread so thinly.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘I thought the police service had lots of money thrown at it.’ They passed a pavement café, people seated, the aluminium furniture glaring in the sun.
‘Doesn’t always land in the right hands.’
She looked at him, shocked. ‘Corruption?’
He glanced her way, laughed, a rich infectious sound. ‘No, no. Thank God. Just the powers that be deciding on priorities. Terrorism,’ he explained.
‘Ah.’
‘And there’s a lot swallowed up with special events: football matches, party conferences, demonstrations.’
‘How long have you been in the police?’
‘Twenty-four years, near enough. Another six and I can retire on full pension.’
‘Pretty cushy.’
He laughed again. ‘Maybe. I’m on the old scheme. It doesn’t work like that any more.’
‘So, what will you do then?’
He didn’t reply at first, concentrating on crossing the roundabout, finding a gap in among the lorries and vans. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve a place in France – I’ve been doing it up. Be nice to spend more time there.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘The Pyrenees, the east, not far from Narbonne.’
‘Lovely, I was in Provence in July.’ The question of what to do with Owen had dissolved when he accepted an invitation to go with a friend and his family to Cyprus. Fiona and Shelley booked rooms in a small hotel next to a spa. They’d taken trains all the way to Avignon and hired bicycles to get about once they were there. Shelley and she had got on famously, accommodating each other’s different interests by spending a couple of days apart and enjoying some notably giddy evenings drinking the local wine and setting the world to rights. Back home it rained every day but in France the sun shone and Fiona grew tanned and fit. She slept well but whenever her thoughts turned to the trial she felt herself tense, her sense of well-being drain away. It was a lowering obstacle on the horizon growing ever closer.
‘I can’t go out there yet, anyway,’ Joe said as he pulled up outside Fiona’s house. ‘My kids live with me and there’s no way on God’s earth they want to move to France.’
He had kids! ‘How old?’
‘Seventeen and fourteen, girl and a boy. Never a dull moment.’
‘Tell me about it. Owen’s sixteen and I keep wishing we could flash forward a couple of years, people say they improve again.’
‘Hah!’ He laughed. ‘I’m still waiting.’ The sage green eyes shining, lines crinkled at the corners.
She didn’t want to get out of the car, she wanted to keep talking. ‘I guess Manchester has a lot going for it: clubs, bands, uni. Why would they want to give up all that for a backwater in rural France?’
‘Exactly. Tuesday, you’ll be all right if I meet you there – now you know the way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you bringing anyone with you?’
She was surprised, it had never occurred to her.
‘You’re allowed: a friend, a supporter, someone to hold your hand.’
‘I want you to do that,’ she said softly.
His face stilled, he blinked, dropped his eyes.
She’d misjudged it. Oh, God. She felt awful, riddled with hot shame and embarrassment. ‘Sorry, that was-’ she stumbled over her words – ‘I shouldn’t, please-’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, looking at her.
‘Unprofessional and-’
‘Fiona, it’s all right.’ He caught her gaze, warmth in his again. ‘I’d love to hold your hand. But that will have to wait till this is all over.’
She felt like squeaking, running. There was a trace of a smile around his mouth. She was giddy and guilty, blood singing in her veins.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said.
She’d actually taken the whole day off and it was only lunchtime. She was restless, itching to do something, work off some of the febrile energy fizzing inside her. A day like this, bold with sunshine, was so rare she wanted to make something of it. Even if September yielded an Indian summer, the sun would be lower in the sky, the air softer, the sting of heat gentler.
She made a sandwich and ate it on the move, gathering things together. She called Ziggy and put him in the back seat. Left a note and sent a text to Owen: there was pizza in the freezer.
She no longer used the car to go to work but was comfortable driving again; she’d done some supermarket trips and driven across town to a training seminar but not any further yet. Now she refused to start worrying about whether she’d cope with a longer journey. She was still taking the pills, she reminded herself, and it was nearly three months since her last attack.
The road out of the city to the south-east was always busy; the traffic sped up along the intermittent stretches of dual carriageway then slowed to a crawl as they were funnelled through the narrower parts. She took the turning for the High Peak, climbing out of the valley and up past the big houses close to Lyme Park, the country estate. Out along the road which zigzagged the side of the hills, she admired the tubs and baskets of flowers that spilt bright colour in front of houses and shops. She had all the windows down and Ziggy stood with his nose out, his eyes closed against the rush of air. Why did dogs do that, Fiona wondered, they all seemed to like it. Was it some race memory of life on windswept plains, did it mimic the thrill of running?
It took her almost an hour to reach the parking spot, in the fold of hills. She changed into her walking boots and rubbed sunscreen on her face and arms. She kept Ziggy on the lead for the first part of the walk. The track led up across farmland and there were sheep in the fields: given half a chance he’d have bounded after them, a game to him but a recipe for heart failure for many a sheep.
Fiona’s calves, the backs of her thighs, ached as the incline grew steeper, the path now climbing between two old dry-stone walls, the slabs of rock encrusted with lichen and here and there tiny violets and thyme growing in the crevices.
She stopped to get her breath, looking back the way she had come. The hillsides were vivid green, the grass as smooth as suede. The few trees that were above the valley stood sentinel, heavy with foliage, alongside the field walls. In one field she could see a tractor at work and the round bales of hay, small as wooden toys. There was a little mere too, the sun glinting on the water in silver stripes.
When they had climbed over the stile into open country, she let Ziggy off the lead. He meandered ahead of her, head down, in an ecstasy of scent trails. Here purple heather and close-cropped turf quilted the peaty soil and cotton grass danced, white feather-heads shivering even though Fiona could feel no wind. Rushes and reeds marked the boggy parts of the moor. A ridge ran from this point for a couple of miles due south. Huge limestone boulders lay tumbled along it, riddled with fissures and holes, the legacy of centuries of wind and water. Fiona heard the spiralling song of skylarks and spotted a pair high above.