She dreamed of the park, the pond now whipping and rippling in the ferocious rain. She stood under one of the willow trees, its branches yellow. George Daniels was on the other side of the pond. Kate wasn’t surprised that he was in Boston—and she wasn’t surprised that he was still alive—because in her dreams he was always alive, and he was always coming after her. He spotted her hiding under her willow tree and began to swim across the pond. Kate had a rifle with her, and when George came out of the pond, dripping and smiling, she shot him several times, the bullets pocking his shirt but not doing much else. One of the bullets struck him on the chin, and he brushed it away like it was a horsefly. He kept coming.
She woke, neck and chest filmed in sweat, then smelled something bitter and acrid in the air. She remembered the kettle, leapt from the couch, the Dick Francis falling to the floor, and ran to the kitchen to shut the gas off. The kettle had boiled dry and was beginning to smoke. She opened one of the windows as far as she could and, using a hand towel, put the smoldering kettle on the windowsill. The rain striking it made sharp hissing sounds. Something about the near-disaster made tears spring to her eyes. Then she remembered her dream. George in the park, the bullets barely penetrating his shirt. It almost made her smile that he’d followed her to America in her dreams. Of course he had. If her dreams were a realm, George was king for life.
After the kettle cooled down she took it from the windowsill. Its bottom was completely black; she’d have to buy a replacement. The metal was still warm, so she put it in the deep stainless steel sink and returned to the couch. This time she read half of the book before falling back to sleep.
She was woken by a knock on the door. She blinked herself awake, momentarily confused by what time it was. It was daylight outside still, but the inside of the apartment was dark and dusky. There was another knock, louder and longer. She stood, her knees popping. How long had she been asleep?
She went to the door and peered through its peephole. She almost expected to see Alan, but it was a woman’s face through the fish-eye lens, a woman with close-cropped hair, coffee-colored skin, and dark brown eyes. The calm disinterest in those eyes made Kate say policewoman to herself. Audrey Marshall’s dead, came a voice. It was George Daniels, whispering in her head. Kate swung the door open.
Chapter 4
The woman introduced herself as Detective James, unclipping a badge from her belt and holding it up for Kate to see. Kate invited her in, noticing before she shut the door that two uniformed officers stood a little ways down the hall, one of their radios crackling.
“Is Audrey Marshall dead?” Kate asked automatically.
“Why do you ask that?” the detective asked, a touch of surprise in her eyes.
“I, uh, heard that she was missing.”
“When did you hear she was missing?”
Kate explained about her arrival the evening before, the friend in the hallway who was pounding on the door.
“When was that exactly?” the detective asked, pulling out a small notebook from the inside of her dark gray suit jacket.
Kate gave her best guess at the approximate time and the detective wrote it down. Kate studied her while she wrote. She had a long face, with high cheekbones, and Kate didn’t think she was wearing any makeup. The detective raised her eyes from her notebook, and Kate watched her nostrils minutely flare.
“I left the kettle on,” Kate said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t—”
“I left the kettle on the stove earlier and I burnt it. That’s the smell.”
“Oh. I did notice that.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
The detective’s eyes scanned the room briefly before she said, “No, thanks. I’m just collecting statements right now. And I’d like to get a little more information from you regarding timelines.”
“She is dead, right?” Kate asked.
“We are investigating a suspicious death in the apartment next to yours. We don’t have a proper identification yet on the body.”
“Okay.”
“You said you just came over here from London, right? You didn’t know her?”
“No, I don’t know anyone here. It was a murder, then?”
“We’re treating it as a suspicious death, yes. What can you tell me about the owner of this apartment?”
“He’s a second cousin. Corbin Dell. I don’t actually know him, either. We’ve never met, but we arranged this house swap because he’s been transferred to London for his work.”
The detective wrote something else down on her pad, while asking: “I don’t suppose you know whether Corbin Dell had any kind of relationship with Audrey Marshall?”
“No, I have no idea.”
“Can you give me the phone number for your apartment in London?”
“It doesn’t have one, actually. I just use my mobile. But I have Corbin’s e-mail. I can get it for you, if you’d like?”
“That’d be great,” the detective said.
Kate went to the computer in the study and brought up her e-mail page. There were several unread messages, in bold, at the top, including a response from Corbin. She opened it:
Thanks for recommending the Beef and Pudding. Can’t say I’d have tried that one if left to my own devices. It reminded me a little of a place called St. Stephen’s Tavern near where you are. Check it out. Also, met a neighbor of yours named Martha something. She seemed to recognize me, or else she heard my loud American accent and just guessed. Hope all’s well. C
Kate found a piece of scrap paper and jotted down Corbin’s e-mail address. She’d worry about the Martha situation later.
She brought the scrap of paper to Detective James, who was now looking at the screen of her cell phone. “Thanks. I’ll write him,” she said, folding the piece of paper and sliding it into her jacket pocket.
“Should I let him know before you do? He just e-mailed me, and if I wrote him back . . .”
“You can tell him the police were here and that we’ll be in touch. I don’t want to make any pronouncements about Audrey Marshall till we have an identification, okay?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” She was turning back toward the door. Kate went around her and opened it. There was now a small crowd in the hall, including an older man in a suit who immediately spotted Detective James and said, “Jesus. There you are.”
Before leaving, Detective James said: “We might need to search your apartment. Would you agree to that?”
“Why?” Kate asked.
The detective pressed her lips together before saying, “If we find anything that might connect the death next door with your cousin, then we’ll need to take a look around. That’s all.”
“It’s okay with me, I guess,” Kate said.
“Thank you very much. We’ll be in touch.” The detective handed Kate her card before leaving. Kate studied it after shutting the door. roberta james, detective. Under the name were the Boston Police Department shield, a phone number, and an e-mail.
Kate pressed her ear to the door to see if she could hear anything from the hallway. There were noises—the squawk of radios and the muddy tones of indiscernible voices. She looked through the peephole and saw the same detective knocking on the door of the third apartment on her hall. The door swung open, and the detective held up her badge to its resident; Kate couldn’t see into the apartment. While the other neighbor was being questioned, two more plainclothes officers entered the hall from the stairwell, both heavyset men in dark suits. One was clean-shaven and the other sported a gray goatee.