She had on a plain black skirt and she was sitting beside me changing the plaster on my cheekbone. Her hands were small and cool and I liked the feel of them on my face. Still I flinched when the plaster came away from the bruised skin and she tutted at my babyishness. She leaned her head over towards me and put her lips alongside the centre of the bruise; she ran her kiss down the cut. It was good to close my eyes and concentrate on that. On that and nothing else. I needed to forget a lot of things: I needed to forget whose mouth was moving over me like warm silk. ‘Do the police think it was this John who killed Candi, or do they think it was Thurley?’ She was whispering in my ear. ‘After all, didn’t you say that Thurley’s gun was the one which shot her?’ I moved my head an inch away. Her mouth came after it. I tried again. ‘The same kind.’ ‘What do you mean? I thought you said it was the same gun.’ I kept my eyes away from her face.
