'No,' I said, half raising myself and
flinching at the pain it caused me. 'Don't... It's not...'
'What are you talking about?' Don said,
almost angrily. 'I'm sorry, Miranda. I'm not listening to you.' I heard three
little bleeps as he punched the numbers into his mobile phone. I sank back
almost sobbing, partly with the pain, partly at the thought of what was to
come.
I wasn't there when the police examined
the room, when they dabbed at the blood on the wall and picked hairs off the
carpet and put the knife in a plastic bag. I was grateful for that. It would be
like the death of Troy all over again. I might have found it hard to retain
control. Don told me about all that later. He had wanted to come with me in the
ambulance, but a policeman told me he ought to stay and help to identify
objects at the scene. What was mine, what was his and what was 'foreign'. Much,
much later Don told me that he had been — in the midst of his distress — rather
interested to see the scene-of-crime procedures with all their special gloves
and tweezers and scalpels, plastic bags and labels, flash photography. He'd
been rather excited to be on the inside of the tape that was shutting the crime
scene off from the outside world.
Meanwhile I had been taken away in an
ambulance with a female police officer for company. She was like a free pass
that took me to the front of the queue. I was led through a waiting area full
of people who, whatever their injuries, were inordinately interested in me — a
young woman being led by two nurses and a uniformed police officer. What could
have happened to me? They would probably have to wait hours. Within two minutes
I was being examined by a young doctor and a nurse. A minute later he stepped
aside when a consultant in a white coat and a spotted tie arrived. I felt
nervous, as you do with doctors.
He examined my face and the inside of my
mouth.
'What were you struck with?' he said.
'A wall,' I said.
'Do you know who did this?' he asked.
I nodded. He turned to the police officer.
'You'll need to photograph this. The neck
as well.'
'He's on his way,' said the WPC.
'We'll be taking an X-ray, but the
cheekbone is probably fractured.'
I gave a cry because as he said it he had
given a dab on my cheek with his finger, as if to test his theory. He shone a
light into my eyes and into my ears. He held up his finger and asked me to look
at the point as he moved it around.
'Were you sexually assaulted?' he asked.
'No.'
Even so, he asked me to take off my
clothes so that he could examine me. The female police officer said that she
was called Amy O'Brien and did I mind if she were present for the examination.
I shook my head. As I took my clothes off, she said that she would need them
for evidence. Was that all right?
'What am I going to wear?'
'We'll get you a nightie,' the doctor
said.
'Your, erm... you know...' said Amy.
'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...