Kat had just put the kettle on when she heard the door chime. One sudden high note followed immediately by a longer, lower one that resonated pleasantly in the kitchen. She approached the door, wondering if the builders had returned.
The two men who stood in front of the door were not builders. It was the uniformed man whom she noticed first. The police were a familiar presence in their area of London. She and Will passed them on the street almost every day. Unlike police in other parts of the city, most of the officers she saw were charged with guarding Kensington Palace and the various embassies nearby. Armed with semiautomatic weapons slung low across their chests, they conveyed an unsettling combination of reassurance and fear.
“Katherine Lind?” the older, plain-clothed man inquired.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Flood and this is Sergeant Singh.”
“Yes?”
“We would like to ask you a few questions about Daniel Blake. May we come in?”
Turning, she saw Jonathan, frozen on the stairs above her. His shirt still open at the neck, one foot suspended in midair over the step below him. She saw his face change instantly as the uniformed officer entered the hall.
They sat in the drawing room, the kettle going cold in the kitchen. The detective’s blue bulk weighing down one end of the couch while she sat lightly on the other end. The uniformed sergeant stood in the doorway, his black stab vest visible underneath his open overcoat, hat held lightly under his arm. Jonathan had done up the buttons on his shirt and sat on the edge of an armchair across from the detective, the skin on his cheeks slightly raw from shaving.
“What is this about?” Jonathan’s voice was grave. Cautious.
“As I explained to Ms. Lind…”
“Mrs.”
“Mrs. Lind … we would like to ask her a few questions regarding Daniel Blake.”
“Who?”
“Daniel Blake. He was killed in a fire in Shoreditch last Thursday.” The detective swung his gaze to Kat, taking in her response to the news. “I don’t know if you had heard.”
Kat shifted on the couch and opened her mouth to speak without knowing exactly what she was going to say, but aware of an expectation that she say something. She was relieved when Jonathan stopped her, holding out his hand, palm toward her. His eyes remained on the detective.
“And this concerns my wife how?”
“We’re speaking to all the people with whom Mr. Blake was in contact in the days prior to his death. There was a photo taken of your wife with Mr. Blake shortly before his death.” Kat watched as the uniformed officer opened a file and produced a copy of the photo that had run in the magazine and extended it to Jonathan.
Jonathan looked at the photo for a long moment before handing it back. Kat watched all its deconstructed colors float by as it passed between them. The detective glanced briefly at him, where he sat, now mute, in the armchair; then, sensing his opportunity, he turned to Kat.
How well did she know him?
Kat looked at Jonathan, who regarded her silently, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
She had known him years ago in Paris when she was a student. She had attended his gallery show recently with a friend. Kat heard herself answering the detective.
Was that where the photograph had been taken?
No. She had gone to his studio to see some work that had not been in the show. She had been considering buying something. She gestured feebly at the empty walls. Jonathan remained still in his chair. Eyes on her. Listening.
Had there been anyone else at the studio with them?
No.
When was this?
Weeks ago. The day after his opening.
When had she last seen him?
That day.
Had she seen him since then?
He had asked that already. Kat swallowed. She had seen no other photos in the uniformed officer’s file.
No.
Jonathan sat silent as she answered. The detective’s questions a proxy for his own. Questions that he had not known he needed to ask.
Did she know of any reason he would want to harm himself?
She didn’t really know him, but she couldn’t imagine why he would want to do that.
Did she know of any reason someone else would want to harm him?
Again, she was sorry that she was unable to shed any light on this, but she didn’t really know him.
Was she in town last Thursday?
Jonathan stood suddenly, the detective’s final question rousing him from his spell. The detective followed suit, but more slowly, shifting his heavy form from the couch.
“My wife has been in town since she returned from her mother’s funeral last month. Is there anything else?”
“No. I think that is everything for now. Thank you for your time.” The detective turned back to Kat, still sitting on the couch. “Mrs. Lind.”
As he turned to leave, Kat stood.
“I don’t understand. The papers … they said it was an accident. The fire.”
The detective looked at Jonathan briefly and then back at her. “Cause of death has yet to be determined.”
As they left, Kat saw that the car had arrived to take Jonathan to the office. As the door to the house opened, she saw the driver move quickly, climbing out of the car to stand expectantly by the side of the vehicle. Ignoring him, Jonathan closed the door behind the detectives and turned to her, his face deliberately calm.
“What was that? Who is this person?”
“Someone I knew when I was in Paris. I heard about it on the news. That he had been killed in a fire.”
Jonathan stepped closer to her, but didn’t touch her. “That’s terrible. You didn’t say anything about it.”
“Didn’t I?”
He shook his head.
“I guess I’ve had other things on my mind.”
“How did you know him? You were … close?”
“No. I mean, yes—in Paris, we were.”
He waited for her to continue. Jonathan had never asked her about her past relationships. She had volunteered some information in their early days together, but the subject had made him uncomfortable. Although she had been curious about his romantic history, the mutual discretion was a compromise she had accepted willingly.
“We were together when I was a student. But it ended when I came back home. I hadn’t seen him or spoken with him since then. And then, Jorie took me to a show he had at a gallery in Mayfair a few weeks ago.”
“Right, I remember.…”
She took a quick breath. He would see the paintings. He would see the paintings and he would know that it was her.
“When I went to the show. The paintings … they were of me. He was still painting me.”
“What do you mean? How was he still painting you, if he hadn’t seen you in twenty years?”
“He just painted me the way I used to be. The way I used to look. The way he remembered me, I guess.”
“And you went to his studio with him?”
“Yes. To see some other paintings.”
“Paintings of yourself?”
“No. Other things. He painted other things, too. And then I heard it on the news—that there was a fire. And now this…” Her voice had taken on a breathless quality that she did not fully recognize.
They stood in the hall. He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower.
“Okay. Listen, I’ll call the lawyers about this, just to let them know. I’m sure the police are just doing their homework. But, probably best not to talk to them or to anybody else about this.”
“Yes.”
He put his arms around her, hugging her close.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m just a little shocked.”
“Understandable.”
His arms were heavy on her shoulders. She drew back from him. “I think I’m fighting off a cold or something. Just a little under the weather.”
He frowned. “Well, take it easy today. I’ve got a few calls this afternoon, but I’ll see if I can come home early.”
“Okay.”
They stood in the front hall. He seemed to have forgotten where he was going.
“The car is here,” she suggested after a moment.
“Right.” He nodded and headed upstairs to retrieve his briefcase.
She returned to the kitchen. After emptying the kettle and refilling it with fresh water, she stood at the window, waiting for the water to boil. Cause of death had yet to be determined. That was what the officer had said. He had asked her if she knew of any reason Daniel would want to harm himself. He had also asked her if she knew of any reason someone else would want to harm him. What had happened in the studio after she had left?
“Kat.”
She startled. She hadn’t seen him come to the doorway. He stood at the threshold, draped in his long black wool coat.
“Is there anything else I need to know?”
Under the intense scrutiny of Jonathan’s gaze, she felt something. Something that she had not felt from him in a while. He was right. She definitely had his attention. She thought fleetingly that she might tell him. She believed that he would forgive her. She did. But she knew that the wound would never mend completely. That she would see it in his face every time he looked at her. That maybe Will would see it there, too.
The fire had destroyed it all. Eradicated the evidence of her being there. No one would ever see the new drawings or paintings of her. It was all ashes.
“No.”
With that one smooth, round syllable, she blew away any last remnants.
“Okay.” He paused. “Kat.”
“Yes?”
“Works a lot better if you turn it on.” He nodded at the kettle.
* * *
AFTER JONATHAN LEFT, Kat stood before the silent kettle. She stared out the window into the garden beyond and watched the detail come into focus. Will’s yellow Wellies on the mat just outside the door. The bits of brightly colored chalk that had become lodged in the small spaces between the paving stones. The prone form of a scooter, washed clean by the rain. She saw it so clearly now. In all of its quotidian detail. Will’s whole world. All that was hers to lose.
Her phone was ringing. Jorie.
“You haven’t been returning my calls.”
“I know. I’m sorry.…” Kat thought briefly about telling her about her visitors.
“I heard. About Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“My God, Kat. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re fine?”
“Yes.”
“So, that’s it, then? I thought he was your soul mate. Now you return to your life as if nothing happened? Now it all matters to you because you almost lost it? Is that it?”
“It was a mistake. I see that now.” The words profane and bitter on her tongue.
When Jorie spoke again, her voice was cold. “I should have known. Your kind always land on their feet.” The words struck squarely, rendering Kat speechless. Before she could respond, Jorie continued, “Although I think you have a bigger problem.”
“What’s that?” Did she already know about the police?
“Rumor is that there is a painting that survived the fire. It’s meant to be the last one he did before he died. It’s a portrait. A nude portrait.”
Kat watched the scene outside the window recede, replaced by the faint ghost of her face in the glass.