she said, disappearing into her dressing room.
‘I’d like a pink gin, please,’ Norman said, lighting a cigarette as he sat back on the white sofa in Katharine’s flat.
‘Oh dear, I don’t have any angostura bitters,’ she answered with a frown. ‘But I do have gin. Would you like a splash of tonic water with it?’
‘Thanks, love, that’ll be fine.’
Katharine smiled, returning to the kitchen. Norman glanced around with considerable interest. Very posh, he thought. And expensive. But not to my taste at all. The room was too cold, too sterile and too … hygienic. All this white. It reminded him of a hospital. The only thing missing was the smell of disinfectant and that peculiar medicinal odour which always permeated the wards. The décor was so frigid and icy it was oddly depressing, and despite the warmth emanating from the large electric fire in the fireplace, Norman felt chilled. He had trouble reconciling the room with Katharine and what he knew of her. Earlier, at the theatre, when she had invited him to her flat, he had imagined a setting quite different from this one. She was such a cheerful, open and vivacious girl, with a warm personality and a sweet disposition, and this place where she lived was somehow alien in its austerity and, yes, its lifelessness.
White. It struck an odd chord in his memory. White was the mourning colour in India, wasn’t it? He shivered again and his thoughts swept to Terry. We might have been mourning him, he said inwardly, except for the slip of the knife. The right slip, in this instance. Norman’s chest tightened, and he felt a spurt of intense rage. Deep inside he was furious with Terry for constantly putting himself in such precarious situations, for jeopardizing his career. His brilliant career. And, today, his safety as well.
Katharine arrived with the drinks. She handed the gin and tonic to Norman and seated herself on the chair facing him.
‘Cheers,’ she said with a friendly smile, and took a sip of her vodka on the rocks.
‘Cheers,’ Norman responded. ‘I really appreciate this, Katharine.’ He looked away, wondering where to begin, how to launch into the story and enumerate the terrible worries which plagued him, which could no longer be shoved under the rug. The trouble was, there was so much to tell.
Katharine waited patiently, regarding Terry’s dresser with not a little curiosity, wondering how much he was going to divulge about the stabbing. For undoubtedly that was what he wanted to discuss with her. She had half expected him to say something on their way from the theatre, but he had mostly raved about her performance, not touching on his troubles.
As if he had read her mind, Norman now cleared his throat and blurted out, ‘Terry’s on a path to self-destruction! I don’t know how to stop him, Katharine. I’m out of my mind with worry. Honest to God, I don’t know what to do any more!’
Katharine sat up straight. ‘What do you mean … self-destruction?’
‘The way he’s been behaving, the situations he gets himself into, and with increasing frequency. He’s not very stable.’ He immediately saw the challenge in her large turquoise eyes, the disbelief washing across her lovely young face, and he said with great firmness, ‘I’m not exaggerating! Believe me I’m not! I’ve thought for a long time that he’d come a cropper one day, but it was sooner than I expected. And much worse. Christ Almighty, don’t you realize he could have been killed today! It was a fluke he wasn’t!’
‘Yes, I know.’ Katharine shifted in her chair and leaned forward slightly. ‘Why don’t you tell me about the stabbing, Norman dear. You’ll feel much better if you get it off your chest.’
Norman half laughed bleakly. ‘There’s not much to tell about that incident. I’ve been trying to piece things together as best I could from Terry’s incoherent mumblings, and I’ve come up with one theory at least. I wish I’d talked to you before, and then perhaps this bloody mess might have been avoided. But to be honest, I didn’t want to discuss Terry’s troubles. I … I … felt it would be terribly disloyal.’ Norman took a cigarette, lit it and continued, ‘I know I can trust you though. I mean, I know you understand that what I’m going to tell you about Terry is absolutely confidential –’
‘I would never repeat anything you told me to anyone,’ Katharine interrupted. ‘I promise you, Norman.’
‘Thanks, love.’ His eyes rested on her, searching, as he began slowly, diffidently, ‘I know you suspect Alexa, and so does Penny, but I don’t think she was involved. Terry told me the other day that she was going to Zurich to see her father, and as far as I know she did. I think she’s still there. Actually, I’m sure it was a man,’ he rushed on, his voice gaining in strength and conviction. ‘But listen, love, I don’t want my theory repeated. You’ve got to promise me you won’t say a word to a soul about this matter either.’
Katharine moved to the edge of the sofa, absorbing his words. She said, ‘Of course I won’t. I realize you can’t go around accusing people of attempted murder.’
‘Have you ever seen Terry with a young, good-looking bod? Dark haired, very well dressed, almost foppish?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Katharine said, her brows puckering. ‘Does he have a yellow Jag that he parks in the Haymarket?’
‘That’s the bloke!’ Norman cried. He took a long swallow of the gin and tonic, and said flatly, in a cold voice, ‘I think it was him that did it.’
‘Norman, are you sure?’ Katharine asked nervously.
‘Of course I can’t be sure. I wasn’t there,’ he replied snappishly. In a more even tone he added, ‘But from what Terry said to me, and because of the things I know myself, everything points to him.’
‘But who is he, Norman?’ Katharine demanded.
‘He calls himself Rupert Reynolds.’
‘Calls himself! Isn’t that his real name?’
‘No, it’s not. Actually, he’s the son of a very prominent man.’
Katharine looked at Norman sharply. ‘How do you know, if he uses a false name? Did Terry tell you?’
‘No, he didn’t. In fact, Terry had no idea who the hell he was until I filled him in. You see, this bod was getting to be a bit of a nuisance to Terry, so I made a few inquiries about him.’ Norman laughed grimly. ‘He’s the black sheep of a prominent family, and not on good terms with his old man. Anyway, I believe he was having lunch with Terry at the flat today, when they had a row. And then Rupert slashed him with the knife.’ Norman’s head moved up and down a few times jerkily, as though he was confirming his suspicions to himself.
‘But why?’ Katharine asked, horrified that anyone would want to harm Terry.
‘Jealousy,’ he pronounced.
Taken aback though she was, she refrained from commenting. Finally, she said, ‘Don’t tell me Terry pinched one of his girl friends.’
‘Well, yes, and then, no. It’s a shade more convoluted than that …’ Norman ran his hand through his thinning hair, blinking rapidly, obviously distressed.
