They set off slow and steady. Philip keeps a strong grip on her, supporting under her elbow, holding her upright. They duck under the yellow crime-scene tape of the outer cordon and he escorts her towards his car.
Moira concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. Her legs still feel wobbly. The dizziness is still there. She wants to tell him she’s fine, she’ll make her own way home and have tea there, thanks very much, but she’s not sure she’ll make it. She curses under her breath. Hating the feeling of being dependent, especially on this man who she wants to avoid.
‘What’s that?’ Philip says.
‘Nothing.’ Her voice sounds strange, weaker than normal. It’s beyond annoying.
Philip frowns, but doesn’t press her. ‘Almost there now.’
As they walk, he starts chattering away.
‘There’s never been a murder at The Homestead before,’ he says, barely drawing breath. ‘It’s going to be the talk of the community.’
They’d better not all try to talk to me about it, thinks Moira.
She hears a rattling sound behind her, and glances over her shoulder towards the park. Beyond the small group of grey-haired rubberneckers gathered at the cordon near the park gates she sees the coroner’s people are wheeling a gurney with a zipped-up body bag on it along the path between the pickleball courts. Moira bites her lip as she remembers the last person she’d seen taken away in a body bag. She sees his face in her mind’s eye. Swallows hard. Blinking the image away before the grief and the anger can overwhelm her.
‘Here we are,’ Philip says, stopping beside a gleaming black Toyota.
As he opens the passenger door for her, Moira takes one last look towards the park and feels a pang of . . . something. She remembers how it felt when she saw the body, and how she switched from retired lady of leisure, Moira Flynn, back into her old, original skin. It’d felt like she was on autopilot – confident, professional, and knowing exactly what to do and what to say – and it had felt good. So good. Like she was useful again. Like there was a point to her. Like she still had purpose.
‘Shall I help you?’ Philip asks.
‘No, I’m fine,’ she says.
As Philip moves around to the driver’s side, Moira goes to turn back towards the park one last time. It’s then that she sees someone is watching. On the other side of the street, half-crouched behind one of the parked cars – a silver VW Beetle – is a young, wiry-looking guy with short blond hair and black-framed glasses. He’s staring right at her.
He’s wearing a navy hoodie and has a chunky maroon and gold knitted scarf around his neck even though the day is warming up and the temperature must be pushing 25°C.
Moira meets his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Instead the weird intensity to his expression grows stronger. Then he raises his mobile phone towards her and she hears the click as he takes a photo.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Rather than strong her voice sounds shaky, timid. Moira hates it. She takes a step towards the guy, but her vision swims again and she feels another wave of nausea take her.
‘Moira!’ Philip jumps out of the driver’s seat and rushes around the Toyota. Grasping her arm, he just manages to stop her from falling. ‘Please, let me help you.’
‘Did you see him?’ she asks.
Philip shakes his head. Frowns. ‘See who?’
Moira turns back towards the parked VW on the opposite side of the road, but there’s no one there: not standing or crouching. ‘I . . . I thought I . . .’ She shakes her head. Wonders if she’s seeing things. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Slowly, with Philip’s support, she gets into the car. The nausea is still there and she swallows hard, then lowers herself down on to the passenger seat. As she fastens the seat belt, the police doc’s voice repeats inside her head: You need time to heal, and you need to do that in a safe place away from violence. Otherwise nothing will ever change.