The Dead Ex(30)

I suddenly have a flashback of handcuffs on my wrists. Do they know about that? If not, it can only be a matter of time.

There is no one with Vine, but I suspect that at least one person – if not two – is listening in.

‘So, you said you had something to tell us.’

I twist my hands under the desk, wondering if I am doing the right thing now I am here.

‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘that my husband … I mean ex-husband … has done this before.’

He’s waiting. Silence is an effective weapon. I’ve been taught well. I also know that the right words are crucial when it comes to defence.

‘He used to go walkabout when we were married,’ I say.

The right eyebrow rises. There’s a strand of silver in it. David – who was always looking in the mirror – had a fear of going grey prematurely. He’d spend ages combing his dark hair, examining it for any trace or (almost worse in his eyes) a bald patch. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘My ex would disappear, sometimes for days on end. Then he’d claim he’d told me where he was going. But he hadn’t.’

‘I see.’

It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. I lean forward in my desperation. ‘It began soon after we were married. He didn’t come home one night. I thought he’d had an accident and even phoned the police. Why don’t you check? It must be on your files somewhere.’

‘Can you remember the exact date?’

I know when Mum died. Patrick’s date is engraved in my heart. So too is the evening I met David. But I can’t be certain of this one. ‘Only the year and the month.’

He makes a half smile, as though humouring me. ‘So where was he?’

‘On a business trip to Hong Kong, he said.’

‘And you’re sure he didn’t tell you? Or is it possible you’ve forgotten?’

‘It was before I got …’ I start to say.

He nods. I’m glad. I try to say the E word as little as possible.

‘How often did this happen?’

‘Several times. At the end, I’m not sure if it was work or …’ I swallow hard ‘… or pleasure.’

I spit the last bit out with bitterness. He doesn’t miss it.

‘Why haven’t you mentioned this before?’

‘I was embarrassed.’

It’s true.

‘Your ex-husband married his PA very soon after you broke up, I believe.’

I nod curtly, not trusting myself to say anything.

‘And you think that’s what he’s doing now? Taking a business trip, or even seeing someone else?’

‘Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?’

He shrugs. ‘Mrs Goudman says she has no idea where he is.’

I laugh. ‘Nor did I!’

I almost tell him my suspicions that Tanya might know where David is. Then again, he might think I’m trying to shift the blame.

‘Do you have any proof of what you’ve just told me?’ he asks.

I think of my surety hidden in the Bills file. Isn’t that why I’m here? To hand it over? But the detective’s cool attitude makes me wonder if he will believe me. He might even think I’ve forged it to get David into trouble. It seems I can’t win.

‘Not exactly.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m not a detective like you. Just a woman who is trying to make the best of things after her whole bloody life has been turned upside down.’

I’m not the swearing type. I don’t mean to be angry or hit my fists on the desk like this. Yet I want to scream and shout to make this man understand that I honestly don’t know why my ex-husband has disappeared. But most importantly, I need to convince me.

He pushes a box of tissues in my direction. They’re man-size. It reminds me of the one occasion when I found David crying in front of a TV drama about a boy whose father beat him up for some minor misdemeanour. It was the only time I ever saw him shed tears. When I asked if he was all right, my husband flicked channels and said he didn’t want to talk about it.

The anger is subsiding now. I want to go home. To snuggle up on the sofa with a soft blanket. To dab lavender on my temples. Besides, I’ve got another client coming over soon. Unless she’s cancelled too.

Detective Inspector Vine is tapping his index finger on his left wrist as if thinking to himself. Then he frowns. I find myself wondering if he’s ever cried as an adult. I suspect not.

‘And you honestly still can’t explain the photograph which showed you arguing with your husband two months before he disappeared?’

He’s got to believe me! ‘No. I can’t. Maybe it was doctored. They can do that sort of thing.’

‘They?’

‘Experts. Someone who has it in for me.’

‘And who might that be?’

So he can’t know about my background. Unless he is playing double bluff and waiting for me to tell him.

‘You’re the detective,’ I say.

He makes a you’ve got me there gesture. ‘You’re obviously upset. Would you like someone to drive you home?’

His voice is gentler. I don’t trust it. I knew where I was with the blunter approach.