Paul felt beads of sweat break out across his brow. He was far too hot, all of a sudden. A fever, maybe. An infection setting in. Just tell the truth, the voice in his head chirped, more insistent now.
Paul put a hand to his brow. It felt clammy. He closed his eyes slowly. Opened them again. ‘There was an accident. They fell—’
Dobbs sat up straighter. ‘Who fell?’
‘Ginny. Cat’s sister. She was feeling faint, and she slipped, and . . .’ He paused. Rubbed his eyes with his fists. ‘Tristan tried to help her, but it was no use. We couldn’t even see how far she’d fallen.’ He took his hands away from his face and fixed his gaze on Dobbs. ‘We had no way of getting help.’
Dobbs frowned. ‘You couldn’t call for help? You were on the Argentine, is that right? That’s what Pigalle told me. The signal is usually fine there. I’ve done that hike myself.’
Paul sucked in a breath, felt it catch in his throat. ‘We all left our phones in the car. We were using a map. Cat thought it would be more fun.’
Dobbs bit his bottom lip. Sighed. ‘Bit irresponsible, don’t you think?’
‘In fairness, it didn’t seem too arduous. We were expecting to be up and down within five hours . . .’
‘I sense a “but” . . .’
‘We met a couple of hikers early on, right at the start. They said there’d been some rock falls. That some of the paths were loose. They tried to tell us to take another route, but—’
‘But you didn’t listen.’
Paul shrugged. ‘It really didn’t seem so bad. Tristan—’
Dobbs clicked his pen. ‘Tristan? Who is he, then? Where is he now?’
‘He’s Ginny’s husband. My brother-in-law. He’s . . . he’s gone too.’ Paul felt the sweat start to pool at the top of his shorts. It was cold. Despite the heat in his body, he was freezing all of a sudden. He shuffled in his seat, grabbing the sides of the blanket behind him and pulling it up over his shoulders, wrapping it around and gripping it tightly across his chest. ‘He . . . he went crazy.’
Dobbs’s mouth dropped open. He let go of his pen and it rolled across his notebook and on to the table. He took a moment to compose himself before picking it up again, his finger poised on the top, ready to click. ‘Go on . . .’
‘You’ve got to understand . . . we were all exhausted. We were in shock about Ginny. None of us knew what to do.’ All of this was the truth, at least. There was no need to act out the emotions for this part. He had definitely been in shock when Ginny fell, even if the others had been somewhat expecting it to happen. Given that they’d planned it. ‘Tristan was mad with grief. Cat went almost catatonic for a while.’ The lump in his throat was growing like a tumour. He remembered Ginny bickering with Cat. Calling her by that nickname. He swallowed the lump down. ‘But Tristan . . . he just flipped. After he tried to climb down and find Ginny, he just started rambling nonsense. Then he ran off.’ Paul lowered his eyes, trying to avoid Dobbs’s gaze during the lie.
When he looked up again, Dobbs was looking sceptical. ‘Ran off where? Did you see him again?’
Paul took a moment. He had a choice. He could still tell the truth. Ultimately, he’d done nothing wrong. He was a victim. He’d acted in self-defence. Cat was the one behind it all. Cat was the one who would go to prison if the truth revealed itself.
But they had an agreement. They would both lie to save Cat from prison, and she would stay quiet about the other business. She knew the real truth, she’d said. And it would ruin him if it got out. If the police re-opened the case and he was found guilty, he would never work again. No one wanted a sex offender in their workplace. Even if it was all her own fault.
Bloody Samantha.
The whole situation sucked, but if they could both get out of it and remain free, then he’d find a way to live with himself. He wondered how Cat was getting on in the room next door. These same questions. These same answers. He hoped she wasn’t cracking under the pressure.
‘Mr Baxendale? Paul?’ Dobbs’s voice was softer now. Some sympathy edging in. ‘Did you see Tristan again?’
Paul shook his head. Decision made.
‘No. We never saw him again.’
Forty-Eight
SUNDAY EVENING
Cat wiped her eyes with a tissue from the cellophane pack provided. Her hands were shaking as she balled the tissue up, clutching it tightly in her fist. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffed, then wiped at her eyes again with the back of her hand. ‘It’s just been so difficult, having to share space with him while we waited.’