They hadn’t believed him.
He tried to explain about the deal that he’d made with Cat. That she had agreed to continue keeping quiet about the real version of what had happened with Samantha, and that he would lie and say that Ginny and Tristan had fell.
But they didn’t believe that either.
His actions in the room had sealed his fate. Cat had told them he was a predator. That he was violent. And all he’d done was back her up.
Well done, Paul.
He still didn’t understand why all of this had happened.
Why would Cat sleep with Tristan? Was this all just about revenge on Ginny for the mess-up with the inheritance? Or was there more to it? And what about the baby. Was there even a baby?
He would love to know.
He slumped back in his chair. His heart was still thumping. His head fizzing and buzzing with thoughts.
‘I’m fucked, aren’t I?’ he shouted towards the camera above the door. ‘Thank you, Cat. You’ve done a sterling fucking job here.’
He stood up quickly, pulling the thin mattress off the cot bed. He swung it hard, and it flew across the room, crashing into the door. He grabbed hold of his hair, twisting it in his fists. And then he screamed, loud, long.
No one came.
He walked over to the far corner of the room and sat down, pulling his legs up to his chest. The position was uncomfortable, making the pain in his chest sharper. He pulled his legs up tighter, absorbed in his agony. Then he dropped his head and screamed silently into his knees.
Fifty-Two
SUNDAY EVENING
Cat couldn’t quite believe that they’d agreed to let her leave the station. She stood outside, gazing at the village where she had spent so little time. Ginny had wanted to browse the shops this morning, before they packed and drove back down to Geneva to catch their flight home. Cat shook her head, trying to dislodge thoughts of her sister. That was something she was going to have to face, of course, but not right now. She had to remain focused for just a bit longer.
She’d missed that flight, of course. The day was still warm, but the sky was already darkening. The bright blue veering to indigo, the air thickening. A storm was coming. The shops already starting to pull in their outside displays.
‘Ready?’ Lydia stepped out of the building and on to the street. She glanced up at the sky, frowning. ‘Looks like rain.’
Cat nodded. She started walking across the wide road towards the hotel that sat on the bend, the front not much to look at, but the other side was where it drew in its guests, with the magnificent views of the snow-capped mountains. The hot tub was on that side. Something else she hadn’t managed to make use of this weekend. Ginny, again, in her head. She balled her hands into fists, letting her ragged nails cut into the flesh of her palms.
‘I’m so sorry that all of this has happened to you,’ Lydia said, walking by her side. ‘I think the police failed you . . . with Paul’s case.’
‘I feel partly to blame,’ Cat said. ‘If I’d taken the photographs to the police instead of keeping them for myself.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not even sure what I was going to do with them. I mean, I would have left him, of course. After this weekend . . . I guess I just thought maybe I needed to give him a final chance to tell me the truth.’ The lies came thick and fast now. Cat was fully immersed in this latest depiction of events.
‘And he didn’t . . . but you can’t blame yourself for what he did to Ginny. Or to Tristan.’
Cat swallowed. The air mixed with saliva had formed a hard lump in her throat, trying to choke her. She coughed. Lydia placed a gentle hand on her back, and Cat wanted to cry, then, but she held back. She’d done enough of that today. She needed to keep it together now.
‘It’s really quite incredible that he planned all this, Cat. You can’t blame yourself. People get hoodwinked by charming psychopaths all the time. They walk among us, you know. Until they snap and do something like this, it’s usually impossible to tell.’
Cat said nothing.
They stopped outside the doors of the hotel. ‘Do you think you can give me twenty minutes? I just want to freshen up a bit. Chuck some stuff into my case and put it at reception. I hate to think of them having to pack up our room.’
Lydia frowned. She glanced back at the police station, then to the hotel, as if she was calculating the distance. Working out the risk. ‘Sure, OK. Remember to bring your laptop with you though! Don’t chuck that in your case.’
‘Of course.’ Cat cast her eyes down, then back up to Lydia’s face. ‘I need you to hear the recording. I wish I’d put it on the Cloud, like those bloody photographs. But, to be honest, I thought it was a joke . . .’