The Dead Ex(23)

‘Go ahead,’ he says quickly. ‘Make that call to your solicitor.’

The only one I know is the woman who handled my divorce. Her name was Lily Macdonald. I’d liked her. Professional and also understanding. Does she do crime? The very word seems absurd and yet all-too familiar. Amazingly, I still have her number on my phone. The voicemail is on. It is a Sunday, after all. I stammer a message, stressing the urgency.

‘Now what?’ I say to my inquisitors. ‘Are you going to charge me?’

Instantly, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing.

The inspector’s eyes narrow. ‘What exactly do you think we should charge you with?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Are you sure about that?’

He’s trying to confuse me. I need to get the upper hand somehow. There’s no proof, I tell myself. The photograph just shows that I had seen David the month before he’d disappeared. But it doesn’t mean I’m guilty of his murder.

‘May I look at the photograph again?’ I say.

I turn it over. There’s a silver-and-black sticker with a name on it. Helen Evans.

‘Who’s she?’ I ask.

‘The photographer. She was with Mr Goudman at the time.’

‘Handy,’ I say acidly. I notice that the sergeant is no longer in the room.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Vine as I try to move past him.

‘To find my diary.’

‘I have it here,’ says Sergeant Brown, coming in from the lounge. She is tapping a thick black book. I think back to the psychologist who’d suggested keeping one. ‘It’s good for mental health,’ he’d said, ‘because it releases emotion safely without hurting anyone physically.’

Luckily, this is my office diary for appointments. Not the personal one.

‘How dare you? That’s private property.’

‘Come on, Vicki. If you’ve got nothing to hide, then surely you won’t mind me looking.’

‘Fine,’ I nod, after a moment’s hesitation. He’s right. Much better to show good will.

He turns a page. ‘Your diary says you had a client at 8 a.m. on the same date that the photograph was taken.’

‘There you are, then,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I couldn’t have gone to London.’

‘Then how do you explain the woman in the picture who looks just like you?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

I want to scream. ‘Can’t.’

He taps his fingers on the page as if doing Morse code. ‘Even if you’d seen this client, you would still have had enough time to have left Cornwall and got to this part of London.’

‘But apart from medical appointments, I hardly go up to town any more,’ I say, choosing not to share the fact that I had just been about to pay Tanya a visit when the detectives had turned up.

‘Town?’ queries the woman officer. ‘That suggests you used to be familiar with it.’

‘You know I was,’ I snap.

‘Do we?’

They must. My medical notes would surely have mentioned my past. It’s all connected. So why haven’t they brought up the big thing that’s missing here?

‘None of this proves anything,’ I say.

DI Vine glances around the room. ‘We’ll decide that when we’ve finished looking around. How’s the burning smell, by the way?’

I’d almost forgotten.

‘Gone,’ I say lamely.

‘That’s good.’

He turns and walks into my studio. I follow meekly, feeling wretched, conscious that I’ve given the E word a bad press.

They start with my desk: one of the few items here which belongs to me and not my landlady. After David, I walked away from material possessions. Besides, when you are constantly moving on, it’s easier not to have too much. I bought the desk the other week from a local antique shop in the mistaken belief that I might stay here for a while.

I can hear the policewoman in my bedroom. More drawers are being pulled out. Cupboard doors open and shut.

I ring Lily Macdonald again. The solicitor’s answerphone is still on. I leave another message.

Outside, the sky is turning pink. It’s nearly evening. I yearn to get out. Walk along the seafront. Hear the waves gently lapping on the shingle. Smell the salt air. Pretend that none of this is happening. Kid myself that I’m like everyone else walking past.

The inspector has my ‘Bills’ file out. My heart catches in my throat. He is flicking through. Any minute now, I tell myself, he will see it. Any minute.

In a way, I want him to.

In another, I don’t, because – dammit – part of me still loves David, despite everything. It’s as though there’s no logic left in my head.

He puts the file down. Either he hasn’t noticed the document hidden amidst the other financial papers or else he doesn’t realize it’s important.

‘May I look in your kitchen?’ he says.

‘It hasn’t changed in the last ten minutes.’

He ignores my sarcasm, spreading his hands as if apologizing. But I know he isn’t.

I shrug. ‘Be my guest. I’ll come too. I need to get my medication anyway.’