The Kill (33 page)

I didn’t know if it was better for Rob to talk about it or try not to think about it. I was a long way out of my depth. I clung to Derwent’s advice like a life belt. ‘I’ll see if you can go yet. I want to take you home.’

His head snapped up and he looked at me for the first time. ‘I don’t want to go.’

‘I’m not sure hanging around is such a good idea,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Derwent said—’

‘I really don’t care what he said.’

‘No, but you should. He’s been in this situation before. I think. I mean, he seems to know all about it. From the army. You could talk to him about it. He might give you more of the details. I just got hints and dark muttering.’

‘I’m not talking to him about it.’ There was a real edge to Rob’s voice and I stepped back a little, faltering.

‘He might be able to help.’

‘He’s the last person I’d ask for help.’

‘I know. I would have said that too, but I really think—’

‘Maeve. Drop it.’

I dropped it. There was no point in arguing with him. I sat beside him as various people came to talk to him: Godley, who was charming and sympathetic and ignored me; a couple of officers from the Department of Professional Standards who were less charming, neutral on the sympathy front and ignored me; Debbie Ormond, who was extremely charming and made a point of including me in the conversation and an apologetic Kev Cox who took Rob’s clothes and bagged them up, giving him a spare paper suit to wear.

‘Now you really need to go home,’ I said. ‘You can’t wander around in the rain wearing that.’

‘It’s treated,’ Kev said. ‘Should stand up to a bit of rain. I wouldn’t wear one to Glastonbury but then I wouldn’t go to Glastonbury in the first place.’

I smiled politely. Rob was stony-faced.

‘I’m not going.’

‘We should go soon.’

‘No.’

I waited until Kev had packed up and left.

‘We can’t just sit here all night. What are you trying to achieve?’

‘I don’t know.’ Rob folded his arms, crinkling slightly. ‘I just don’t feel I can go home. It doesn’t seem right when Harry isn’t going to go home again.’

‘Harry’s not here any more,’ I said gently. ‘The mortuary men took him away hours ago.’

‘I know.’

‘Look, this isn’t easy, but you are going to have to go home at some stage. You are going to need to eat, and sleep. You are going to need to go on living.’

Rob closed his eyes. ‘Not now, Maeve.’

‘Now, Rob. Right now. You need to get away from here and sort your head out. There are plenty of people here working to make sure Harry gets justice. You aren’t helping them and you’re not helping yourself. You need to get some rest.’

He squeezed his eyes tightly, fighting back tears.

‘Come home with me,’ I said. ‘Please.’

I knew he didn’t want to, but in the end he agreed and I thought it was a victory.

I was wrong about a lot of things, and that was one of them.

Rob had a shower when he got home, washing away the traces of Harry Cromer’s blood that had soaked through his clothes, all the way to his skin. I understood why he locked the door, and why he stayed under the running water for a lot longer than usual. In a quiet, unobtrusive way he was as proud as Derwent and far tougher. He didn’t want to let me see him suffer, and it didn’t matter that I wanted to help – that it was my turn to support him, for once.

I couldn’t make him lean on me, so I made dinner instead.

He came out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, his hair still spiky with water.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah.’ A glance at the cooker where water was boiling, ready for the pasta to go in. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I thought I would do it anyway. You might feel like having some later.’

‘You sound like your mum.’

‘That’s fighting talk,’ I said, nettled because it was true. I was starting to understand how she felt, though. It wasn’t possible to make everything right again with food and comfort, but if that was all you had, that was what you offered.

He sat on the sofa and put on the television, hunting for a news channel.

‘Do you want anything else? Tea? A drink?’

‘I’ll get it myself.’ He came back to the kitchen and found a glass and an unopened bottle of whiskey, stepping around me. I stirred the pasta sauce I had made, wondering if I could be bothered to finish it.

In the end I turned off the heat under the two saucepans and went to sit beside Rob. He was leaning forward, staring at the news, and didn’t look at me when I put a hand on his back. The news, of course, was all about what had happened in Bexley, and when they got tired of repeating the very small amount of information and footage they had managed to collect, they went back over the previous deaths, with accompanying graphs and maps. They were better resourced than we were, I thought, and wondered if we could borrow some of their material.

After a while, I said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?’

‘I’m fine.’ He was drinking steadily but slowly, and he wasn’t one to drown his sorrows usually. He rarely got drunk, or anything like it. He would stop before he went too far, I thought.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Well, if you change your mind—’

‘I won’t.’

I stood up, feeling a little dizzy from hunger. In the kitchen, the pasta sauce didn’t look any more appetising. I made a sandwich instead and ate it standing up, watching Rob. He was still focused on the television.

‘You know, I understand why you’re watching that, but I don’t know if it’s the best idea. It’s just going over the same ground. It’s not going to tell you anything you don’t know.’

That made him look at me. ‘Maeve, with the greatest respect, fuck off.’

I was so shocked, I stepped back and collided with the kitchen cupboards. ‘I’m just—’

‘Shut. The fuck. Up.’ He stared at me for a long, hostile moment, then turned back to the television.

‘I’m sorry.’

He didn’t answer me.

Something close to panic welled up within me. I had thought everything was going to be all right because Rob wasn’t hurt, but life wasn’t that simple. People weren’t that simple. I just didn’t know where to start with making him feel better. This wasn’t how our relationship usually worked. I was the one who generally needed rescuing from whatever disaster I’d plummeted into, and I didn’t seem to be equipped to help him now. He was upset, of course, but I had expected that. I hadn’t expected the anger. And he was the sort of person who didn’t get angry easily, but stayed angry for a long, long time.

‘I think I’m going to go to bed.’ I said it gently, making it clear that I wasn’t going off in a huff. ‘Don’t stay up too long.’

‘Okay.’

I lay in bed and listened to the TV burbling. Rob had kept the volume low but I could guess what they were saying as the news cycle churned. Headlines, reports, interviews, sport, weather, repeat. I don’t know how many times I heard the same portentous music. I couldn’t sleep, knowing that he was sitting there, suffering. I heard his phone beep now and then as a new message came through and I tortured myself by wondering who was texting him and why.

Eventually the sound of the television cut out. I heard footsteps come towards the bedroom but at the last minute they veered away towards the front door. I was out of bed and into the hallway before he had finished putting on his jacket.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘I don’t want to be here.’ He was by no means drunk but his movements were a little larger and slower than usual. As he patted the pockets in his jacket I congratulated myself on having removed his car key, and the spare, before I went to bed. He frowned. ‘Shit.’

‘Look, there’s no point in going out. Please, Rob. Stay here. Stay with me.’

I coaxed and wheedled and begged him until he took off his coat and followed me into our room. He lay down on the bed and threw an arm over his eyes. I lay beside him, my hand just grazing his, to let him know that I was there if he needed me. He didn’t move to hold it, but then he didn’t move away either. It was small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. I listened to him breathing, wondering if he was asleep, and at some stage I must have drifted off myself.

I came awake knowing instinctively that it was the early hours, guessing that it was around two in the morning. I had enough experience of being roused from a deep sleep to be alert instantly, but I couldn’t sit up. It was cold air on my skin that had woken me, and Rob’s weight on top of me.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked, and got a noise in response that I translated for myself:
yes but stop talking
.

He kissed my neck, one hand squeezing my breast, and there was something desperate about it rather than passionate. After a few seconds I pushed him off so I could scramble out of my nightclothes, as if everything was normal. When I was ready I turned back to him, leaning towards him to kiss him. Instead he pushed me back down on the bed and carried on where he had left off. I knew he wanted to escape his thoughts for a while, but I was too preoccupied with worry to respond to him. This wasn’t about me and him. It was functional and joyless. From what I could see in the dim light his expression was remote. Uninterested, almost. And Rob was the most attentive, generous lover usually. But now, it was like being with a stranger.

This was what I was supposed to do, I thought, panic and guilt swirling in a toxic haze. This was all I could offer him. He’d done so much for me and I loved him so much. I owed it to him to be willing but I wasn’t ready; it wasn’t right.

He leaned on me then, crushing me. He caught both of my wrists and held them above my head as with his free hand he pushed my knees apart. I felt panic flare inside me as he touched me and couldn’t think why until my mind flashed up an image: the stairwell in the Maudling Estate. I could smell it, all of a sudden, and taste the coppery fear I thought I’d left behind there. The probing fingers felt the same: intrusive. Unwanted. I had made myself forget about it and told myself I didn’t care but now it seeped back through my mind and body like oil spreading through a puddle. There it was, the feeling that I was powerless. I tried to move and couldn’t and felt helpless, vulnerable. Violated.

‘Wait.’

He didn’t listen. He was focused on himself, not on me. I winced as he moved over me. He was leaning on my hair. His arm was pinning mine to the bed, which was agonising. The way he touched me was rough, not tender or even passionate. I caught my breath and he didn’t seem to notice.

‘Rob, wait.’ I turned my head, trying to make eye contact with him, but he wasn’t looking at me and my heart just about broke. His face dissolved in a blur of tears as he pushed himself into me with a sharp, stinging pain. ‘Rob, please, stop. Just stop.’

I don’t know if it was the word or the note of panic in my voice but he pulled away and sat back, staring down at me. He looked angry, and hurt, and confused.

‘What’s wrong?’

I couldn’t answer him. I put my hands over my face and cried, close to being hysterical. I couldn’t seem to stop, or speak. I was aware of him sitting down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Eventually I got it together enough to say, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What’s the problem?’

I wondered where he had been for the previous few minutes and how he could have missed it. He was waiting for an answer, though.

‘I just wasn’t ready.’

It was the best I could do. I hadn’t told him about the Maudling Estate, about being cornered and threatened. I hadn’t wanted to hear about how stupid I’d been. Now didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up. ‘I’m sorry. I feel as if I’ve let you down. I’m so sorry.’

‘Stop apologising.’ He got up without even looking at me and started to pull his clothes on.

‘What are you doing? Why are you getting dressed?’

No answer. He was the quickest person in the world at getting ready anyway, and by the time I’d sat up and focused on what he was doing he was halfway out the door. I went after him, throwing on a T-shirt of his that he’d left on a chair.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I can’t do this now. I can’t be here.’

‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘I know.’

‘Stay here. Stay with me.’ I rubbed the back of my hand across my cheeks, smearing the tears away.

He shrugged his coat back on, picked up his phone and went out, shutting the door behind him.

I let him go. I had to. There was nothing I could say or do to keep him, no matter how much I wished there was.

Chapter 23

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’ Derwent hummed happily to himself, driving his car, in control. I sat in the passenger seat and seethed. It was two days since Rob had left, two endless days, and if anything my mood had worsened over time.

‘I don’t like magical mystery tours.’

‘Tough.’

I wasn’t quite at the level of a black-cab driver but my mental map of London was pretty good after years of criss-crossing it to do my job. I guessed where we were heading as Derwent headed south-west.

‘Richmond Park?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Why?’

‘Wait and see.’ The humming got louder. It was his way of forestalling conversation, and a bloody irritating way it was too. I gritted my teeth and tried not to listen, which was difficult in a small space. It was even more difficult when you were trying not to think about a really substantial number of things, so you couldn’t even drift off into your own thoughts.

An eternity later, Derwent pulled into the Pen Ponds car park and stopped the car and the humming simultaneously.

‘Why are we here?’

‘I’m not telling you yet. Come on.’

With bad grace I followed him up to the side road to where Terence Hammond’s car had been parked. The sunshine was watery, Turner-quality, and there was no heat in it. Fortunately, Derwent set a cracking pace so I was warm and out of breath by the time we got to the scene.

‘So?’

‘Come on.’ Instead of stopping he struck off through the woods, towards the sniper’s site. I thought evil things about footwear, adequate warnings and dry-cleaning bills as I picked my way after him, trying not to get left behind.