his recording room. Konstandin is outside the apartment, waiting by his car. He opens the door to let me in then hops in the driver’s side. ‘Where are we going?’ he asks as he starts the engine.
‘I need a drink,’ I say, staring straight ahead.
Konstandin pauses to look at me but says nothing and starts driving. He drives for ten minutes before he pulls down a narrow, cobbled street with colourful buildings on either side, and he parks. We get out the car and I follow him to a tall wooden door. There’s no sign or anything that it’s a bar, and in fact it looks more like these are houses. There are washing lines spread overhead, white sheets flapping. When Konstandin pulls out a key and unlocks the door I look at him askance. ‘Where are we?’ I ask.
‘My place,’ he answers.
He leads me into a cool, tiled foyer. There’s a communal stairwell and two doors leading off it. He gestures at one of the doors and walks towards it, unlocking it. For a brief moment I have to swallow down nerves. Am I walking into a stupid situation? What if Konstandin should be on my list of suspects?
I look at him as he steps aside to let me into the apartment. I’ve seen him punch a man. I’ve seen him threaten others. I know what he’s capable of. It’s not a stretch too far to wonder if he could have killed Kate. But my gut keeps telling me it’s not him.
I walk into the apartment.
Konstandin shuts the door behind us. I hear him lock it. I’m inside his apartment and no one knows where I am. I shouldn’t be here.
I turn around. Konstandin is standing blocking the door, watching me watching him. His expression, with its dark hooded eyes, gives nothing away.
‘What would you like?’ Konstandin asks. ‘I have whisky, brandy, beer.’
‘Whisky,’ I answer.
‘Ice?’
I nod. ‘Yes please.’
I follow him into a small kitchen. The apartment seems to be just the living room we entered, this kitchen and then two other doors off the living room, which I’m guessing are a bedroom and a bathroom. It looks like he lives alone. Orla, a voice in my head says, what are you doing?
I watch him take the ice tray from the freezer. He cracks several cubes into a glass and pours the whisky over the top, then hands it to me before making himself the same. He holds up his glass up to mine.
‘Gëzuar,’ he says.
‘Sláinte,’ I reply.
We watch each other over the rims of our glasses as we drink.
Konstandin gestures back out to the living room and moves a pile of laundry from the sofa so I can sit. He pulls up a hard-backed chair and sits opposite me. I drop my gaze to the whisky in my hand and then knock it back in one big swallow, closing my eyes as it burns a trail down my throat. It does nothing to extinguish whatever storm is brewing inside me. The rage and sadness are still doing battle to see which will emerge triumphant.
‘Kate was murdered,’ I say, choking out the words. ‘The police say there was evidence of a struggle.’ I look up at Konstandin. He’s leaning with his elbows resting on his knees, glass held loosely his hands. ‘She was having an affair with my husband,’ I tell him. ‘The police don’t know. I just found out about it.’
Konstandin’s expression doesn’t alter. He doesn’t move or say anything for about five seconds but then he stands up and goes into the kitchen. He returns with the whisky bottle – a fine Scotch I note – and fills my glass again, almost to the brim. I take another large swallow. This time the liquid fire does seem to rub the sharp edges off the pain.
‘How did you find out?’ he asks.
‘There were messages on her phone. I’ve had to hand it over to the police, but I wiped it clean first. Deleted everything.’ I chew my lip, wondering if it was the right thing to do. Too late now, though.
Konstandin doesn’t say anything and I find myself wishing he would, watching him for his reaction. I want to know whether he thinks I did something stupid. I want his opinion. In truth I want his help – that’s really why I called him.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say and now the tears come, sliding down my face in an endless stream. ‘The police think I did