My Husband's Wife(23)

‘The one who … Ed? Are you all right?’

I jump up from the table. Ed’s gasping for breath and his face has gone all red. Something’s stuck in his throat. Shocked into action, my hand whacks down on Ed’s back. A piece of meat shoots out across the room. He splutters and then reaches for a glass of water.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Perhaps it was a bit underdone.’

‘No.’ He’s still spluttering, but his hand comes up to reach mine. ‘Thank you. You saved me.’

For a minute, there’s a connection between us. But then it goes. Neither of us feels like eating any more. I scrape the offending meat into the bin, realizing, too late, that it should have been braised before I put on the pastry top. But there’s something else too.

How easy it would have been to let Ed choke to death. To pretend it was an accident.

I’m shocked – no, appalled – at myself. Where did that thought come from?

But it’s then that I have my idea.

Ross. The actuary I met at that awful party when Ed and Davina had disappeared. Hadn’t he discussed this very issue with me? I work out how long people have to live from statistics. How many people are likely to choke to death or get leukaemia before they’re sixty. Cheery stuff, I know, but it’s important, you see, for insurance.

So I got his number from Ed. And yes, Ross was free the following day. How about lunch at his club?

‘These figures,’ I say, handing the sheet of paper over to Ross as we sit at a table with a stiff white tablecloth and hovering waiter, ‘were compiled by a client of mine. He’s … well, he’s in prison for murder.’

Ross shot me a surprised look. ‘And you think he’s innocent?’

‘Actually, you might be surprised if you met him.’

‘Really?’

We fall silent as the waiter pours out our wine. Just one glass, I tell myself. Nowadays, I appear to be drinking more than I used to, which isn’t good for concentration or my calorie intake. But Ed likes a couple of glasses every evening and it seems wrong not to keep him company.

‘I need to know what these figures refer to,’ I say, rather desperately. ‘Joe’s good with numbers.’

‘Joe?’ His eyebrows rise.

‘We’re often on first-name terms with our clients.’ I hurry on, reminding myself that, actually, Joe had told me to call him ‘Mr Thomas’ until I’d solved his riddle. ‘This man has some kind of condition. He’s very methodical in some areas and yet finds it difficult to speak to people. He prefers to speak in puzzles, and this … well, this is one of them.’

I detect a gleam of interest in Ross’s eyes. ‘I’ll look into it.’ His tone is so reassuring that I almost want to hug him. ‘Give me a few days and I’ll come back to you.’

And he did. ‘A mixture of water temperatures and models of boilers, including their age,’ he says now, beaming. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, the implications are pretty big. I showed them to an engineer friend – don’t worry, I didn’t give him the background. But he said that there’s a definite pattern. So I had a hunch and did a bit of rooting around in our resource department.’

He hands me a newspaper cutting. It’s from The Times back in August when I was preparing for my wedding. An exciting time, when I hadn’t, perhaps, read the paper as carefully as I normally did.





SCANDAL OVER FAULTY BOILERS


I scan the piece with increasing excitement. ‘So,’ I say, summarizing the article in front of me, ‘a number of boilers, made over the last ten years, are suspected of being faulty. To date, seven customers have made complaints involving irregular temperatures leading to injury. Investigations are currently being carried out, but so far there are no plans to recall the models in question.’

Ross nods. ‘That’s seven who have come forward, but there are sure to be more.’

‘But it’s been going on for years. Why didn’t anyone realize before now?’

‘These things can take time. It takes a while for people to spot a pattern.’

Of course it would. Lawyers can miss things too. But I can’t be one of them.

‘I’ve worked out the figures,’ I say as I enter the visitors’ room the following day.

Funny how this is becoming more natural now. Even the double doors and gates seem quite familiar. The same goes for the seemingly casual pose of my client, arms crossed as he leans back in his chair, those dark eyes fixed on mine. This man is thirty. Ed’s age – my husband had his birthday a few weeks ago. Yet I feel as though I’m dealing with a truculent teenager.

One thing’s for certain. I’m not going to allow those ridiculous fantasies into my head again.

‘Worked out the figures?’ He seems slightly annoyed. ‘Really?’

‘I know about the boilers. The lawsuit. You’re going to tell me that the boiler company is responsible for Sarah’s death. You said the water was hotter than you’d expect after thirty minutes. Your boiler was faulty. It’s your defence – or rather your self-defence.’

He’s tilting his head quizzically to one side, as if considering this. ‘But I told you before. Self-defence can’t get you off.’

‘It can if you have the right lawyer,’ I shoot back.