was Patrick that took her arm, all the time wishing he too could escape into the kitchen and telling himself that this was a bad idea. Not just bad, stupid, out of their depth idea. Glancing at Charlie he could see the same emotions writ large in the pale, pinched face and the darting eyes. Charlie wanted to turn and run and it was only loyalty to his dead friend that had brought him to see Robâs mother and that pinned him now, like an insect on a display board.
They sat in silence until Becky appeared with the laden tray.
It was strange, Patrick thought, how having something to do with your hands kind of allowed the brain to slow down and the thoughts to get in some kind of order. Surprisingly, it was Charlie that broke the silence.
âI donât know what to tell you,â he said, though so far Clara had asked nothing. âI canât believe he threw himself off that bridge. I mean, why would he? I mean, he was all right when he left the party. Heâd had a bit of a spat with Becky â sorry, Becks, but everyone could see that â I mean, he just stormed off but we all figured heâd be back to himself the next day and heâd probably not even mention it unless Becks made him and â¦â
âThey think he might have killed a man.â Clara said.
Patrick stared.
âYou what?â Charlie was gazing at the woman as though she really had gone mad. He stood up suddenly as though about to make a run for it, mug of coffee slipping from his hand and crashing to the floor.
Becky, mouth open, face drained of colour, placed her own mug down on the coffee table. âClara?â
âWhat the hell are you on about?â Charlie demanded.
For Patrick, more familiar with police procedure, everything suddenly made sense: the scale of the investigation; far greater than required for a simple suicide. Horrifying as it was, it seemed suddenly obvious. âUm, did they say who?â he blurted.
âAre you mad!â Charlie was outraged anyone could even consider the idea. âRob wouldnât kill anyone. I mean, fuck it, heâd go off on one occasionally, blow up and ⦠and say stuff, then storm off. But heâd never â¦â
Clara replied to Patrick as though Charlie had not spoken. âA man called Adam Hensel,â she said quietly. âHe was stabbed. When Rob came home, he was covered in blood. Adam Henselâs blood. Rob told me he had killed a man.â
âAnd you believe them?â Charlie still couldnât get to grips with it. âTheyâll say anything. Blame anyone just so they look good. Rob wouldnât ⦠Rob couldnât â¦â He sat down suddenly and for the first time seemed to be aware of the mug he had dropped. âIâm sorry,â he said, looking at the smashed crockery and wet carpet at his feet. âI dropped it ⦠I â¦â
Charlie never cried, Patrick thought, watching as his friend finally broke down and allowed the tears to come. Charlie doesnât cry and neither do I.
It was another hour before they got around to clearing up the broken mug and spilt coffee. âI think itâs going to stain,â Becky fretted.
Clara smiled wanly. âIâll stick a rug over it,â she said. âThat carpetâs been down since we moved in anyway, itâs probably time I got another one and thatâs nothing to the stuff Robâs â¦â She waved away the rest of the sentence.
Patrick and Charlie came through from the kitchen with fresh mugs and biscuits. Glancing at the clock above the fireplace, Patrick noted that it was after ten. He really should be heading for home. He sat back down and looked across at Clara.
âYouâve really never heard of him?â
Clara shook her head. âIâve racked my brains,â she said. âAnd Robâs never mentioned anyone of that name to you?â
Charlie opened the biscuits. âWeâd remember