do it. She had made a half-hearted attempt to refuse.
‘No,’ he had said, fussing around her, his reading glasses still perched on the end of his nose, ‘my last seminar finished at five, and since then I’ve done nothing but read and drink wine, so…’ He sat her down in an armchair as if she was an invalid and handed her a newspaper, then, pleased with himself for being so solicitous, retreated into the kitchen. She had smiled at him, accepted it. He was good to her, she told herself.
She had looked round the living room of their cottage, filled as it was with books, interesting one-off pieces of furniture, subdued lighting, unexpected pictures, plants and wall hangings. They had done that to show visitors and themselves that they were interesting people leading a full, rich life. The opposite of the house she had grown up in. But crossing to the window and looking out at the slow-moving, sluggish, dark river, Marina felt as if it all belonged to someone else and not her.
Music wafted from the kitchen – some chilled Brazilian beats Tony had picked up somewhere – along with delicious cooking odours that any other night would have had her stomach rumbling in anticipation. But not tonight. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, disappointed in herself that she had expected something that wasn’t there.
She saw Claire Fielding’s dead body. Julie Simpson’s too. The other two women. Phil had been right about the murder scene. It felt like they shouldn’t have been there. Like life had passed on.
Phil. She had planned what she was going to say to him the next time she saw him. Several times. But as the weeks had passed and life had ground on without him, she had resigned herself to never seeing him again. And perhaps, she had thought, that was for the best. She was back with Tony, pregnant, with a fledgling private practice. Her life had moved on. Or at least back. Back into her safety zone.
But here they were, together again. And she hadn’t been able to say anything to him. Because every time she thought of him, she saw Martin Fletcher’s face. The locked door. She felt the cold fear bubble and boil inside her once more, and then she thought of Phil. And it all rendered her speechless.
She hadn’t realised how much of a rut she had fallen into before the police called her in on the Gemma Hardy case. Routine had turned to drudgery without her noticing. Her safe job, her pension. And Tony, her safe man.
But then she hadn’t wanted an exciting man. Before she met Tony she had been attracted to the kinds of men who reminded her of her father. She knew it was wrong, not to mention unhealthy, but nevertheless she kept going back, kept seeking them out. Until one day she had looked in the mirror and seriously questioned what she was doing. And found that she couldn’t do it any more.
Tony had been there. A good man, solid, dependable. Thoughtful, pleasant, companionable. Old enough to be her father, but his diametric opposite in every other respect. He didn’t thrill her or excite her, but he made her feel comfortable. Safe. He was kind to her. And those, she told herself, were admirable qualities. He asked her out, she accepted. And that was that. He wanted her to move in with him, out of her town-centre flat, into his cottage in Wivenhoe. She had done so. And felt comfortable. Content. Or so she thought.
By the time of the Gemma Hardy case she was ready for a new challenge. And she got one. It taxed her, stretched her. Being forced to turn something she only dealt with theoretically into a practical application, with a young woman’s life potentially at stake, terrified her. But it also pushed her, confronted her. And when she helped provide the team with a positive result, it gave her a thrill teaching never had. Never could.
Not only that, but she met Phil.
She knew as soon as she saw him. There was something about him, an immediate connection. At first she tried to deny it, claim it was a symptom of the case she was working on, confusing adrenalin and lust for something stronger and more profound, but the more time she spent with him, talked to him, the more she became convinced she was right and they connected on a much deeper level. A soul deep level. She recognised something in him. Something she had never encountered in anyone else in quite the same way. Something she had only ever seen in herself. She knew that if there was a man who could understand her – totally – it was him.
So when he asked her out, she couldn’t say no. Despite having Tony. She slept with Phil. Repeatedly. And surprised herself: rather than feeling guilty about betraying Tony, she began to feel increasingly that her future lay with Phil.
And then came Martin Fletcher.
The Gemma Hardy case was finished. Martin Fletcher had been caught, the team had celebrated. Marina included. Her first foray into police work had been a resounding success. She had put her name forward for more. Everything was looking good for her.
She had gone back to university after the case had concluded, and was in her office one evening, straightening out some of the paperwork that had accrued in her absence. She was meeting Phil later, happy to work until that time. He had arranged to pick her up from her office, said he wanted to see where she worked. She was pleased about that, looking forward to showing the place off to him. No qualms about being seen on campus with another man, because she had decided to tell Tony it was all over. Consequently, her mobile was switched off in case he phoned her.
There was a knock on the door. Hesitant at first, then more self-assured. She shouted for the person to come in. He did. As she looked up, her heart seemed to stop. Her pen fell from her grasp. Martin Fletcher was standing in her office.
‘What… what d’you want?’
He gazed around, as if searching for the answer to the question on the shelves of her office. Then looked directly at her.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You.’
Marina was terrified. She glanced to the door, calculated the distance, the obstacles in her way. Fletcher must have had the same idea. He turned, and before she could even rise from her chair, he had locked it and put his back against it.
‘Don’t scream,’ he said, menace in his voice. ‘Don’t.’
She swallowed. It felt like there was a stone in her throat. ‘There’s someone… someone coming here in a minute. Very soon.’
‘No there’s not. They’ve all gone home.’
‘Yes, yes there is.’ She was breathing so hard, her heart felt like it was going to burst. ‘Phil… Phil Brennan. Detective Inspector. He’s meeting me here.’
A wave of fear passed across Fletcher’s features at the mention of the police. Despite being terrified, Marina was thinking like a psychologist.
‘What are you doing out?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were on remand.’
He smiled then. It was eerie, like he was listening to a joke told by a ghost on a distant radio. ‘They let me go. On bail. Technicality.’ Then the anger returned. ‘You.You ruined my life.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did.’ He was starting to get angry now. He moved away from the door, started coming towards her. ‘You took away my life. Turned Gemma against me.You did that.’
Marina looked round for a weapon, something she could use. Could see nothing.
She had to keep him talking, try to reason with him. ‘No, Martin, you’re wrong. I didn’t ruin your life.’
‘Yes you did!’
She flinched at his anger. Forced herself to keep calm. Breathed deeply. ‘No. No I didn’t. And Gemma was never your girlfriend. That was Louisa, Gemma’s flatmate.’
‘No…’ He put his hands to his head, started hitting his temples. ‘No, no…’
‘Yes she was, Martin. Louisa was your girlfriend. Not Gemma.’
‘No, no…’
‘Gemma was her friend. But not your girlfriend. Let it go, Martin, you’ve got to let it go…’
His next words were inaudible, just a shriek of pain as he kept hitting himself, eyes tight shut, seemingly trying to knock her words out of his head.
Marina looked round once again for a weapon, anything. There was no time to turn her mobile on. She saw the phone on the table. If she could get to that, quickly make a call…
She looked at Martin Fletcher, eyes closed, still hitting himself, then back to the phone. She could do it. Just reach out, grab it…
