There are hundreds of people inside; Kate knew lots of them no doubt, but I’m guessing most are here for the gossip; acquaintances or strangers, who just want to get close to the drama, have some of her fame rub off on them. This is Kate’s send-off and I don’t want to detract from it. I know that if I step foot inside I’ll become the main attraction.
The story hasn’t fully died away yet. It was headline news and I’m still getting interview requests from daytime TV chat shows and the lower-level tabloids. I’ve decided not to respond to any in the hope the interest will die away. It’s too raw. And one day Marlow will be old enough to read.
As I gently rock the pushchair with one hand, I pull out my phone and see that Konstandin has sent me a new text. He is getting a lot of information from his insider connections on the Lisbon police force. He keeps me up to date on everything.
Reza, despite the fact she was working side by side with a murderer, and that she never did her job properly, has been awarded some kind of honour, a medal, for saving my life.
Sebastian has been charged with kidnapping and assault. I thought kidnapping was a little over the top at first but Reza explained that’s the charge that fits. He did try, after all, to lock me inside his apartment and stop me leaving. Having watched the movie Room, we all know how that could have ended.
He’s also been charged with withholding evidence, for not telling the police what he knew about Kate’s movements on the night she went missing. It could have saved us all so much time. Though ultimately the outcome wouldn’t have changed. She would still be dead.
He has, of course, been booted off Airbnb because they have rules about things like hidden cameras and pervert landlords. I’m not too sure he’s worried about that though, given the amount of jail time he’s facing. I’m finding it hard to locate any sympathy for either him or for Nunes. At least Sebastian is pleading guilty, hoping to throw himself on the mercy of the judge, which means I don’t have to go to court and testify about what happened, at least in that case.
However, Nunes is another story. He’s pleading innocent to both my attempted murder and to murdering Kate, even though they offered to reduce the charge to manslaughter with regards to her, and so it’s going to trial.
I suppose he is staring down the barrel of life in prison and I know that cops don’t get cut much slack on the inside. But still, it’s a little hard to understand how he hopes to plead innocent over my attempted murder, given he was a hair’s breadth away from killing me when they pulled him off me in the interview room. He claims that he panicked and that he was just trying to stop me shouting. He didn’t mean to hurt me, he says. I wonder if he said the same thing after he killed Kate. I’ve had time to think about it and I can’t get the look in his eyes when he attacked me out of my mind. Having seen him lose his temper with me, having almost been killed by him myself, I don’t believe his claim of innocence over Kate’s death. I know he killed her.
When it comes to the court case, I’ll be called as a witness and I will do my best to make sure he pays for what he’s done. When I take the stand I can testify to how indifferent Nunes was when I reported Kate missing, how he tried to push me off the scent and when that didn’t work how he tried to turn me into the suspect. His past history and the marks on his police record mean he’ll have a hard time convincing a jury that he’s innocent. At least, that’s what Konstandin says.
I open the text from Konstandin. He’s sent a link to a video. It’s from his associates’ friends in the Lisbon police force. They have finally managed to track down some security footage from the dock.
‘It confirms Nunes killed Kate,’ Konstandin writes.
I gasp. That’s it then. They have all the evidence they need to convict him. He may even be forced to change his plea to guilty. It means that Nunes will be in prison for so long that I don’t need to worry about him getting out after a few years and trying to find me.
I read the rest of the text. Konstandin says that they only found the footage today; apparently it took a while to locate because there was confusion over who owned the camera and which security company managed it. It hasn’t yet been released to the public, he adds.
My hand shakes as I press play on the video. I don’t know if I want to watch. But I force myself to, if only so the mystery can finally be resolved and the remaining gaps in the story be filled in.
For several seconds after I hit play, I wonder if the video is still loading as it’s all fuzzy. But as I peer closer, I start to see shapes forming in the gloom. I was expecting something HD and sharp, something that would give me incontrovertible evidence, but this looks like someone has recorded the static off their TV.
But then what appear to be two shadowy figures show up on screen. It’s black and white and hard to make them out and they’re far from the camera, probably at a distance of fifty-odd feet, but if you peer closely enough it’s possible to see them through the gloom. I recognise Kate funnily enough from the way she’s standing, so full of attitude. I’ve seen her strike that pose a hundred times before, one hand on her hip, chin jutting up.
Nunes has his back mostly to camera. I shudder at the sight, my throat throbbing, the bruise coming to life, as I watch him move towards Kate. She’s gesticulating wildly but the movements are jerky and indistinct. It’s like watching people through a blizzard. And then it happens, so fast I blink and almost miss it. He lashes out, grabbing her arm. She tries to fight him off, and he punches her in the face. Kate stumbles backwards and falls, smashing her head into what looks like a concrete bollard.
I stare in horror. Kate’s still moving. She lifts her hand. Nunes bends down and crouches in front of her. It looks like he’s going to help her up. He even seems to press his hand to her head, like he’s giving her a benediction.
My eyes remain glued to the screen, my nose almost pressed to it as I struggle to both make out what is happening and also to watch and bear witness to the awfulness of Kate’s last moments. She looks like she’s trying to crawl away from him and I can almost feel her terror rising off the screen, gripping me. I want to reach in and do something, stop him from hurting her any further. I want to hit pause on the video as though that will change the outcome, but instead I just watch in utter, useless, paralysed horror.
After a few seconds Nunes stands up but he doesn’t walk away. He seems to be considering what to do. And then he decides. He crouches down again and starts heaving Kate towards the dock, his hands beneath her shoulders, dragging her across the ground before finally rolling her into the water. Once he’s done it, thrown her in like a bag of trash, he stands there on the edge of the dockside, just watching. Was he waiting to see if she would sink or swim? Was he watching her drown? Did she try to pull herself out? Did she rise above the surface? Did she fight to stay alive?
After another minute of standing there, appearing like some dark phantom on the video, he turns and vanishes into the pixelated wilderness, and there’s nothing but blank fuzziness filling the screen, as though someone has pressed a pause button on the world.
I stare at my phone too stunned to move or even to breathe. At least now I know what happened. At least I will no longer have to stop my imagination from furnishing the details. Now I’ll just have to live with this much worse reality instead. I sit there for a long while, trying to banish the images, trying to avoid thinking about those last few moments of Kate’s life. I hate her for what she did to me but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Finally, Marlow’s sleepy mumbles stir me into checking the time. God, I’m late.
I get up from my bench and get going, heading for Liverpool Street, deciding to walk south down Bishopsgate towards the river, retracing old steps as I go.
Kate and I used to walk this way on our way home from clubbing. One of the unexpected sorrows about what’s happened is that almost all of my best memories of my twenties and thirties are now ruined. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to salvage anything from the wreckage, or if I’ll ever be able to think of Kat
e without feeling such a mix of feelings: betrayal and loss, love and hate, anger and sadness. And yet, still, fondness.
On London Bridge I stop and, ignoring the streams of pedestrians and thundering buses, I stare down into the churning brown sewage-coloured water. I think of Kate. Of course I do. I will always think of Kate whenever I see water.
‘I hope you’re at peace,’ I whisper under my breath.
Just as I turn to leave a yellow butterfly lands on my purple scarf. I watch it spread its translucent gold wings, flutter them a few times, and then take off, twisting in the wind like an autumn leaf falling from a tree.
‘Goodbye, Kate,’ I whisper, imagining it’s her come to say a final farewell.
As I watch it disappear I feel a strange lightening, as though the vice of grief that’s been gripping me around the rib cage has been loosened a notch. Perhaps that’s how it will happen, a gradual loosening until finally I can breathe freely again.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘Hey.’
I turn around. It’s Rob, walking along the bridge towards me. He crouches down to kiss Marlow’s cheek and stroke her flyaway brown curls. She’s fast asleep still, clutching her blankie in her fist.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Rob says as he straightens up. He looks sheepish and overly eager to please, as he has done ever since I found out about him and Kate. ‘How are you?’ he asks, nodding to the scarf hiding my bruises.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, deciding not to mention the video of Kate’s death, not now at least. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
He swallows, as though there’s a hard, spiky lump caught in his throat. His eyes glint with tears. ‘You know …’ he says, forcing a wobbly smile.
My mum thinks I should take Rob back. I laughed when she suggested it. I asked him to leave as soon as I got back and he did, moving into his parents’ place. I think he’s holding out hope that I’ll change my mind but I’m going ahead with the divorce. I’ve already met with a lawyer, one recommended to me by Toby.
Perhaps one day I’ll be able to forgive Rob, but even if I do I’ll never be able to trust him again. From now on, it’s Marlow and me, and even though my life feels ruptured, as though I’ve had my internal organs rearranged and now some are missing, it also feels like I’ve survived the worst, so I know I’ll survive this too. I’m determined to move on and, aware of how life can be short, I’m also trying to follow Konstandin’s advice and live it well.
‘Well, I better be going,’ I say, looking down at Marlow. I’ve agreed to let him have her overnight, until we work out a more formal custody arrangement with the lawyers. But now my heart breaks at the idea of handing her over. I was so desperate to get back to her, so happy to hold her in my arms again, that I vowed I’d never let her go out of my sight ever again. And here I am handing her over. It’s just to her father, I remind myself. And I’m not going out of the country. I doubt I ever will again.
I hand Rob a bag filled with snacks, and some clothes and nappies, as well as some extra toys because I don’t think he has much at his parents’ house. I stop myself from giving him a list of the things she can and can’t eat. One of the things to come out of all this is that I’ve learned to let go of the little things.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rob mumbles, staring down at his feet as he takes the bag from me.
He’s said sorry a thousand times but I don’t know what to do with his apologies. Well, I do know what I want to do with them: I want to take them and shove them up his arse but unfortunately I can’t, so instead I ignore him.
I bend down to kiss my daughter again on the top of her sleeping head, breathing in deeply; an addict getting a hit.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say to Rob. ‘Bring her back safe.’
He lifts his hand and I think he’s going to wave but he isn’t. He’s just running his hand through his hair, which is getting windswept. He’s still wearing his wedding ring I note, though I took mine off the day I came back to London, my engagement ring too, and they’ve been sitting in a drawer ever since. I wish he’d take his off. It feels like a reproach, or like some sad harbinger of hope he’s still clinging to.
‘Bye,’ I say turning away so he doesn’t see me tearing up over leaving Marlow and think I’m upset about breaking up with him or having second thoughts.
I walk along. I’ve no idea where I’m going; maybe I’ll walk all the way from London Bridge to Waterloo, along the river, letting the breeze blow away the cobwebs. It’s nice to have no plans, just to be outside in the fresh air, relishing the freedom I came so close to losing and which will soon be curtailed when I go back to work.
A part of me dreads the idea of returning to my job and leaving Marlow with the child minder, but a bigger part of me is excited about getting back into the swing of things. Though I’m not looking forward to having to say goodbye to her every day, there will be the excitement of getting to see her every evening, after a long day at work.
Oh my God. I freeze mid-step. A tourist bumps into me from behind and mutters something in Japanese. I ignore them, as well as the crowds of people having to break around me as I stand there like a rock in the middle of a surging river.
I wrestle my phone from my pocket and frantically click on my texts, clicking on the video from Konstandin.
I hit play, zooming in close.
This time watching I don’t stare at Kate, gesturing wildly and almost hypnotically. I don’t watch the fight. I pause it before I see Kate get hit.
I focus in on the man in the video, his arm outstretched, a split second away from coiling his hand into a fist. I zoom in closer. He’s mainly in shadow and for almost the entire duration of the footage, which runs to just over two minutes, there’s only a view of his back. It’s too dark and too fuzzy to really make anything out in detail.
I can see why anyone would think it’s Nunes. Who else could it be, after all? I mean, Nunes admitted he propositioned Kate and that they got into a fight. The traffic camera placed him at the docks with Kate. His denial of murder seemed like the desperate act of a guilty man trying to avoid prison time. But it wasn’t him who killed her.
I hit play and the video moves forward. The killer crouches down by Kate. Oh God. I flash back to just a moment ago: Rob bending down to say hello to Marlow. His legs splayed in the exact same pose, rocking back on his heels in front of the pushchair. He even touched the top of Marlow’s head, stroked her hair, in that familiar way he does. He does the same to Kate now on the video, gives her what looks like a benediction, before he drags her to the dockside and rolls her still conscious, into the water.
They’re the same height. The same build. They even have the same dark hair, just long enough that they both have to run their hands through it when it gets windswept.
I stare at the figure of the man disappearing into the murk.
Oh God.
Rob.
Were you waiting at the apartment when Kate got back? Did she suggest you walk and talk somewhere private? Did she lead you back to the docks, to the place she’d just been with Nunes? When you got there did you beg her again not to tell me about the affair? Did she ask you to leave me? Did she bring up the idea of a house in the suburbs with you and her playing happy families with Marlow?
My hand flies to my mouth. Oh my God! Marlow!
I turn around, desperately scouring the crowd, my heart in my mouth, before starting to push and shove my way through the waves of people streaming across the bridge towards the station.
Where is Rob? Where’s my baby? I can’t see them anywhere. They’ve vanished.
Acknowledgements
Thanks, as ever, go to the following people;
Nichola, for being the kind of best friend all women should be so lucky to have. Thanks for coming to Lisbon with me, and for all the other weekends away. I love you.
John and Alula, for bringing such sunshine and love to my life.
My wonderful, smart and super-savvy agent Amanda, and to Phoebe Morgan at Avon
for her stellar editing skills.
The team at Avon, including Helena, Caroline, Andrew, Ellie, Sanjana, Sabah and Bethany, who have been instrumental in getting this book out into the world.
About the Author
Sarah Alderson is a London-born, LA-based writer whose previous books include Friends Like These (Mulholland) and most recent release In Her Eyes (Mulholland). She also writes women’s fiction under the pen name Mila Gray. Sarah is currently writing on the CBS show SWAT. This is her first thriller with HarperCollins.
You can follow @sarahalderson on Twitter.
About the Publisher
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The Weekend Away Page 29
