The Dead Ex(4)

‘How long …? When …? Is he all right?’

Even as I ask the last question, I’m aware it’s a ridiculous one. If he was OK, they wouldn’t be here.

It’s the inspector who answers. ‘That’s what we’re trying to ascertain.’ He rubs his chin. ‘David Goudman has been missing now for fifteen days. His wife is insistent that it is out of character, so we are exploring various lines of inquiry.’

My body begins to twitch. Stress is a significant trigger. So too is lack of sleep, and even certain music pitches. It was one of the first things they told me. And if it does go wrong, well, I can’t be held responsible for either myself or anyone else.

‘You said just now you hadn’t seen him for years,’ continues the detective. ‘Can you be more precise than that?’

‘Since 2013.’ I swallow. ‘It’s when we got divorced.’

‘I see.’

He says this as though he doesn’t. Or perhaps he does – all too clearly.

‘Where exactly were you on 31 January this year?’

That’s easy. I rarely leave this place. ‘Here. At home. Or maybe on the seafront. I usually walk along it once a day for some air.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

I stare hard at him. ‘No. I live alone.’

‘Any friends who might have seen you out and about?’

‘Not been here long enough.’

‘Don’t you want to check your diary?’

‘There’s no need.’

There’s a brief silence during which I force myself not to speak any more, conscious that I haven’t sounded very convincing.

‘Mind if we take a look round?’ asks the woman.

‘I have a client here,’ I say.

‘Ah yes. I believe you are a masseuse?’

Her manner of speaking suggests that I offer a different kind of service. It wouldn’t be the first time that my occupation has been misinterpreted.

‘Aromatherapist, actually.’

The man stares at me blankly. Those who aren’t familiar with alternative treatments can easily get the wrong end of the stick.

‘I do massage people, but with essential oils.’

As if on cue, there is an ‘excuse me’ cough behind. My lady has clearly got bored with waiting. ‘I can see you are busy.’ She glances nervously at my two visitors. ‘I’ll ring later to make that appointment.’

She slips out into the dark. I suspect I won’t see her again. Despite my earlier wish that she wouldn’t return, I am not comforted. That one will talk.

I gesture my visitors towards my studio, wondering momentarily whether I’ve remembered to close the trapdoor fully. Thankfully, I have.

They look suspiciously at the phials of liquid on the shelf above my desk. ‘Do you make your own potions?’ says the woman.

I resist a smile at her use of a word which suggests witchcraft or black magic. ‘We call them essences. Actually, I buy them from a mail-order site.’

‘What does this stuff do?’ asks the detective.

Just what I’d asked at the beginning. ‘Relaxes you. Helps restore memory. Gives you strength.’

The woman is picking up the lavender oil and smelling it. ‘I’ve always wanted to try it out.’

‘I can give you my card if you like.’

‘We know where you are.’

Of course.

‘So you work from home?’ says the man.

‘I’m registered.’ My tone is more defensive now.

It doesn’t take long to do the ‘tour’. It’s a compact, two-bedroom, one-level apartment (one of the bedrooms having become my studio) right on the seafront, ‘boasting easy access to the amenities of Penzance’, as described by the estate agents.

‘Nice view,’ says the woman, looking out at the sea from my bedroom.

It’s why I came here. This morning, the water was a particularly striking azure blue. Yesterday it was green. The day before, black. Too dangerous for me to swim, even if I had a wet suit like some of the keen locals.

‘You don’t miss city life, then?’

It’s as though they are purposefully ignoring the elephant in the room.

‘David,’ I say desperately. ‘Where was he when he went missing?’

The woman swivels round. ‘We were hoping you could tell us.’

‘Why should I know?’

‘Come on, Vicki.’ It’s the detective this time. Voice silky smooth. Reeking of suspicion. ‘Mrs Goudman tells us that she saw you near their home in Kingston just before Christmas.’ He gets out a notepad. ‘ “Standing at the gate and staring at my house.” Those were her exact words.’

‘I had an appointment with a consultant,’ I say hotly.

His eyes narrow. ‘In London? That’s a long way to go.’

I shrug. ‘The outskirts, actually. He wasn’t far from my old house, so I walked past. I felt nostalgic. Anyone would be.’

I note a swift flicker of sympathy in the policewoman’s face.

‘They’d dug up my roses and replaced them with a hideous rockery,’ I add. I’ve never cared for rockeries. Too cemetery-like.

‘You can prove that?’