“Sorry, did you say the police?”
“Yes, but listen—” Hugh holds up a hand. “I didn’t tell them anything, I figured that wasn’t my place. I just said that I had a friend who had important information and could we come in and make a statement. And they said how was half four. You can still back out if you want.”
“No.” Her hands are cold, and her cheeks feel pale, but she knows she wants to do this. She knows she has to do this.
The bottom line is, someone could have been in April’s room that night. They could have killed her after Neville left. And that person—she can’t hide from the possibility any longer—could have been Will.
She has to tell them that.
“No, I’m—I’m ready.”
“Your clothes are on the end of the bed.” Hugh waves a hand at the foot of the bed where her clothes are draped, along with a jacket that’s clearly one of Hugh’s. On top of the pile are her glasses. On the floor is a pair of flip-flops. Hugh sees her looking at them and makes a face.
“Sorry. Best I could do, I didn’t want to leave you alone in the flat. We can pick up some trainers en route if you’re bothered.”
But she shakes her head. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters now.
Hugh leaves, tactfully, and Hannah gets slowly back into her clothes. Finally, she reaches for her phone, tapping the power button to check on the time—and then she remembers: it’s dead.
Still, she shoves it in the pocket of Hugh’s coat, and then leaves the room.
“Ready?” Hugh asks, and she nods, even though it’s very far from the truth. He’s holding car keys, and she frowns.
“Are we driving?”
“I thought so, they said they’d give us parking and I don’t really want you standing in the rain for a bus. You still don’t look great.”
She nods dully. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now—except the baby. She has to keep it together for the baby.
Oh God, is she really going to do this…
The faintness rises up inside her again and Hugh takes her arm, looking alarmed.
“Hannah? Hannah old bean?”
“I’m fine,” she says, her teeth gritted. It’s not true, but she will be, once she has spoken to the police. For whatever the truth, whatever happens now, November was right. This is the only way she can make herself safe, the only way she can protect herself.
* * *
IN THE CAR SHE LETS her head loll against the window. She is not just tired but exhausted, the exhaustion of grief and fear and shock. There’s a strange familiarity to it now—it’s the same sensation she remembers from last time, the same numb, sick horror as she sat, wired and sleepless, through interview after interview, surviving off bad tea and worse coffee, as the police prodded her for inconsistencies or anything she might have forgotten.
The thought of going through it all again leaves her with a kind of light-headed nausea. And perhaps that’s it—perhaps this is why it feels so much worse the second time around. Because she has done this all before—and for what? So that an innocent man could die in prison.
And now she is going to do the same thing again, but this time to incriminate the father of her unborn baby.
A picture comes into her head, of Will’s lips pressed against her hair, of his low, soft voice rumbling in his chest, I love you.
She thinks she may throw up.
“Are you okay?” Hugh asks, and she shakes her head. “Do you want some water? You’re probably dehydrated.”
He gestures to a bottle in the door, and Hannah nods. There is a horrible hungover taste in her mouth. Maybe the water will make her feel less sick. But it doesn’t. When she takes a long gulp, it has the same flat chemical taste as everything else, and she screws the lid back on and replaces it in the door.
Instead she shuts her eyes, hoping for darkness, for oblivion, and Hugh starts the engine. It purrs for a moment, and then he slips the car into gear, and they slide away into the darkness.
* * *
IT’S SOME TIME LATER THAT Hannah opens her eyes. She hasn’t been asleep exactly, just drowsing, trying to throw off this weird groggy feeling before they reach the police station. But the noise of the traffic has faded away, and they seem to have been driving for a long time, longer than she would have thought.
It takes a while for her to focus on the road ahead and make sense of what she is seeing—because they are not in Edinburgh anymore, but on a country road, quite a narrow one. There are no streetlamps, only the powerful beams of Hugh’s headlamps lighting up the low hedges on either side of the track. It’s not a route she recognizes, but from the dark shapes of the hills she thinks they may be heading west, towards Berwick.