Bex leans down to stroke Stretch, who seems to have picked up on the tension that’s suddenly flared between them. ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ she says.
‘I know,’ Kate says. ‘I’m sorry. It’s late. I saw the news, I’m tired, my brain began to get ahead of itself.’
‘It’s OK,’ Bex says, putting an arm around her. ‘Rob’s a bright boy. Must be a quick learner.’
Maybe she’s right. Rob can turn his hand to anything when he tries. Even French, it seems. Kate’s still not convinced, though.
‘What are we going to do with you?’ Bex asks.
‘I just thought, you know, maybe someone has taken Rob’s place…’ She stops, her lower lip beginning to tremble as the feelings return.
‘We need to get you some help for this, Katie,’ Bex says, her arm still around her. ‘When did you say that nice Dr Varma is coming down to see you next?’
‘End of next week.’ Kate takes a deep breath, regains some composure. ‘What’s happening to me, Bex? Who’s doing this? I’m losing my mind.’
‘No one’s doing anything to you,’ Bex says. ‘And you’re not losing your mind. You just need to rest.’
‘I don’t know if I can cope,’ Kate says. ‘I see Rob speaking in French on the news and I don’t think he’s been lying to me, or keeping a secret. My first thought is that he’s been replaced by a French-speaking double.’
‘Except that it wasn’t his double, was it, Kate?’ Bex repeats. ‘It was Rob.’
‘But it does happen,’ Kate says. ‘Unrelated people can look identical.’
‘Sure it can happen. My sister looks weirdly like Lily Allen. Amber Heard is the spitting image of Scarlett Johansson. But that was Rob on TV, who we now know speaks good French. Not someone who looks like him.’
Bex walks over to the door, staring at Kate. ‘Come on, you,’ she says, without much conviction. ‘Bedtime.’
‘It’s the only thing Rob’s frightened of,’ Kate adds, still on the sofa. ‘His doppelgänger.’
The day I see him again will be my last.
Sunday
22
Jake
Jake leans over the edge of the lock gate with a long branch and scoops out the last floating item of clothing. It’s one of Kate’s old dresses, grossly misshapen by a bubble of air trapped under the orange material. Until this morning, Jake has never had to divide his worldly possessions into those that float and those that sink. And as he drops the sodden orange dress onto the grass next to the other items he’s retrieved, he hopes he’ll never have to again.
It’s been a long, difficult night. Bruce and Sue did all they could to console him after Strover had taken a statement, but he couldn’t sleep.
‘What are you going to do with them all?’ asks one of the locals, gesturing at the large pile of wet clothing and ruined books. Kate was always complaining the boat was like a waterborne library.
‘Chuck them,’ Jake says, quietly. Everything except Kate’s orange dress. He’ll keep that. She used to wear it to Womad, their nearest festival. Before they could no longer afford to go.
He picks up the dress, wringing it out as he walks back around to the towpath and his boat. It finally sank in the night and is now resting on the canal’s muddy bottom with just the remains of the roof showing. His few possessions are still trapped inside. He’s been in a daze all morning, retrieving clothes and logs and kettles and plastic mugs from the water with the help of kind villagers and narrowboat owners. He even found his passport, sealed in a plastic folder. The generosity of others has been overwhelming. Even Kate was sympathetic, but it was unfair of him to call her. The last thing he wants is for people to feel sorry for him.
His plan is to finish clearing up and then move out of the village as soon as he can. He doesn’t feel safe hanging around. The fire was clearly deliberate – DI Hart suggested as much last night. Besides, there’s not much left for him here. No boat, latest book destroyed. And no partner. It’s safe to say his life has now officially hit rock bottom, just like his narrowboat. And, in all honesty, he feels strangely liberated by the unambiguity of his circumstances. If he can’t make a fresh start in life now, he never will.
He bundles the dress into a plastic bag, turns to take one last look at the sunken boat and sets off down the towpath, away from the village, passport safely in his pocket. It’s a longer route, but he’ll avoid having to walk past the line of moored narrowboats and the obligation to make more polite conversation. Christ, he could do with a pint right now. By the time of Kate’s accident, he was drinking heavily, but he’s cut down a lot since then and is determined not to lapse again. Even if he could afford it.
All part of trying to sort his life out, triggered by a small, misguided belief that if he can regain some of the mojo he had when he first met Kate, he might be able to win her back. There was a time when he was going places: published author, sharing his bohemian life on a watertight narrowboat with a beautiful portrait painter. Where did it all go wrong? On which rocks did their idealism run aground?
He keeps walking, towards the fields and railway line beyond, his brain struggling to process all that’s happened. What worries him is that if the fire was a result of his visit to the pub, Kate’s drink must have been spiked that night by dangerous people. Might they target her again? If, as Hart hinted last night, it’s connected to the modern-slavery trial, there could be organised crime gang members still at large who want revenge for the hefty sentences imposed on their colleagues – people who were put away on the strength of Kate’s identifications.
As Jake approaches the next set of lock gates, an attractive woman he doesn’t recognise appears out of nowhere with a black plastic bag.
‘Brought you some spare clothes,’ she says. ‘Used to belong to my husband. He left them when he moved out. I heard what happened, thought they might help. You’re about his size.’
‘Out of shape, you mean,’ Jake says, grinning. ‘Thanks. That’s kind.’
‘I’ve seen you around but never said hello,’ she says, smiling at him.
Jake smiles back at her, flattered by the attention. Maybe there’s an upside to everything that’s happened. He remembers the nurse who circled his father, a GP, when his mother passed away, turning up announced at the house before she’d even been buried. Her haste was unseemly, but it had given his father hope, a glimpse of a life beyond. No one’s died but maybe that what’s going on here.
‘I read one of your books,’ the woman continues, squinting in the sunshine.
‘Really?’ It’s the first piece of good news Jake has heard in a while.
‘Yeah, bought it in a charity shop for 10p.’ Ouch. ‘You got somewhere to stay tonight?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he lies, all interest in the woman wilting. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Ten p in a bloody charity shop?
One half-formed plan is to hitch down to Cornwall and camp where he and Kate used to stay. It’s busy this time of year, but the owner always used to squeeze them in. His tent was his only possession not on board the boat – he’d lent it to a friend in the village. It just depends if the police or the Canal and River Trust want to speak to him again today about salvage.