Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [45]
She sighed as she read through her notes.
If she was going to get any of this in the paper it had to be considerably more articulate and factual. She looked at her watch. It would soon be time to call Suup again.
Miranda rang the doorbell with her usual insistence. Anne Snapphane hurried down the stairs so that the old bastard downstairs wouldn’t go mad, one hand clutching the towel around her, the other holding a towel round her hair.
The door jammed. It always did when it was below freezing.
Her daughter ran to her without a word, and she leaned over and held her tight. From the corner of her eye she saw Mehmet approach from the car with the little girl’s bag, neutral but contained.
‘There are muffins in the kitchen,’ Anne whispered in the girl’s ear, and the child let out a little cry and ran upstairs.
In a moment of defiance and pride she stood up without wrapping the towel around her, not caring if the neighbours saw her. Completely naked, apart from the towel round her hair, she looked Mehmet in the eye and took the little bag. He lowered his gaze.
‘Anne,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to—’
‘You wanted to talk to me,’ she said, forcing her voice to sound calm. ‘I presume it’s about Miranda.’
She turned her back on him, her buttocks dancing in front of his face as she went up the stairs. She went into the bathroom and pulled on a dressing gown, stopping in front of the mirror, trying to see herself through his eyes.
‘Do you want coffee?’ she called, staring into her own eyes.
‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I’m fine. I have to get to work.’
She swallowed, realizing that this was going to be unpleasant. He wanted a quick line of retreat, not a scalding mug of coffee to empty in hurried embarrassment. He was standing at the living-room window, looking down at the neighbour’s garden.
‘What is it?’ she said, as she sat on the sofa.
Mehmet turned round. ‘We’re getting married.’
She felt the arrow hit her without trying to stop it.
‘That has nothing to do with me or Miranda,’ she said, blowing on her coffee.
He sat down opposite her, legs wide apart, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
‘We’re expecting a child,’ he said. ‘Miranda’s going to have a little brother or sister.’
Her head started to spin, and against her instinct she looked down at the floor.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Congratulations.’
He sighed. ‘Anne, I know how hard this must be for you . . .’
She looked up, took a deep breath. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want your sympathy. What will it mean, in purely practical terms, for Miranda?’
Mehmet pressed his lips together in that way she knew so well, and she was overcome by a hot, intense longing for the man before her; her heart and groin ached. To her own irritation she let out a little sob.
He reached out a hand to her cheek; she closed her eyes and let him stroke her.
‘I’d like her to live with us,’ Mehmet said, ‘full time. But I won’t fight for it if you don’t want that.’
She forced herself to laugh. ‘You can take most things from me,’ she said, ‘but not my child. Get out.’
‘Anne—’
‘Get out!’ Her voice was cracking with rage.
Their daughter appeared in the doorway, looking from one to the other in surprise. ‘Are you angry?’ she said, a half-eaten muffin in her hand.
Mehmet stood up, strong and lithe as a hunter. He went over to the child and kissed her hair.
‘See you next Friday, darling.’
‘Why is Mummy sad? Have you been horrid to her?’
Anne shut her eyes and heard his steps disappear down the stairs. She waited until the front door had closed before running to the window to watch him go. He walked to the car without looking up, taking out his mobile from his inside pocket and dialling a number. To her, Anne knew.