On the doorstep in Helensburgh, where I was three nights ago. Made a brief call to Miller and she asked me down. Don't know what the hell I'm doing here. Half expecting to find Crow waiting behind the door with a knife. Was tempted to tell Taylor before I left, but I couldn't. Kept my mouth shut, like a bloody idiot. Walking into the lair, completely defenceless. It's the sort of thing you watch people do in the movies, and you think, what are you doing, you idiot? Get some back up!
But I could hardly come screaming down here with back up, could I? The demon's lair? It could just be that I'm the biggest and stupidest arse on the planet. So what if Bathurst and Miller had sex? Under other circumstances I'd have been watching the video.
The door opens and Miller invites me in. Dressed similarly to the other night, but a different colour scheme. She smiles, doesn't say anything, looks nervous. Closes the door behind me and ushers me into the sitting room. The Christmas tree still burns, but it looks incongruous now.
Half waiting for the appearance of Crow but my guts are telling me it won't happen. Stand by the warmth of the fire, wonder where Frank is, but don't really care. Remember Italy as I hear her pouring drinks behind, then she is beside me and I've got a vodka tonic in my hand.
We stare into the fire. Think I'm going to let her do most of the talking. Need a cigarette.
'Mind if I smoke?' I say.
She shakes her head. Produce the packet, shake one loose and light up. Feels good tonight, probably because I haven't smoked many in the last couple of hours.
'We are all busy in this world building Towers of Babel; and the child of our imaginations is always a changeling when it comes from nurse.'
That's all she says. I've heard that one before; we all have. It's her favourite line, and she gives it to all the new recruits. Can't imagine that it means much to most of them, but it sounds good, and I know what she's thinking. She would have said those words to Evelyn Bathurst, and what Towers of Babel can she build now?
'Did you know her well?' she says.
Stare deep into the fire. It's the first time I've slowed down all day. Take a longer drink from the glass than I intended. Feels as good as the cigarette, the alcohol burns its way down, the chill hits my stomach.
After the shock of the start of the day, it's gradually turned into just another murder. You have to stay focused on these things, can't let them get to you, but it doesn't mean your brain doesn't occasionally kick into overdrive. A warm fire, vodka tonic in your hand and a woman who might be implicated in the murder standing next to you.
Your back was turned. The glass could be poisoned…
Control yourself, Hutton, you fucking idiot.
'No, not really. Not any better than the rest of us.'
'No,' she says, and the voice is small and strange.
'When was the last time you spoke to her?' she says, after another long silence in the crackle of the fire.
Take another large swallow of the vodka, nearly drain the glass. Does she know that I told Bathurst to come and talk to her? Does she know what I know and that I know it? Christ, I could run rings round myself. I have to trust her, because why else am I here?
'Last night, about five. She was just on her way out.'
'How did she seem to you?' she asks quickly.
'I don't know. Like normal, I suppose.'
I may have decided to trust her, but I'm not telling her a thing.
'She didn't say anything about what she was doing last night?' The eyes flicker at me, I wonder if she knows that I'm in possession of the facts. But how could she?
Shake my head, drain the glass.
'No. Said she was going out some place, but nothing specific.'
She doesn't say anything. Out of sight her hand slips into mine, her fingers squeeze. Her touch electrifies and bemuses at the same time. Lift my glass without thinking, the ice cubes clink down to my mouth, with the dregs of tonic. I need another one.
When she speaks again the voice is even smaller than before; the words stab out.
'I heard you went into work together on Christmas Day,' she says. How the hell did she hear that? 'How was that, Thomas? You spent the night with me.'
I can almost feel my flesh crawl. She sounds like a spurned lover, a little girl lost in the deep fathoms of a relationship which she doesn't understand. But this is Charlotte Miller, I can't believe she's hurt.
I look at her, and the first tear has started to trickle down her face. Jesus. Can't be real. Try to think rationally. Which is new for me.
Her head rests on my shoulder, a tear drops onto the back of my hand. She's either toying with me or getting genuinely emotional. Either way, I'm out of my depth.
It may not have lasted between Peggy and I, but by god it lasted forever by my standards, and all because she never went emotional on me. I stopped feeling emotions many years ago. I don't like emotions, especially in other people. I want to exist in another world, a hundred years ago, when everyone had stiff upper lips and just put up with shit and no one ever cried.
'I think I'd better go.'
Cheap, but fuck it, I didn't come here for her to go Jeremy Kyle. I'm kidding myself anyway.
The hand squeezes a little tighter, something approaching a sob escapes her lips. This is the woman who rules the station with an iron hand in an iron glove.
'Stay with me, tonight,' she says, her voice cracking as she speaks, and it feels like a hand squeezing my stomach. Why does she need me to stay the night?
Christ, she's not going to kill me in her bed. Get a grip you stupid arse.
I don't reply but I know the answer. She looks up at me and her face is streaked with tears, her eyes red. I'm getting sucked in and if she's playing me, I'm falling into the game. Blinded by her air of vulnerability, the sexuality of it — which may be as much blinded by deception, no matter how aware I think myself to be.
She stretches a little, I lower my head, and our lips meet. I can taste the tears, I can feel her tongue gently probe into my mouth.
We kiss for a long time in front of the fire, until her tears have dried, than we go to her bedroom and this time the lovemaking is more tender and infinitely more intimate than before.