Mark went out into the hall and she heard the rattle of the door handle as he checked the lock for the third time. A few seconds later, the kitchen light snapped on and she heard the clink of bottles. When she went in, he was pouring an enormous measure of whisky. She watched as he drank half of it in a single swallow.
Hearing her, he turned. For a second or two he looked at her then he put the glass down and came towards her, arms out. The force with which he hugged her was enough to knock her off balance and by instinct she held on to him tighter to stop herself stumbling. To her surprise, he half lifted, half pushed her backwards against the wall. Her head bumped off the plaster but before the small cry had left her mouth, he was kissing her, his face crushed against hers, his tongue pushing itself between her lips. His left hand was on the wall, his forearm creating a barrier, and now she felt his right hand fumbling with the button of her jeans. ‘Mark . . .’ She twisted her head away, trying to free her mouth to speak, but he followed her, kissing her harder. His fingers popped the button and found the zipper. His chest was heaving, his breath hot and fast, whisky-scented.
‘Mark!’ She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. He took a big step backwards.
For a second or two they stared at each other but then he seemed to come to himself again. The intent dropped from his face and he looked first blank then embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, touching his lip with his fingers in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t – not tonight.’
‘I know. I know. I’m so sorry, Han.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I don’t want to be the kind of person who . . . God, I just feel so . . . messed up. When you rang and said you’d seen him, he was here, I was terrified. If anything happened to you – if he hurt you – I couldn’t live with it.’
Chapter Twenty
The knocking tore through the house like the rattle of gunfire, rat-tat-tat-tat, ripping the peace of the morning wide open. Hannah jerked awake just as Mark reared up in bed next to her. They stared at each other. For a few seconds the knocking stopped, leaving a silence that rang with echoes, but then it started again, louder still. In a moment he was across the room, pulling a T-shirt over his head.
‘Stay here,’ he said but she was already out of bed, too, grabbing yesterday’s clothes from the back of the chair, nearly falling as she caught her foot in the leg of her jeans. He took the stairs at a run but then, as he neared the bottom, she heard him slow down. When she came out on to the landing, he was standing on the bottom step, looking at the front door.
‘Leave it, Mark. Don’t open it.’
‘No,’ he said, glancing up. ‘It’s not . . .’ The knocking started again, just as insistent. ‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ The heavy thunk of the deadlock, the brush of the door against the mat. Hannah gripped the banister.
‘Morning, sir.’ A deep male voice with a Liverpool accent. ‘Mark Reilly? Detective Inspector Wells, DS Andrews. Can we come in?’
Police? Hannah let go of the banister. She went to the top of the stairs and saw them just as they looked up and saw her. The man was in his late forties, Mark’s height but bulky, wearing a dark waxed jacket. With him was a woman her own age in a black trouser suit and short wool coat, her sandy-blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. Mark opened the door wider and they stepped inside, the male officer standing back to let the woman go ahead of him. As Hannah came downstairs, Mark turned to look at her, his eyes full of uncertainty.
The police waited for her then indicated the sitting-room door. ‘Can we?’
‘Please,’ said Mark.
Inside they positioned themselves in front of the mantelpiece, side by side. The air held the thick, ashy smell of the dead fire. Like every other room in the house, the sitting room was large but even so, the detective – Wells, was that what he’d said? – seemed disproportionate to it, a looming presence. ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down, sir – Mrs Reilly?’
Mark stayed standing. ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’ His voice was loud. Hannah reached out and put her hand on his arm.
‘Do you know a woman called Hermione Alleyn, sir?’
‘Yes. We don’t see each other much now, but yes. We were at university together, at Cambridge.’
Wells nodded slightly. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this but she’s dead. Her body was found late last night.’
Hannah’s heart gave a single great thump. Dead. The word fell like a drumbeat, the reverberations fanning out after it, vibrating in the air.