Woman Last Seen(50)
“The children?” Fiona had gasped.
“No, not the boys. I’d never describe the boys as a drawback. His steadfast insistence that we couldn’t adopt or foster. That was hard.”
“But you have two anyway,” Fiona pointed out.
Had Leigh blanched, blinked slowly? Fiona was sure she had. She wasn’t misremembering or rewriting history. “Oh yes, two children,” Leigh had confirmed. Did she momentarily think Fiona knew more than she did?
Leigh has two children, that is two more than Fiona has; she should have counted her blessings. And now it turns out she has two husbands as well. It is unbelievable.
Fiona brings herself back to the here and now. “Do you think her parents are to blame?” she asks Mark.
Mark shakes his head. He admires Fiona’s loyalty but has never been a fan of the therapy woe-is-me culture that allows people to blame mummy and daddy for their own fucked-upness. Fiona clearly sees as much reflected in his face because she tries to explain. “I’m just saying, from what she’s told me, her dad was emotionally disinterested—hell, every which way disinterested—and her mum tried too hard to please him. Or to be seen, or something. She was split between their two homes, wasn’t she? After they divorced, she—”
Marks cuts Fiona off impatiently. “Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe everything can be explained, but nothing can be excused.” He isn’t ready to unearth any understanding. Mark lets out a deep breath, pulls on a mask that radiates grim determination and taps the keyboard. Fiona abandons the folding of the laundry and plonks herself down on the bench next to him; she is just as curious as to what Mark’s search might throw up. Mark’s fingers quickly fly over the keyboard. Tap, tap, tap. Mark taps in Dan Jansen.
“He’s a fifty-four-year-old Olympic speed skater?”
“The police said he was Dutch, that’s unlikely to be how you spell his name,” Fiona points out.
“How do you think you spell it?”
“Dan will be double a, maybe. And Jansen could be double s. Try that.”
There are a number of Daan Janssens but some are too young, others don’t live in London; it is an unusual enough name to quickly and easily identify the right man.
The real Daan Janssen is just as impressive as an Olympian. Maybe more so. He is CEO in some trading division in the city. Mark clicks through to the company website. His suave, smooth face shines out from the top of the “Who We Are” page and the same image is at the bottom of the mission statement, which Fiona and Mark read in full although, having done so, neither of them is really any the wiser about what the company does. Something important, powerful, lucrative. That much is obvious.
Mark cannot take his eyes off the image. The pixels begin to separate, dance in front of him as he stares at the blond, chiseled man with green eyes and an easy, confident smile that seems to say sincere, serious but also entertaining, invigorating. It is just a head-and-shoulders shot but somehow the man’s mass and self-assurance radiate off the screen and punch Mark in the face. Mark is shorter, darker, more hirsute. His smile is generally hard-won, tighter. “She clearly doesn’t have a type,” he mutters darkly.
Fiona doesn’t know how to respond. If she speculates that the men might have similar personalities—perhaps they are both ambitious, hardworking, courteous?—she is wading into murky waters. If she suggests the contrast is the appeal, she is as good as holding Mark’s head under the water, until he drowns. She stays silent as they trail through Daan’s social media accounts. He has Facebook, Insta and Twitter but it appears that he rarely posts on any of them. When he does, it is with photos of breathtaking scenery taken in far-flung exotic places: mountains, lakes, waterfalls. He—presumably they—obviously traveled a lot.
“All those times she said she had to work away for a week, do you think they were real?” asked Mark. “Or do you think she was with him?”
“I was just wondering the same thing about that trip she had with her mother last year. You know, when the two of them supposedly met up in Dubai to celebrate Pamela’s seventieth birthday.” Fiona sighs. “Did that happen or was it another lie? I remember thinking at the time ten days in Dubai seemed a lot. There are only so many glitzy malls you can trail through and Pamela isn’t a sunbather. Maybe Leigh spent a bit of time with her mum and then the rest with him.”
“I’ll need to talk to Pamela and check the dates,” mutters Mark grimly.
Fiona flashes him a smile that she hopes is sympathetic and supportive. “At least there are no pictures of beaming faces, his or hers.” Although on four or five of the photos there are two shadows dripping across the scene. A man and a woman holding hands. Mark flinched when he first saw the shadows. He obviously recognized Leigh’s as easily as Wendy would know Peter Pan’s.
Kai Janssen has social media accounts too. Ones where she displays photos of artfully arranged books, cups of coffee, cocktails and flowers. Her hands, legs or feet are often in the shot but never her face. She’s been very careful not to risk being recognized, no doubt aware that the six degrees of separation that are supposedly between everyone are often pinched to just two or three degrees on social media. Mark slowly and systematically clicks on the profiles of everyone who follows or has even liked her comments. “Should I reach out to each of these people?” he asks.