Tanya stands in front of the mirror and lifts up her T-shirt.
Just below her right breast, both of them distinctly starting to swell, a small square of bandage clings to her flesh. At its centre a tiny blotch of blood.
She finds the edge of the tape holding it in place and pulls it back, revealing the wound.
Which is not really as dramatic as it could be. She’d had images of some massive line of stitches, the edges of the flesh bunched up and mismatched.
But of course they’d done it keyhole, and she’s amazed just how small it is. The bruising around it is far more impressive than the tiny mark itself.
Her finger gently probes the flesh and finds it tender, but not too bad.
She can still hear the crack of her ribs as the man landed on her. That seems to be affecting her more than the fact he’d then gone and blown out his brains.
Her hand moves down to her stomach.
Yesterday at the hospital she’d talked to the surgeon, told him about the referral she’d had and he’d contacted the specialist for her. Turned out to be a woman about Tanya’s age who’d listened, then whisked her away for another ultrasound.
Afterwards she’d talked Tanya through it. She’d explained that, yes, it did look as if there was a hole there, but she said that it was early days yet. There’s a strong chance it’ll sort itself out as it grows, she told her. She’d also said that they were in time, they didn’t have to make a decision about it yet. Tanya’d asked, in time for what?
Legally a foetus could be terminated up until twenty-four weeks, she’d told Tanya. She’d gone on to say the best thing they could do was to keep an eye on it, and she’d booked Tanya in for another scan the following week. She’d also told Tanya not to worry.
A boat motors past, the wake rocking the houseboat, their toothbrushes rattling in the glass by the sink.
She lowers her T-shirt.
I’m going to have to tell him, she thinks.
Her eyes catch her image in the mirror, hold her to account for a few seconds before she breaks away and leaves the bathroom.
She busies herself in the kitchen, clearing up breakfast, trying not to think. Once done she finds she’s tired and lowers herself onto the sofa. It’s her favourite spot in the houseboat, opposite the large window, and she loves to sit there and watch the water.
She finds a file Jaap must’ve left and starts flicking through it. It looks like notes on the case, a few pages of random thoughts, scribblings and crossed-out lines. At the back there are several photos and she flicks through them, finding one of Stefan Wilders. She stares at it for a moment, then moves to the next.
Her body’s tense almost before she sees it, like it knew what was coming.
Her eyes scan the image over and over. It’s a zoomed-in CCTV shot, the man’s face fuzzed with motion and twisted at an old angle.
Jaap had talked about the killer having a scar by his eye, but it hadn’t rung any bells.
In this case, though, the old thing about a picture being better than a thousand words applies. Because although she’d not recognized the description, she’s seen this man before.
She gets her phone, snaps a copy, and then searches her contacts.
Harry Borst is still on there. She should probably have deleted him after the stuff he pulled once the case had gone south, but she hadn’t. She taps out a message and attaches the image.
Her finger hesitates a second before hitting send. She wills it on and watches the progress bar until it’s full. ‘Delivered’ appears beneath.
She’s just putting the phone down when it starts buzzing in her hand.
‘Tanya,’ Harry says, sounding out of breath. ‘We need to talk.’