Moira glares at him and takes a couple of steps back so he can’t touch her. She doesn’t need to be treated like some fragile flower. She’s seen a lot of crime scenes in her career, many far worse than this one, so she has no need for company. Dead bodies don’t shock her, not any more, and the last thing she can stomach right now is a load of small talk and nonsense. She’d much rather be alone.
Philip seems to sense her hesitation and changes tack. ‘Come back to our place, see Lizzie, have some tea.’ Lowering his voice, his tone becomes more conspiratorial. ‘And tell us everything you saw here at the crime scene.’
Moira holds his gaze. She’s only met Philip once and if she was just going on what she’s observed of him, she’d say he’s harmless even if far too tactile for her liking, but she knows better than to get involved. It’s a shame because she liked his wife, Lizzie, when they met at yoga. Thought she could be a friend. But when they’d had coffee a couple of weeks later and Lizzie had told her both she and Philip were ex-police, that put a different spin on things. She’s come all this way to escape the force and everything that happened. She can’t blow it by being friends with these people.
What was it that the police doc said? When you start a new life, you have to make an effort to meet new people – push outside of your comfort zone. But there’s pushing outside your comfort zone and then there’s being a total idiot. She can’t risk it. She just can’t.
‘Lizzie would love to see you,’ Philip continues. ‘She said you’ve not made the last few yoga classes?’
She hasn’t, and she isn’t planning on going back. Easier just to be a no-show and fade quietly out of Lizzie’s life rather than having to talk about it. Because from what she knows about Lizzie and Philip so far, she’d say they were talkers, and so at some point they’ll want to talk about the jobs they did, and the colleagues they worked with, and then they’ll ask her all about herself. And she won’t want to speak about it, and that will be a problem. Because if there’s one thing she knows about law-enforcement types, it’s that they love a puzzle. For all she knows they could still be in touch with people in the force. They might mention her to them. Start asking questions. She shudders. That would ruin everything. It just can’t happen.
Moira shakes her head. Her vision swims. The light-headedness has returned. Her voice sounds weaker, further away somehow. ‘I need to get back.’
‘Are you okay?’ Philip’s frowning. There’s concern in his eyes. ‘You’re looking really pale.’
She shakes her head again, but it makes the dizziness worse. ‘I’m . . . I . . .’
Then she’s falling.
Philip grabs her. Holds her upright. ‘You okay? Stay with me. Look at me.’
She looks at him. He’s blurry, his features hazy. Her legs feel weak, as if they can’t support her weight any more. She leans into him, even though she doesn’t want his help.
‘You really mustn’t be walking anywhere,’ says Philip. He glances back towards the ambulance. ‘You should go back and let them take you to hospital.’
‘No.’ She tries to pull away from Philip. Staggers like a booze-soaked drunk after a twenty-four-hour happy hour. Reluctantly she lets him support her again.
‘Well, okay then. But let me drive you. Come back to mine, see Lizzie, have some sweet tea, please. It’ll help with the shock. Make you feel better.’
It’s not shock. Moira knows that. She doesn’t shock easy; never has. This is different. Another way her traitorous body has found to betray her. She doesn’t want to go with him, but if he lets go of her she fears she’ll drop down on to the tarmac. Suppressing a sigh, she nods instead. Against her better judgement she says, ‘Okay.’
Philip gestures up the street. ‘My car’s just over here.’