sensations, and the one he felt as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel was again largely cowardice.
On the one hand, he did have the excuse he'd been looking for. More than that, he had the duty he'd taken the attestation to perform. Surely it was a small enough matter to impart the necessary information to her. So why he should be feeling nerved out about doing his job... It was way beyond him to suss that one out.
Except, Nkata knew that he was lying to himself even as he allowed himself thirty seconds to do so. There were half a dozen reasons for his being reluctant to ride the lift up to that third-floor flat, and not the least of them was what he'd deliberately done to the woman who lived within it.
He hadn't really come to terms with why he'd assigned himself the job of making Yasmin Edwards aware of her lover's infidelity. It was one thing to be in honest pursuit of a killer; it was quite another to want the killer to be someone who stood in the way of Nkata himself achieving...what? He didn't want to consider the answer to that question.
He said, "Come on, man," and shoved open the car door. Yasmin Edwards might have knifed her own husband and done time for it. But the one thing he knew for certain was that if it came to knives between them, he had far more experience in wielding one.
There had been a time when he would have rung a different flat to gain access to the lift, telling the occupant at the other end of the buzzer that he was a cop so he could ride up to the third floor and knock on Yasmin Edwards' door without her knowing he was on his way. But he didn't allow himself to do that now. Instead, he buzzed her flat and when he heard her voice asking who was there, he said, "Police, Missus Edwards. I'll need a word please."
A hesitation made him wonder if she'd recognised his voice. A moment later, though, she released the lock on the lift. Its doors slid open and he stepped inside.
He thought she might meet him at the door to her flat, but it was as firmly closed as ever-with the curtains drawn for the evening at the sitting-room window-when he strode down the outdoor corridor to it. She answered quickly enough when he knocked, though, which told him she must have been standing just inside, waiting for his arrival.
She observed him expressionlessly, and she didn't have to lift her head much to do so. For Yasmin Edwards was an elegant six feet tall and as imposing a presence as she'd been when he'd first met her. She'd changed out of her work clothes and was wearing striped pyjamas. She wore nothing else, and he knew her well enough to recognise that she'd deliberately put on no dressing gown when she'd heard who'd come calling, which was her way of signaling to the police that she feared nothing from them, having experienced the worst at their hands already.
Yas, Yas, he wanted to say. That's not the way it has to be.
But instead, he said, "Missus Edwards," and reached for his identification, as if he believed she didn't remember who he was.
She said, "What is it, man? 'Nother murderer you're sniffing up round here? No one in this flat capable of that but me, so when is it I need the alibi for?"
He shoved his warrant card back into his pocket. He didn't sigh, although he wanted to. He said, "Could I have a word, Missus Edwards? Truth to tell, it's about Dan."
She looked alarmed, in spite of herself. But as if she suspected a trick of some kind, she remained where she was, blocking his entrance. She said, "You best tell me what's about Daniel, Constable."
"Sergeant now," Nkata said. "Or does that make it worse?"
She cocked her head. He found he missed the sight and the sound of her 101 beaded plaits, although her close-cropped hair suited her just as well. She said, "Sergeant, is it? That what you come to tell Daniel?"
"I didn't come to talk to Daniel," he said patiently. "I come to talk to you. About Daniel. I c'n do it outside if that's what you want, Missus Edwards, but you're gonna get colder if you stand there much longer." He felt his face get hot because of what his words implied about what