“So,” he said, shifting so he was leaning forwards in his chair with his forearms resting on his knees, “do you feel up to a debrief?”
“I suppose so,” I said, not bothering to hide my reluctance. “I daresay this has caused a real mess all round.”
“We’ve had worse,” he said with a tired smile. “The police have been clamoring to talk to you about what happened, by the way, but your father’s been as good at keeping them away as he was with me.”
“I didn’t know you were here until the surgeon told me,” I said, suddenly defensive.
“That’s OK. I didn’t think it was a good idea to punch out your dear papa in the corridor. At least this way they let me wait just down the hallway instead of in the car park.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Don’t be,” he said. “You and I both know there’s no love lost there.”
I went through a brief summary of events between my last phone conversation with Sean and the moment I was shot, keeping it as impersonal and objective as I was able to.
Sean interrupted rarely, preferring that I work through the story in my own way, gently pushing me when I faltered. Forcing my mind to concentrate and hold on to the thread of the story required an almost physical effort. I was aware of gaps and pauses where seconds and maybe even whole
When I was spent he sat there for a time, eyes fixed on a point on the bed frame, frowning.
“Tell me again what Simone said, when you walked in on her at the house,” he said.
“She said that he’d killed him and she’d seen him do it. That she’d loved him. Then she called him a fucking bastard and that’s when Lucas did a runner.”
“So, she-”
“What do you think you’re doing?” My father’s voice, from the doorway, was cold even for him.
Sean got to his feet automatically. “We were talking,” he said, in that blankly respectful voice he’d always used to disguise his intense dislike.
My father moved round to the side of the bed where I could see him, eyes sweeping over my face. He clearly didn’t care for what he saw there.
“She needs rest and no emotional upset,” he said tightly.
“Shame you didn’t always feel that way,” Sean murmured.
My father’s face paled beneath his tan. They faced off, almost toe-to-toe. Sean was taller and wider and exuded the kind of menace that made people leave seats vacant next to him in crowded bars. But my father had been at the top of a tough profession for more than thirty years and along the way he’d acquired the ruthless superiority of a despot. Until someone threw the first punch, I would have said they were fairly evenly matched.
“Say, is this a private party, or can anybody join in?”
The new voice from behind me had what was by now a familiar New England twang to it, and the heavy cynicism that could only have belonged to a cop.
“The more the merrier,” I said wearily, closing my eyes. “Did you bring a bottle?”
There was a grunt of laughter. “Round here, ma’am, the bottles seem to be mostly full of the kind of liquids you wouldn’t want to drink.”
“Charlotte, you’re not up to this,” my father said. I opened my eyes and found him watching me intently.
“Probably not,” I said, mustering a shallow smile, “but I’ve got to talk to the police sometime.”
He hesitated. “Just see that they don’t overtire you.”
“If they do that, I’ll just fall asleep on them,” I said. ‘And I don’t think they’re allowed to beat up witnesses anymore.”
“They won’t bully her,” Sean said, and the cold certainty in his tone earned him a sharp glance.
After a moment my father nodded slowly, as if reluctant to find himself in any kind of agreement with Sean. “No,” he said with the wisp of a smile, “I daresay they won’t.” And with that he turned and left. He didn’t even make it seem like a retreat-just that he simply had somewhere more important to be.
The cop who’d been doing the talking came round where I could see him. He was middle-aged and heavyset like he spent time in the gym rather than like he’d gone to fat. At home I would have put him down as a rugby player, right down to the broken nose. Over here I assumed he played American football in some kind of offensive position. With him was a small, wiry, dark-haired woman with a face that didn’t look as though it laughed easily. Partners, I assumed. Detectives, too, if their lack of uniforms was anything to go by.
They both dragged up chairs to the bedside and went through the rigmarole of introducing themselves and showing me their badges. The man’s name was Bartholemew. The woman’s was Young.
