‘Then?’
Pause.
‘I said, “Let’s go to bed.” ’ There was an edge of defiance in his voice.
‘You said, or she said?’
‘She said.’
‘You first said that you said it.’
‘No.’ Confusion. ‘No, she said it.’
‘Then?’
‘We went into the bedroom. Geraldine drew the curtains. We got undressed.’
‘Did you undress each other, or what?’
‘No. Each on our own side of the bed. Quickly.’
‘Did you put your clothes on a chair? What were you each wearing?’
Winter was becoming flustered, but he stuck gamely to his account, the mental images of private passion so at odds with this drab room and his indifferent questioners that he kept losing the thread. He saw his lover’s naked belly, smelled her perfume. He lifted the glass of water again and saw that his hand was trembling.
‘And then we made love.’
‘How?’
‘What?’
‘How did you do it? What position?’
‘I don’t know, several.’
‘You made love several times?’
‘No, once. But we had several… positions.’
‘Describe them.’
‘Well… to begin with face to face… then later, her on top.’
‘Did you have oral sex?’
‘Yes… no, I don’t know.’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘No… I can’t remember.’
Kathy raised her eyebrows incredulously. ‘What about anal sex then? Do you remember that?’
Winter’s face had turned bright red and there were drops of sweat on his forehead. He turned to appeal to Brock, but he was now engrossed in the crossword.
‘No, certainly not that, because…’
‘Because?’
His jaw was clenched tight and for a moment it looked as if he might explode. Then he burst out, ‘Because we used to do that, but we had to stop after Geraldine saw the doctor.’
His chest was heaving, his eyes fixed on the floor. But what he saw was not the grey sheet-plastic flooring, but the look on Geraldine’s face when she had told him that time that it was hurting.
‘All right, Mr Winter.’ Kathy’s voice was mild, reassuring. ‘Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Just have a little break. Have another drink of water. Perhaps you’d like tea, no?’
They started again, patiently opening up Winter’s Sunday afternoon, moment by moment. They discovered the form of contraception used, whether Ms McArthur was having her period, and what colour the pillows were. Then they moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, to the kitchen and the lounge.
An hour after he had arrived at his girlfriend’s flat, the two had gone out to his car and driven to Greenwich. They walked through the park, where there might or might not have been small boys playing football on the grass, families picnicking beneath the trees and tourists queuing to see the Queen’s House. They established that the affair had been going on for six months, and that the Sunday afternoon assignation had been a regular event for over four. The only questions which Winter evaded concerned the future-whether he was intending to divorce his wife and marry his lover.
‘I don’t see the relevance of that,’ he said.
‘It would be expensive, wouldn’t it? That nice house in Chislehurst, the cars, the overseas trips, maybe some of the business. You’d lose quite a bit.’
Winter shook his head and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It could all be worked out.’
‘You think your wife would be reasonable, do you?’
Winter looked queasy.
‘When did you suggest to your mother that she mortgage her house and lend you the money?’
For a moment Kathy thought Winter was going to pass out. His expression was stunned, his eyes unfocused. Then he recovered himself and gasped, shaking his head.
‘That… that was nothing to do with this. After I opened the fifth salon last year, I needed extra cash. It was just a suggestion to Mum, in passing. It wasn’t serious.’
‘Well, she seemed to have taken it very seriously. She was very worried about it.’
‘I… I didn’t know.’
‘Yes, well perhaps you’d know what had been worrying her lately?’
‘Lately?’
‘Yes. She was worried, depressed about something. For the past three or four months, maybe longer. She’d been getting antidepressants from the doctor.’
‘I had no idea. Really, I didn’t know. She never said.’
‘Maybe you’d been putting pressure on her to sell her house.’
‘Dear God, no.’ Winter bowed his head, his hands between his knees, palms together, and began to rock back and forward.
‘Come on, Mr Winter. You wanted her to sell the house, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, yes. I wanted her to get rid of that place. It was always needing maintenance. It needs rewiring. The roof needs complete reslating. I wanted her to get a nice little place on one level she could cope with. A modern flat with central heating. Maybe nearer to us. She had got a good offer. And her solicitor told me that everyone was selling up and leaving there. She would be left there in the middle of a building site. It was crazy.’
‘And did the agent for First Properties also tell you that if she didn’t sell soon, the place might end up being unsaleable?’
Winter looked at her with a mixture of grief and despair on his face.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘he told me that.’
Winter was taken out to wait in another room while they interviewed Geraldine McArthur.
Brock got to his feet and stretched. He groaned. ‘Oh dear. I need a coffee before we get on to her. The things we have to do! I’m glad I had a decent breakfast this morning. I couldn’t have stood that on an empty stomach.’
‘You think I was too rough on him, sir?’
‘No, no. Exactly what he deserved, really. You wonder why he bothers, don’t you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, hauling himself off every Sunday afternoon to bed down with some woman whose every bump and wrinkle must be as familiar as his wife’s by this stage. I mean if he can’t even remember the next day whether she gave his dick a suck-sorry, Constable.’ The WPC in the corner smiled and stirred her coffee. ‘You can understand it at first, the excitement, the irresistible temptation, showing off in a big flashy car to some impressionable girl, but by this stage it must be getting a bit of a chore. And it’s going to cost him plenty, one way or another. Probably already has-that new kitchen, for instance.’
‘You think the wife knows?’
Brock shrugged. ‘I mean, I know I’m getting old, but where’s the point at this stage? I suppose the other woman must have her claws sunk deep into him.’ Kathy opened her mouth to object, but Brock carried on. ‘What do you reckon she’s like? Have to be a stunner, I suppose. Glamorous.’
‘That’s a bit of a stereotype, isn’t it?’ Kathy realized she sounded irritable.
‘Yes, maybe. “The other woman.” Could be an intelligent, sensible, attractive woman like… well, like you, Kathy.’ Brock ploughed on, relentless, pretending not to see the look on her face. ‘But unlikely. Why would such a woman go for a sleazy married man like Terry? Almost bound to be some glamorous, vain young thing. Hairdressing
