I Know Who You Are(6)

I never mentioned what I found that day. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t dare.

The female detective spends a long time looking around our bedroom, and I feel as though my privacy is being unpicked as well as invaded. I was taught as a child not to trust the police and I still don’t.

“So, remind me again of the exact time you last saw your husband,” she says.

When he lost his temper and turned into someone I no longer recognized.

“We were having a meal at the Indian restaurant on the high street.… I left a bit earlier than him.… I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You didn’t see him when he got home?”

Yes.

“No, I had an early start the next day. I’d gone to bed by the time he got back.” I know she knows I’m lying. I’m not even sure why I am, a mixture of shame and regret perhaps, but lies don’t come with gift receipts; you can’t take them back.

“You don’t share a bedroom?” she asks.

I’m not sure how or why this is relevant. “Not always, we both have quite hectic work schedules, he’s a journalist and I’m—”

“But you did hear him come home that night.”

Heard him. Smelt him. Felt him.

“Yes.”

She notices something behind the door and takes a pair of blue latex gloves from her pocket. “And this is the bedroom you sleep in?”

“It’s where we both sleep most of the time, just not that night.”

“Do you ever sleep in the spare room, Wakely?” she asks her silent companion.

“Used to, if we’d had a fight, when we still had enough time and energy to argue. But none of our bedrooms are spare anymore, they’re all full of hormonal teenagers.”

It speaks.

“Any reason why you have a bolt on the inside of your bedroom door, Mrs. Sinclair?” she asks.

At first, I don’t know what to say.

“I told you, I had a stalker. It made me take home security pretty seriously.”

“Any reason why the bolt is busted?” She swings the door back to reveal the broken metal shape and splintered wood on the frame.

Yes.

I feel my cheeks turn red. “It got jammed a little while ago, my husband had to force it open.”

She looks back at the door and nods slowly, as though it is an effort. “Got an attic?”

“Yes.”

“Basement?”

“No. Do you want to see the attic?”

“Not this time.”

This time? How many times are there going to be?

I follow them back downstairs, and the tour of the house concludes in the kitchen.

“Nice flowers.” She looks at the expensive bouquet on the table and reads the card. “What was he sorry for?”

“I’m not sure, I never got to ask him.”

If she thinks something, her face doesn’t show it. “Great garden.” She stares out through the glass folding doors. The looked-after lawn is still wearing its stripes from the last time Ben mowed it, and the hardwood decking practically sparkles in the early-morning sun.

“Thank you.”

“It’s a nice place, like a show home or something you’d see in a magazine. What’s the word I’m looking for…? Minimalist. That’s it. No family photos, books, clutter…”

“We haven’t unpacked everything yet.”

“Just moved in?”

“About a year ago.” They both look up then. “I’m away a lot for work. I’m an actress.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Sinclair. I know who you are. I saw you in that TV show last year, the one where you played a female police officer. I … enjoyed it.”

Her lopsided smile fades, making me think that she didn’t. I stare back, feeling even more uncomfortable than before, and completely clueless about how to reply.

“Do you have a recent photograph of your husband that we can take with us?” she asks.

“Yes, of course.” I walk through to the mantelpiece in the lounge, but there is nothing there. I look around the room at the bare walls, and sparse shelves, and realize that there is not a single photo of him, or me, or us. There used to be a framed picture of our wedding day in here, I don’t know where it has gone. Our big day was rather small; just the two of us. It led to even smaller days, until we struggled to find each other in them. “I might have something on my phone. Could I email it to you or do you need a hard copy?”

“Email is fine.” That unnatural smile spreads across her face again, like a rash.

I pick up my mobile and start to scroll through the photos. There are plenty of the cast and crew working on the film, lots of Jack, my co-star, a few of me, but none of Ben. I notice my hands are trembling, and when I look up, I see that she has noticed too.

“Does your husband have a passport?”

Of course he has a passport. Everyone has a passport.

I hurry to the sideboard where we keep them, but it isn’t there. Neither is mine. I start to pull things out of the drawer, but she interrupts my search.

“Don’t worry, I doubt your husband has left the country. Based on what we know so far, I don’t expect he is too far away.”

“What makes you say that?”