Chapters (41)
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- An Excerpt from House of Correction
- One
- Two
- About the Author
- Praise for Nicci French
- Also by Nicci French
- About the Publisher
“It might not have,” I said. “I pulled her out from where she was lying to see if she was still alive. I examined her. I wasn’t sure if there was something I ought to do to help.”
“So you moved the body!” said Ramsay. “And then you didn’t tell anybody. Our investigation to date has been based on a complete misunderstanding of the crime scene.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s why I decided I had to get in touch with you.”
“How kind,” he said. “I still don’t understand. Why did you leave the scene?”
“I was scared and confused. I thought the person who killed her might still be there. And maybe a part of me was wondering whether I was responsible for her death.”
“How?” asked Ramsay.
“Perhaps I’d been stirring things up. I’m the one person who didn’t believe that Milena and Greg’s death was an accident.”
“What on earth has that got to do with it?” said Ramsay.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Maybe we’re not clever enough to understand,” said Ramsay. “Could you explain why it’s so obvious?”
“My husband and Milena died in a car crash in circumstances that haven’t been explained.”
“That’s not true,” said DI Carter.
“And then Milena’s work partner is murdered. There must be a connection.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Ramsay. “I started off saying you ought to talk to a lawyer, but you really need a psychiatrist.”
“I’m seeing one, as a sort of grief counseling.”
“I’m surprised he lets you walk the streets.”
“She.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“I haven’t told her the details of all of this.”
Ramsay threw his hands up in exasperation. “What’s the point of a psychiatrist if you’re not telling her the truth? And, furthermore, if you’re lying to your own doctor, why the hell should I believe you’re not lying to us now?”
“It wouldn’t be much of a lie, would it?” I said. “I don’t come out of it very well.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Ramsay. “Quite a few coppers would be happy enough to charge you immediately but you’d get off with an insanity plea—deranged widow runs amok.”
“You forget,” I said. “I don’t care.”
“Your not caring is a big part of the problem.”
“What I mean is that I don’t care what happens to me.”