'Look, I am quite certain he had nothing to do with killing anyone, let alone Debbie Chater. Let me talk to him.'
'OK,' I said. 'But don't mention the Tremont business.'
'I won't.'
The village was much closer now. I spied a pub. 'Enough of all this. I'm thirsty. Let's have a drink.'
We sat outside the sixteenth-century inn and dawdled over a couple of drinks as the sun set over the wooded hills. It was a magical evening, and neither of us wanted to end it. So, since the pub had a dining room, we stayed for a supper of home-made steak-and-kidney pie.
'Have you seen anything of Rob since we got back from America?' I asked.
'Yes, I have,' said Cathy unenthusiastically.
'What's the matter? Has he been bothering you?'
'Yes, I'd say he has,' Cathy said, looking down at her plate.
I waited for her to say more. She didn't. I was interested. More than that, I was worried. I could not easily forget the venom of Rob's words in Las Vegas. 'What has he done?'
'Well, I have bumped into him once or twice at various functions. And recently he has taken to hanging around Bloom-field Weiss's building, and following me on my way home. He always comes up to talk to me, and he is always rude.'
'What does he say?'
'Oh, he says I am shallow and fickle. He says I betrayed him. He calls me a tease. And he says some pretty unpleasant things about you.'
I sighed. 'I'm not altogether surprised.'
'He told me that you had something going together with Debbie.' Cathy looked up at me, her eyes questioning.
'Well, that's wrong. I told you that. We just worked together and became good friends.'
'Rob said he saw both of you having a romantic dinner on a boat, just before she died.' Cathy saw the shocked look on my face. She smiled. 'Don't worry, I believe you. Anyway, it's none of my business who your girlfriends are.'
I waved my hand. 'It's not that. I was just thinking how Rob could have seen us on the boat. We left him in the office that night. He must have followed us.'
'Why would he do that?'
'I'm afraid you are not the first woman Rob has behaved like this with. He once went out with Debbie. She got rid of him, but Debbie's flatmate said Rob had been bothering her recently. He had asked her to marry him and been turned down.'
'Wait a second! If Rob saw you together just before Debbie died, then he might have seen who did it,' Cathy said. Then she saw my face. 'You don't think it was him, surely?'
I sighed. 'It could be, I'm afraid. You've seen what he is like when he is angry. And he doesn't give up. I must admit, when he said he was going to kill both of us, I almost took him seriously.'
Cathy shuddered. She looked scared. We ate on in silence. Finally, I broke it. 'Well, there is nothing we can do about it now. Let me get another bottle of wine, and let's change the subject.'
So we did. We talked on through the evening, our conversation gliding happily from subject to subject. We listened and laughed at each other's inconsequential stories. Eventually the publican hovered over us, and looking around, we saw that the pub had emptied. Reluctantly, we got up from the table to leave. My eyes caught a sign. 'It says they do bed and breakfast here.'
Cathy looked at me and grinned. 'Does it?'
They had a free room with a warped ceiling, cracked oak beams and a small crooked window out of which we could see the silhouette of church and mound against the full moon. We didn't turn on the light, but undressed in the moonlight slowly and carefully. Naked, Cathy stepped over to me and nestled her head in my chest. I gently pulled her close to me. Where our bodies met, the first touch of skin against skin sent a shiver through both of us. We savoured the intimacy of that embrace, gradually getting accustomed to each other's body. My fingers drifted slowly down her spine and round the smooth firm curve of her buttocks.
She looked up at me, her dark eyes bigger than ever in the moonshadows. 'Come to bed,' she whispered.
I looked out of my window, sipping a well-earned cup of tea as the early evening sun glinted on the rush-hour traffic creeping along the road beneath my flat. I had had a good day.
It had been a busy day, a day when my life had begun to slip back into some sort of order. Cathy and I got up at five-thirty so that I could drive her back to London in time for her to get changed and get into work. I went for my first run in two weeks, just a gentle jog to get the circulation going. I rang headhunters and pestered them. I applied to a few of the firms that I had seen advertising over the previous week, and for the first time I rang a few old contacts in banking, who I thought might be able to help. If only I could clear my name with the TSA, there was a future for me.
My thoughts were interrupted by the buzzer of the entryphone. I looked down and saw a police car parked right outside my building.
I pressed the intercom button. 'Yes?'
'Police. Can we come up?' What did they want? I remembered what Cathy had said about Powell asking questions about me.
'Certainly.' I pressed the button to let them in downstairs, and opened my own door. Two uniformed policemen clumped up the stairs, and asked me to accompany them to the station.
I thought for a moment, and didn't see the harm in it. Besides, I was curious to find out what Powell had discovered.
I joined them in their car, and we drove off to a police station somewhere near Covent Garden. I tried to make small-talk, but without much effect. They all but ignored me. This did not look good.
They led me into the police station, and into an interview room furnished only with a table, four chairs and a filing cabinet. I sat on one of the chairs, declined a cup of tea, and spent half an hour reading and rereading the brightly coloured posters urging all the villains who sat where I was sitting to lock their cars and look after their handbags.
I felt guilty sitting there. I didn't know what of yet, but I definitely felt guilty.
Finally, the door opened and Powell came in, followed by Jones. Powell was on his home territory, and clearly felt much more comfortable now than he had been when I had met him in De Jong's polished conference room. He sat down on a chair opposite me. Jones pulled out one of the other chairs, placed it by a wall, and sat on it, notebook in hand.
Powell leaned forward, and stared at me hard for what seemed like a full minute. I already felt uncomfortable. This didn't make it any easier. But I managed to sit motionless, legs crossed, hands resting on my lap.
'Have you got anything to tell me, Murray?' he asked, his voice quick and powerful.
'About what?' attempting to make it sound casual. But it was ridiculous to pretend that it was usual for me to be hauled into a police station on a Monday night. I was nervous, and Powell knew it.
'About the murder of Debbie Chater.'
'Murder? I thought you said it was an accident or a suicide.'
Powell didn't like to be reminded of his earlier views. 'We know now it was murder.'
'That's just what I told you all along,' I said.
Powell leaned even farther towards me. 'Don't get clever with me, sonny. I know it's murder, and you know it's murder. And we both know who did it, don't we?'
Oh, my God, I thought, he thinks it's me. I just looked at him blankly.
'Now, take me through that evening again,' said Powell.
I went through it in as much detail as I could, but Powell wanted more. I became uncomfortable when he asked me about my trip back on the tube from Temple station. All I could remember were my thoughts about Debbie; I remembered those vividly. But I couldn't remember what time I had got on the tube, or when I had got off at Gloucester Road, or indeed very much else about the later part of the evening.
Powell sensed my discomfort. When I had finished he said one word: 'Bollocks.'
I looked at him blankly.
