_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

excitement, the adrenaline. I’m buzzing, my skin is tingling. I’ve had a
good day.
I spent an hour alone with Detective Inspector Gaskill this morning. I
was taken in to see him straightaway when I arrived at the station. We sat
in his office, not in the interview room this time. He offered me coffee,
and when I accepted I was surprised to find that he got up and made it
for me himself. He had a kettle and some Nescafé on top of a fridge in
the corner of the office. He apologized for not having sugar.
I liked being in his company. I liked watching his hands move—he
isn’t expressive, but he moves things around a lot. I hadn’t noticed this
before because in the interview room there wasn’t much for him to move
around. In his office he constantly altered the position of his coffee mug,
his stapler, a jar of pens, he shuffled papers into neater piles. He has large
hands and long fingers with neatly manicured nails. No rings.
It felt different this morning. I didn’t feel like a suspect, someone he
was trying to catch out. I felt useful. I felt most useful when he took one
of his folders and laid it in front of me, showing me a series of
photographs. Scott Hipwell, three men I’d never seen before, and then B.
I wasn’t sure at first. I stared at the picture, trying to conjure up the
image of the man I saw with her that day, his head bent as he stooped to
embrace her.
“That’s him,” I said. “I think that’s him.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I think that’s him.”
He withdrew the picture and scrutinized it himself for a moment.
“You saw them kissing, that’s what you said? Last Friday, was it? A
week ago?”
“Yes, that’s right. Friday morning. They were outside, in the garden.”
“And there’s no way you could have misinterpreted what you saw? It
wasn’t a hug, say, or a . . . a platonic kind of kiss?”
“No, it wasn’t. It was a proper kiss. It was . . . romantic.”
I thought I saw his lips flicker then, as though he were about to smile.
“Who is he?” I asked Gaskill. “Is he . . . Do you think she’s with
him?” He didn’t reply, just shook his head a little. “Is this . . . Have I
helped? Have I been helpful at all?”
“Yes, Ms. Watson. You’ve been helpful. Thank you for coming in.”
We shook hands, and for a second he placed his left hand on my right
shoulder lightly, and I wanted to turn and kiss it. It’s been a while since
anyone touched me with anything approaching tenderness. Well, apart
from Cathy.