The Malcontenta (41 page)

The ambulance men found her by the open front door, shaking like a motor on broken mountings, trying to control the bleeding in her arm with an improvised pressure pad.

‘There’s two upstairs,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Please be careful. There’s a lot of blood and broken glass.’

One went upstairs, then reappeared in a hurry, calling down for help.

‘One of them’s alive,’ he shouted. ‘Which one?’ Kathy called to him.

‘Well, it’s not the geezer with the fork in his bleedin’ throat! Get the coppers here quick, Jimmy.’

‘I’ve called them,’ Kathy said, ‘I can’t understand why they’re taking so long.’

Like her on that first visit, they had missed the archway into Warren Lane and had to circle the block before they spotted the blue ambulance lights in the courtyard. She didn’t recognize the two young men. One came running and spoke to the ambulance man binding her arm.

‘Domestic?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Kathy replied, ‘nothing like that. I’ve just killed someone.’

In the odd, jangled state of her mind, she thought it must sound as if she was boasting about it instead of asking for forgiveness, which in an absurd sort of way she was. He looked closely at her, then called his mate over. After a few words he went upstairs and returned a couple of minutes later, ashen-faced.

‘Can you identify the man you killed, madam?’

‘He’s a police officer,’ Kathy sighed. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Richard Tanner.’

‘I see …’ They were both staring at her as if she was a freak. ‘And you are …?’

‘Kolla, Kathy Kolla. And I think you should step aside.’

‘And why is that, madam?’

‘Because I’m going to throw up.’

They waited till she had finished communing with the bushes on the other side of Brock’s lane before they formally cautioned and arrested her for murder. She nodded, her eyelids heavy with fatigue and shock, and muttered. ‘This is my first time.’ It wasn’t until they were sitting in Casualty, the bright morning sun dazzling through the tall windows, that it occurred to her to tell them to ring Penny Elliot at Crowbridge.

Three weeks later, on the evening of 3 May, Jerry and Errol threw a party to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Organized by two women friends, one with pink, cropped hair and the other dressed entirely in black leather, it was held at the home of another friend outside Edenham, whose private lawn ran down to the river. Kathy and Patrick stood by the water’s edge drinking champagne, watching the current swirl around the roots of the willow trees. On the far bank, hidden under the overhanging grasses, they could make out the dark hole of a river creature.

‘Interesting friends you have,’ Patrick said, looking back with fascination at the crowd. They formed every possible combination, it seemed, of age, gender, smoking habit and personal adornment.

‘I think I’m only here as the token law-enforcement officer,’ she smiled. ‘But it was nice of them to ask me.’

‘Jill tells me you’re soon going to be doing your law-enforcing in the big smoke.’

‘Yes. I’m going to work with someone I know in the Met.’

‘Brock? Yes, I met him, remember? I thought you might have brought him here tonight.’

‘He’s in traction at the moment. Should be back on his feet in a week or two. But I wanted to ask you - you didn’t mind coming, did you?’

‘Of course not. I thought I got around a fair bit in this area, but I don’t recognize a single face here. Want another drink?’

Kathy nodded. Her right arm was still bandaged under the sleeve of her blouse, but by now she was used to drinking with her left.

As they strolled up the slope of the lawn, Kathy caught Patrick giving her an odd look. It was the second time she’d noticed it.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Did I mess up my make-up?’

‘Sorry,’ he smiled, and shook his head, i just can’t really believe that you …’

She stopped walking. ‘That I what?’

‘Well, that you actually … killed someone. Do you mind me saying that?’ She shrugged.

‘It’s not the sort of thing that happens in the real world, is it? I mean, I’ve never actually seen a dead body, let alone…’

‘It seemed very real at the time, Patrick. Now … no, it isn’t real. At least, not in daylight. What is real, anyway?’

There was an explosion of whistling and cheering from the house, and they turned to see the tight black trousers, red silk shirt and carefully groomed head of Jerry emerge triumphant through the french windows on to the terrace. Behind him Errol followed, a pair of cowboy boots conspicuous from his second honeymoon in the States, complete with spurs. He raised a glass to acknowledge a further burst of applause from the group standing around the drinks table.

Later, when the party had splintered into small groups chattering and dancing, Kathy and Patrick got the chance to talk to their hosts.

‘Well,’ Errol looked approvingly at Patrick, ‘and how is your relationship working out?’

Patrick looked surprised, and Kathy replied, ‘Oh fine. He does the cooking and I do the washing-up.’

‘Lucky you!’ Jerry said, ‘I have to do both.’

‘Never mind.’ Errol put an arm around his shoulder and led him off towards a photographer, his cowboy boots jingling. ‘There are worse things in life.’