‘What do you think of him?’ she whispers.
Miller shrugs. ‘I think he’s a bit …’
‘Weird?’
‘Yes, a bit weird. And a bit …’
But then Phin returns, a bottle of wine and three glasses in an ice bucket in one hand, a cat held against his chest with the other. He puts the bucket down on the table but keeps the cat in his arms. ‘Meet Mindy,’ he says, holding the cat’s paw up in an approximation of a salute. ‘Mindy, meet Libby and Miller.’
The cat ignores them and tries to wriggle out of Phin’s embrace. ‘Oh,’ he says to the cat’s retreating form, ‘fine. Be a bitch, see if I care.’
Then he turns to them again and says, ‘She’s my favourite. I always fall in love with the ones who can’t bear me. It’s why I’m single.’
He opens the wine and pours them each a large glass.
‘Cheers,’ he says, ‘to reunions.’
They touch glasses and a slightly weighted silence follows.
‘This is an incredible view,’ says Miller. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Not long. I mean, they only just finished building these apartments last year.’
‘Amazing, isn’t it, being right opposite Cheyne Walk.’
Phin nods. ‘I wanted to be close,’ he says to Libby, ‘for when you came back.’
Another Persian cat appears on the terrace. This one is horribly overweight and has bulging eyes. ‘Ah,’ says Phin, ‘here he is. Mr Attention-seeker. He’s heard I have visitors.’ He scoops up the gigantic cat and rests it on his lap. ‘This is Dick. I called him that because it was the only way I could make sure I got some.’
Libby laughs and takes a sip of wine. In another realm, this would constitute a brilliant night out: two handsome men, a warm summer’s night, a glamorous terrace overlooking the Thames, a glass of cold white wine. But in this realm, everything feels warped and vaguely threatening. Even the cats.
‘So,’ says Miller, ‘if you’re going to tell us everything about what really happened in Cheyne Walk, will it be off the record? Or can I be a journalist?’
‘You can be whatever you like.’
‘Can I record you?’ Miller reaches for his phone in his back pocket.
‘Sure,’ says Phin, his fingers raking through the thick fur on the cat’s back. ‘Why not? Nothing to lose any more. Go for it.’
Miller fiddles with his phone for a while. Libby notices his hands shaking slightly, betraying his excitement. She takes another large sip of wine, to calm her own nerves. Then Miller lays his phone on the table and asks, ‘So. You say I got everything wrong in my article. Can we start there?’
‘Certainly.’ The fat cat jumps down from Phin’s lap and he absent-mindedly brushes hairs from his trouser legs with the sides of his hands.
‘So, when I was researching the article, I came upon a man called David Thomsen. Thomsen with an E.’
‘Yes,’ says Phin. ‘My father.’
Libby sees a kind of triumphant relief flood across Miller’s face. He exhales and says, ‘And your mother – Sally?’
‘Yes, Sally is my mother.’
‘And Clemency …？’
‘My sister, yes.’
‘And the third body …’
‘Was my father.’ Phin nods. ‘Spot on. Such a shame you didn’t work all that out before you wrote your article.’