“The other thing,” she says.
He just looks at her. Her plastic clothes and plastic boots. Wrong boots for this ground. She’d be scraping them on the tyre of her car in a little while. Prising them off at her front door and rubbing them with plastic wipes. Her plastic little eyes looking for the new plastic shine.
“Have you been following the news?” she asks.
“No.”
“The other thing I wanted to do. I thought about this when I was closing the case file. You’re in an exposed position out here. I get that it’s a lovely place. Though it must have some sadness for you now. But I wanted to come and tell you in person. Because I know we upended your life and caused you more grief and stress. But also because I was worried about you.”
She’s shifting from side to side as she says it to him. Wants him to think it’s because of the damp cold. But she’s nervous. Uncomfortable. Perhaps a little embarrassed.
“Worried,” he says, his voice kept flat.
“Yes. With all the changes. I just thought that you’d be safer in town. Or even in the city. With what’s coming, with what might come, I’d hate to think of you out here on your own.”
He looks around. At the standing stones, at the fogou, and thinks, On my own?
The silence dawdles awkwardly.
“Did you kill your wife?” she asks.
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