My Sister's Bones(13)

It is getting dark in the interview room and I watch as Shaw flicks a switch and the room fills with a sickly yellow light.

‘That’s better,’ she says as she walks back to her chair. ‘It hurts my eyes to read in the half-light. Now, Kate, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about your work.’

She smiles a weak, anaemic smile. I don’t return it.

‘I told you,’ I say, raising my voice above the buzz of the strip light. ‘I don’t want to talk about Syria. I made that very clear.’

‘Yes, you did,’ says Shaw, looking down at a fresh bundle of notes. ‘But this isn’t about Syria. I’d like to ask you about your last day at work. Something happened in the newsroom, didn’t it, Kate? Would you like to tell me about it?’

My heart freezes as she flicks the pages of her notes. How does she know all this? Who has she been speaking to? Harry? Rachel? I go to speak but my voice catches in my throat and I start to cough. Shaw looks up.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks, getting to her feet. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

I nod my head and watch as she walks over to the water cooler. She pours a cup and brings it to me.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper, taking the cup and sipping the tepid liquid. It tastes of plastic and I wince as I swallow it.

‘Are you happy to continue?’ asks Shaw as I place the cup on the table next to me.

‘Yes,’ I mumble, looking at the clock above her head. I need to get out. I need to get back to him.

‘You’d had a long lunch that day?’

‘Longish,’ I reply.

Shaw nods then writes something in her notebook. I look down at the floor but all I can see is Chris, his face a fragmented collection of parts, broken pieces like the bodies he exhumes. I see his beautiful mouth, the top lip curled, his stubbled jaw, his dark, close-cut hair, his blue, almond-shaped eyes, but I can’t put the parts together. I need to put them back together.

‘Somewhere nice?’

‘Yes, a restaurant in Soho,’ I reply as the street unfolds before me. I see familiar landmarks I have walked past a thousand times before: Bar Italia and Ronnie Scott’s, the Dog and Duck, all my old haunts. And there he is. I see him through the window of the restaurant, his hands clasped in front of him, waiting, preparing his speech.

‘What time did you get back to the newsroom?’

Shaw’s voice is sharp, a knitting needle stabbing at my brain.

‘I don’t know . . . Just after five I suppose.’

‘So a very long lunch,’ says Shaw, smiling patronizingly. ‘Was it for work or pleasure?’

I stare at the wall, remembering that day. I see us sitting there like two strangers.

I look up at Shaw. ‘Work,’ I reply. ‘It was a work meeting.’

‘But you had a couple of drinks, yes?’

I nod my head and remember the wine that tasted like acid. The first drink I’d had in years. Glass after glass as I sat in my club after saying goodbye to him on Frith Street.

‘Would you say you were intoxicated?’

‘No.’

‘Really?’

‘I’d only had a couple of glasses.’

‘Your colleague Rachel Hadley says that you were decidedly the worse for wear and in no fit state to be working when you got back to the office.’

She is reading from her notes. I shake my head incredulously. Rachel bloody Hadley. She would do or say anything to get to me.

‘Why are you shaking your head?’

‘Because the person you’ve just mentioned is a parasite, a silly little girl who wants my job.’

If only she hadn’t been the first person I saw, I could have got through the rest of the day, finished my article and left without any drama. But there she was as I walked to my desk, standing like a checkpoint official, blocking my way, asking: ‘Long lunch, Kate?’ in her whiny, nasal voice.

‘That’s Rachel Hadley,’ says Shaw. ‘The woman you assaulted?’

‘Yes.’

The shame is still as strong now as it was a few weeks ago and I feel my cheeks burn as I remember what happened next.

I tried to edge my way past to get to my desk but she put her arm out to block me and announced in a loud voice that I was unsteady on my feet and would I like her to make me a black coffee. Then she put her arm on my shoulder and after that everything went hazy. All I could see in front of me was a blockage, an obstacle to overcome.

Shaw is looking down at her notes. It will all be there, every last detail of that wretched day.

‘You hit her across the face,’ says Shaw.

I stare at the table.

‘And your colleagues had to intervene?’

‘I believe so, yes. I was upset.’

I was aware of the others rushing to her aid but they were like ants, tiny dots on the periphery of my consciousness.

‘Harry Vine says you are one of the finest journalists he has ever worked with.’

I look up at her. So she has spoken to him. Harry, my editor.

‘He speaks very highly of you,’ continues Shaw. ‘Despite your actions that day.’

‘Yes,’ I stammer. ‘He’s a good man. One of the best.’

As I speak I try to order my thoughts. Harry knows I’m being held under the Mental Health Act. My life is over. My career is over. What will I do?