Free Gregory's Game by Jane A. Adams Page A

a very bad feeling about.’
    A moment of silence as Gregory thought about that. ‘I have something to do,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you later tonight.’
    â€˜I bought takeaway,’ Alec said. ‘And a bottle of that wine you like. The one with the goat on the label.’
    â€˜Are you apologizing for something?’
    â€˜Should I be?’ he asked cautiously.
    â€˜I don’t know.’ She heard him move through to the kitchen and fetch plates down from the cupboard. The smell of food reminded her that she’d not eaten since a hurried sandwich at lunch. She’d checked her watch – again – a few minutes before and knew it was after seven.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Yes, for a lot of things. I know I’ve given you a hard time. I know it’s been difficult for you. I know I’ve been depressed and … and all that.’
    â€˜And that’s suddenly changed? I suppose I have Tess to thank for that.’ She realized just how bitter she sounded, but frankly, she didn’t care.
    â€˜No, actually. I’m still depressed and I don’t really know why. I still feel utterly adrift. I’m still finding it hard to want to do anything. Anything. But I want to say I’m sorry and I want to say that I want – need – to do something about it and, yes, I think you might have to thank Tess for that. And if that makes you feel bad I’m sorry about that too.’
    He sighed and she heard the creak as he leant back against the cupboard door. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’
    Neither did she, but the smell of the food was getting in the way and she really didn’t want to fight, despite the fact she’d spent the afternoon practising for it. ‘I’m hungry,’ she told him. ‘Can we just eat and then, well, whatever.’
    â€˜Sure,’ he said. ‘Sure.’
    She heard him scooping food on to plates, pouring wine. She knew he didn’t really like wine. ‘Why don’t you have a beer? I think there’s still a couple in the fridge.’
    â€˜Sit down, I’ll bring you a tray.’
    She heard him open the fridge door and peer inside. He always stood and stared into the fridge, even when he knew what he was looking for. It was just an Alec thing. Naomi sat down in her chair by the window. She didn’t know what to say and so she said nothing. He set the tray down in her lap and told her where everything was, placed the wine on the small table beside her chair.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said again.
    Naomi didn’t reply, she picked up her fork and dug into the food on her plate, suddenly unable to recall what he’d said was where. She wanted to cry, but wanted to eat more and didn’t want to talk – at least she didn’t think she wanted to talk.
    â€˜So, how was Tess?’ she managed, trying to keep things normal.
    She became aware, all of a sudden, that it was Alec who was crying. That he was sobbing like a hurt child. The dam had broken and the flood had broken through.

THIRTEEN
    B y the time Gregory arrived, Nathan had printed out the crime-scene photographs and laid them out on the dining table. There were seventeen of them, all focusing on the body, apart from a couple of contextual shots, one taken from the hall and one from the kitchen door. Nathan, who had been to the cottage several times, recognized the scene. A few personal possessions belonging to the victim were the only changes from when he had last been there.
    He guessed that these images had been chosen largely for their impact and probably because the photographer did not have access to those taken of the minutiae of the scene. It was possible – likely, even at such a complex scene – that a couple of different photographers had been assigned. That Nathan’s informant had access only to certain shots caused Nathan to speculate. He was