tension. After a few minutes, her shoulders stopped shaking and she pulled
back and looked up at him.
‘Sorry. This song . . . Makes me think of Claire.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Shall I put something else on?’
She nodded and he got up and took her iPhone off the dock. He went and got his phone
and sat down again beside her, tabbing through until he found a playlist of old stuff
he’d put together to help him wind down late at night. He quickly checked the songs.
It probably wasn’t her cup of tea, knowing her and Claire’s taste in music, but at
least it wouldn’t have any painful associations. His phone synched with the speakers,
he pressed play and Moby’s ‘18’ filled the room.
‘I keep thinking . . .’ she said, after a few moments. ‘I keep thinking “why”. I
mean, why Claire?’ She spoke quietly, her words a little slurred, and he could only
just make out what she said over the music.
He didn’t know what to reply. It was the question that everybody asked who had lost
someone. There was usually no good answer.
‘I need to know why,’ she continued. ‘Everything I did before . . . with work . .
.’
‘I know how difficult this is for you. But we don’t know why yet.’
‘What happened? What was she doing in that hotel? Did you see her? Please . . .’
Again he tried to blot out the images of Claire from that morning, as though somehow
there was a risk that Donovan could telepathically see them too. He held his fingers
to her mouth. ‘No, Sam. You know I can’t tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t. And it’s best you don’t know.’
She shook her head. ‘Steele said . . .’ Tears welled again in her eyes as she stared
at him. ‘She said Claire’d been strangled.’
He nodded.
‘In a hotel room.’
He nodded again, wondering how much she had been told, although he was sure Steele
had kept it to the bare minimum. Even though Donovan was a former colleague and friend,
in her current state there was little point revealing more than was absolutely necessary.
‘She asked why Claire was there, like she was . . . she sort of implied she was .
. .’
‘An escort?’
She nodded.
‘It’s an obvious question, as you know. It has to be asked.’ Steele had put the same
question to him: was there was any chance that, either for kicks or money, Claire
Donovan had visited a stranger in his hotel room. He had told her that, based on
what he knew of Claire, plus the fact that she had booked the room with her own credit
card, made it seem highly unlikely. ‘She knows Claire was a successful lawyer,’ he
continued. ‘She didn’t need the money and I made it clear that it couldn’t possibly
be that, so don’t worry on that score.’
She frowned. ‘But why was Claire there, in a man’s room? Who is he? I mean she must’ve
. . .’ The words tumbled out haphazardly, as though she was talking to herself and
didn’t expect an answer.
‘We don’t know who he is or why she was there.’
‘She must’ve known him, trusted him. She . . . Was she—’ She stopped and looked up
at him again. Raped. That was what she wanted to ask, but he wasn’t going to fill
in the gaps for her and raise further questions, nor would he lie. He needed to stop
the flow.
‘We need to wait for the post-mortem.’
‘You saw her. What did she look like? Did she suffer?’
‘Please, Sam. Don’t.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t ask. I know. Sorry. It’s got to be someone she knew.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Not a stranger.’ She turned to him. ‘Tell me what you think? Please.’
He sighed, not knowing what to say and wondering how to stop the questions. ‘She
wasn’t abducted. From what we can tell, she went up to his room of her own accord.
Knowing Claire, I don’t think he was a stranger.’
It was as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘His name’s Robert Herring. Herring, like
red herring. Like Mr Kipper. Do you think—’
‘I can’t tell you anything more
back and looked up at him.
‘Sorry. This song . . . Makes me think of Claire.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Shall I put something else on?’
She nodded and he got up and took her iPhone off the dock. He went and got his phone
and sat down again beside her, tabbing through until he found a playlist of old stuff
he’d put together to help him wind down late at night. He quickly checked the songs.
It probably wasn’t her cup of tea, knowing her and Claire’s taste in music, but at
least it wouldn’t have any painful associations. His phone synched with the speakers,
he pressed play and Moby’s ‘18’ filled the room.
‘I keep thinking . . .’ she said, after a few moments. ‘I keep thinking “why”. I
mean, why Claire?’ She spoke quietly, her words a little slurred, and he could only
just make out what she said over the music.
He didn’t know what to reply. It was the question that everybody asked who had lost
someone. There was usually no good answer.
‘I need to know why,’ she continued. ‘Everything I did before . . . with work . .
.’
‘I know how difficult this is for you. But we don’t know why yet.’
‘What happened? What was she doing in that hotel? Did you see her? Please . . .’
Again he tried to blot out the images of Claire from that morning, as though somehow
there was a risk that Donovan could telepathically see them too. He held his fingers
to her mouth. ‘No, Sam. You know I can’t tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t. And it’s best you don’t know.’
She shook her head. ‘Steele said . . .’ Tears welled again in her eyes as she stared
at him. ‘She said Claire’d been strangled.’
He nodded.
‘In a hotel room.’
He nodded again, wondering how much she had been told, although he was sure Steele
had kept it to the bare minimum. Even though Donovan was a former colleague and friend,
in her current state there was little point revealing more than was absolutely necessary.
‘She asked why Claire was there, like she was . . . she sort of implied she was .
. .’
‘An escort?’
She nodded.
‘It’s an obvious question, as you know. It has to be asked.’ Steele had put the same
question to him: was there was any chance that, either for kicks or money, Claire
Donovan had visited a stranger in his hotel room. He had told her that, based on
what he knew of Claire, plus the fact that she had booked the room with her own credit
card, made it seem highly unlikely. ‘She knows Claire was a successful lawyer,’ he
continued. ‘She didn’t need the money and I made it clear that it couldn’t possibly
be that, so don’t worry on that score.’
She frowned. ‘But why was Claire there, in a man’s room? Who is he? I mean she must’ve
. . .’ The words tumbled out haphazardly, as though she was talking to herself and
didn’t expect an answer.
‘We don’t know who he is or why she was there.’
‘She must’ve known him, trusted him. She . . . Was she—’ She stopped and looked up
at him again. Raped. That was what she wanted to ask, but he wasn’t going to fill
in the gaps for her and raise further questions, nor would he lie. He needed to stop
the flow.
‘We need to wait for the post-mortem.’
‘You saw her. What did she look like? Did she suffer?’
‘Please, Sam. Don’t.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t ask. I know. Sorry. It’s got to be someone she knew.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Not a stranger.’ She turned to him. ‘Tell me what you think? Please.’
He sighed, not knowing what to say and wondering how to stop the questions. ‘She
wasn’t abducted. From what we can tell, she went up to his room of her own accord.
Knowing Claire, I don’t think he was a stranger.’
It was as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘His name’s Robert Herring. Herring, like
red herring. Like Mr Kipper. Do you think—’
‘I can’t tell you anything more
Similar Books
