The Lighthouse

The Lighthouse

The Lighthouse was elegant and sophisticated: exposed brickwork, wood, and glass. Beneath low lighting, easy piano drifted across muted conversations.
         At the upstairs bar, Wilde ordered a large sauvignon blanc which she took out onto the roof deck. The sun warming her back, she found an empty table for two overlooking the glistening basin.
         Beyond the marina, out near the barrage, a candy-green pleasure boat turned a lazy circle. At the foreshore, a couple of gulls were chasing each other across the cloudless sky, climbing and twisting, stalling, swooping to almost touch the surface of the water.
Wilde cast the occasional glance towards the door. She checked her watch. Pete wasn’t due for another half an hour. Still, she kept looking.
         When Robert Lloyd stepped out onto the balcony, he was dressed in jeans and a fitted shirt, a pair of sunglasses hooked in the crook of open buttons.
         ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he said, setting his pint down on her table.
         Wilde gave a half smile. ‘I’m not big on coincidence.’
         Lloyd eased himself into the seat opposite her.
         She drank some wine, the glass almost empty. ‘I’m waiting for somebody.’
         ‘I’m not following you,’ Lloyd said, eyes fixed on some point beyond her shoulder. ‘I just hoped we could talk.’
         ‘We’re still post-charge, Rob. Even being here with you could threaten the trial.’
         ‘I thought he was pleading guilty.’
‘That’s irrelevant. You’re a witness, and–other than in a professional setting–we can’t be seen together.’
         ‘What about when this is all over?’
         Wilde set the glass down on the table. ‘Are you getting help, Robert?’
         ‘I’m fine.’
         ‘What you’ve been through, that’s not something you just get over.’
         ‘I’ve got people I can talk to.’
         ‘I know it’s difficult.’
         Lloyd looked her in the eye. ‘But they don’t know what it’s like. They haven’t been there.’
         ‘You need to speak to a professional, a psychologist or a grief counsellor.’
‘I hoped you could tell me about him.’
         A shiver, despite the warmth of the evening. She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not.’
         ‘You arrested Dominic Ferguson. You spoke to him. He must have given you some idea why he killed Laura.’
         ‘Rob, don’t.’
         ‘Why not?’
         ‘Ferguson won’t give you answers, only more questions. Nobody will ever understand why he did what he did.’
         ‘All I have is my imagination. And they say that’s worse, don’t they, than the truth?’
         Wilde drained her glass.
         ‘I wish he was dead.’
         She got to her feet. ‘I need another drink. I’m sorry for all that’s happened, truly I am, but we can’t keep meeting like this.’ Wilde turned and walked away, aware of his eyes on her back as she slipped into the darkened interior. Joining the swarm waiting at the bar, she craned her neck to scan the terrace.
         Robert Lloyd was gone.