The Aura by Carrie Bedford Page A

stayed close to the door.
    When the second policeman had finished his call, he came over and murmured something to his colleague, then turned to me.
    “Sergeant Wilson,” he said holding out a hand to shake mine. “DCI Clarke and the medical examiner will be here soon. Meanwhile, we need to ask you a few questions.”
    “Why do you need a detective?” asked Nick. “It’s obviously an accident.”
    “It’s routine,” replied Wilson.
    He peered at me. “Are you okay? We should go into the hall. It’s cooler out there. You too, sir,” he added, glancing at Nick.
    I moved on leaden legs out through the front door and across the landing to lean against the banister. Nick crouched down by the wall and Wilson took a notebook and pencil from a pocket and ran through a list of basic questions: names, addresses, relationship to the deceased.
    Deceased
I thought. He had never known Rebecca as a person, a living being. She was just a dead body to be accounted for in his files. The mention of death reminded me of Nick’s aura, and I lifted my eyes to look at him. The aura was distinct but the air was moving slowly. What did it mean? I started feeling sick again.
    “Miss Benedict?” Wilson was looking at me.
    “Sorry.”
    “How did you get into the apartment?” Wilson asked. Nick explained that he had a key because he looked after the cat. Wilson looked around. “Where is it?”
    “What?”
    “The cat.”
    “He ran into the bedroom when we got here,” replied Nick. “I took his food bowl and some water in there for him when we got here. Poor thing was starving and probably scared.” He paused. “Do you think he knew his owner was dead? A dog would know, I think, but maybe not a cat…” he trailed off when he saw the expression on Wilson’s face.
    “What time did you get here?” Wilson asked.
    Nick looked at me. “About eight?”
    I nodded. Wilson checked his watch and wrote something in his notes.
    There were voices on the stairway, but Wilson continued to jot in his notebook, the sound of his pencil scratching on the paper loud on the quiet landing.
    A few minutes later, two men appeared at the top of the stairs. One, a tall thin man with a balding head, carrying a leather case, the other, young, good-looking with blonde hair and a nice suit. The younger one introduced himself. “I’m Detective Inspector Clarke,” he said. “I’d just like to ask a few questions.”
    I was surprised at how young he was, maybe in his mid-thirties, and I wondered at his choice of profession, dealing with violence and death on a daily basis.
    “We’ve given the officer all our information,” said Nick. “And I really have to go. Gary will be wondering where I am.”
    “A couple more minutes,” Clarke said in a tone that brooked no argument.
    He looked at me. “When did you last see or hear from…” He checked a piece of paper in his hand. “From Miss Williams?”
    “Sunday lunchtime. We had lunch together. At a Chinese restaurant.”
    “And you didn’t come back here with her afterwards?”
    “No. We left the restaurant at about two. I went straight home.”
    Clarke nodded, wrote some notes and turned his attention to Nick.
    “And you sir? Where were you this weekend?”
    Nick described his weekend trip to Brussels, keeping the details short and precise and not even mentioning the chocolate.
    “So you wouldn’t have known if Miss Williams had any visitors over the weekend?”
    “Sorry, but no.”
    “She was supposed to be meeting her boyfriend on Sunday evening,” I said. “We’d made plans to go see a movie, but then she canceled that. We had lunch together instead.”
    “Did she tell you what time she was planning to meet him, or where?”
    “No.” I shook my head. I was confused by his questions. “But this was just an accident, wasn’t it?”
    Clarke didn’t answer. He looked at Nick. “You didn’t see anyone arriving or leaving on Sunday evening?”
    “No, I’ve seen her boyfriend a