Nicci French - Until it's Over

‘Then you were wrong.’ Owen and I exchanged a glance. ‘Anything else?’

‘You’re a bitch, Leah,’ said Pippa.

‘Cow,’ barked Mick, then folded his arms across his chest and sat back.

‘That’s called shooting the messenger,’ said Miles.

‘And that’s what I always am, isn’t it, Miles?’ said Leah. ‘Your messenger.’ Then she stalked out of the room.

I put on my jacket and did it up with trembling hands. I was trying to look dignified and undistressed.

‘Astrid…’

‘No, Pippa. Don’t say anything. It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong. I just need a bit of fresh air.’

‘We were a bit drunk. It was only once.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Are you all right?’ asked Miles, standing up and putting a hand on my shoulder, which I shrugged off.

‘For God’s sake, I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Don’t leave like this,’ said Davy. ‘Don’t you think we should talk it through?’

‘No, Davy, I don’t. Funnily enough, I don’t really feel like some group-therapy session about it.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Miles.

‘Out. For a bike ride.’

‘You don’t have a bike.’

‘Then I’ll walk.’

‘Can I come?’ asked Pippa.

‘Not just now.’

‘Astrid…’

‘Don’t say Astrid like that. Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t want to sit around here discussing it.’

‘If you want company…’ said Miles.

I looked around the room.

‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s the last thing I want.’

I walked a long way, through the soft warmth of the evening, and didn’t stop until I reached Hackney Marshes. There were several teams out playing football on the pitches, but further on it was uncannily quiet and deserted. You could almost feel you were not in London any more, but somewhere near the sea. Somewhere wonderfully far away from the hot, nasty squabbles of home.

‘How did you get here, Astrid?’

Kamsky was looking into my eyes. His lips seemed to be out of synch with what he was saying. And although he was so close to me that I could smell the coffee on his breath, he also seemed far away, separated from me, as if through glass. I felt like a fish in an aquarium and he was on the other side of the glass, staring through it at me. There seemed no immediate point in replying to him. And though it seemed like a dream, it wasn’t a dream. It was real and I would have to start dealing with that.

‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘You take your time, Astrid. We’ll get someone to talk to you. Would you like some tea? Some nice, warm, sweet tea?’

He moved out of my vision. I looked around the room. There was a coffee mug on the mantelpiece, a cupboard door was open. It was as if she had just stepped out, but only for a few seconds, because she was going to come back and finish the coffee before it was cold and close the cupboard, because she wouldn’t be the kind of person who would tolerate open cupboard doors. Through the cupboard door I could see a black coat and a woollen jacket, a boot, a canvas bag. Not many clothes, because most of her clothes were walking around Hackney being worn by other people. On the sofa there was a flowery silk dressing-gown and a paperback lying open. On the floor there was a cardboard box and several plastic bags. The box contained plates, jugs and a cafetière. The bags contained sheets, towels, pillows. On the walls I could see the light rectangles and hooks where the pictures had been removed. They were now leaning against a wall. I could see only the outer one, a framed photograph of a man in a suit and a woman in a long dress, staring stiffly at the camera. Her grandparents. Maybe great-grandparents. I don’t know the names of mine. They had lived and married and produced children and died, and fifty years later their great-granddaughter didn’t even know their names. Was one of them called William?

The flat was crowded now.

‘Do you know who I am?’ said a man.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re Dr Bradshaw. Dr Hal Bradshaw. You’re the psychiatrist.’

‘Very good, Astrid,’ he said.

‘You got here quickly,’ I said. ‘Are you like a fireman?’

‘What?’ he said.

‘You got here quickly,’ I said. ‘Like a fireman. To a fire, I mean.’

‘There’s a woman here,’ he said. ‘She’d like to take a swab from your hands. Is that all right?’

A woman leaned down in front of me. She wore a fawncoloured sweater. A tiny crucifix swung out from her neck on a chain as she bent forward. She wore plastic gloves. She took my left hand and turned it palm upwards. I looked down.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ I said. ‘Oh, sorry. Oh, God.’

The hand was splashed with blood. I felt something cold on it as the woman wiped it with a cloth. She placed the cloth in a plastic bag. She took a cotton bud and moved it on my fingertips so that it almost tickled. ‘Do you mind?’ she said, and before I spoke she examined my fingernails. ‘You’ll need to keep still.’

She took a shiny metal implement, like half of a pair of tweezers, and scraped under the nails one by one. I felt as if I was being cleaned, then scoured. Then she did the same for the other hand. As if by magic, DCI Kamsky was there again. ‘Astrid,’ he said. ‘Was there a weapon?’

‘What?’

‘A knife. By the body. Or on the table.’

I shook my head.

‘Astrid,’ he said, slightly too loudly, as if I were deep in a cave or up on a ledge. ‘There’s a WPC here. WPC Lynch. We’re going to leave her with you and you’re going to take your clothes off. All of your clothes and any jewellery and accessories. We’ve got another set of clothes for you to put on. Do you understand?’

I flinched. The idea seemed obscene. ‘Not here,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

The men left, looking embarrassed. WPC Lynch smiled. ‘Call me Gina,’ she said. ‘It’s procedure. Just pop that lot off and we’ll get you into there and you can have a cup of tea as a reward.’

I looked around. ‘Can you close the curtains?’ I said.

‘I’m not allowed to touch anything,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. Nobody can see in.’

WPC Gina Lynch unfolded what looked like a polythene laundry bag. I kicked my shoes off and pulled my socks down and over my feet. I lifted my bright yellow T-shirt over my head.

‘It’s a bit sweaty,’ I said. ‘I’ve been riding for hours.’

She snapped some surgical gloves on before she picked them up. It made me feel I was infected with something. Perhaps I was. ‘It’ll be returned to you,’ she said.

I rolled my black cycling shorts down my legs and over my feet and handed them to her. I held my hand out for the tracksuit bottoms.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘You’re not serious?’

I unfastened my bra and slipped it over my arms. Then pulled my knickers down and slipped them over my feet. She put them in a smaller bag and I was standing naked in that terrible place. If she could see me now. WPC Lynch started rummaging in a satchel of the sort that postmen carry and produced a pair of grey-blue knickers and handed them to me.

‘I won’t even ask who these belong to,’ I said.

‘They’re perfectly clean,’ said Lynch.

I pulled them up.

‘No bra, I’m afraid,’ she said, and handed me a white T-shirt. I put it on, then a blue sweatshirt and red tracksuit bottoms.

She rummaged in another bag. She handed me a pair of socks rolled into a ball and a pair of black trainers.

‘I’m building up a bit of a collection,’ I said.