Woman Last Seen(88)
“Well, will you tell me about it at least?” Janssen pursues.
Mark is momentarily irritated that this man hasn’t googled him and looked up their address, turned Google Maps on to photo mode to scope out the streets she spent half her time in, as Mark had done for the section of her life that was a mystery. The lack of interest is somehow a snub, a sign of superiority or laziness. What else has Janssen had to do with his time this past week? Mark considers, maybe he has searched but as Mark Fletchers are more abundant than Daan Janssens possibly the search wasn’t fruitful.
He takes a deep breath and says, “It’s nothing like this. It’s—” He breaks off, he doesn’t want to call it ordinary, although it is. Or scruffy, although it is. The scruffy normality is not the heart of the house that Leigh lives in with him, and presumably that is what Janssen needs to hear about. The heart. Would telling him comfort him or torture him? Mark doesn’t know which he wants to achieve. “Lots of the houses in our street have cigarette packs and empty bottles pocking the small area from front door to road, others have well-kept gardens and hanging baskets. It is varied. Disinterest lives cheek by jowl next to pride.” He is circling, starting wide and then getting closer to the target. “It is amazing how contrast can cohabit, coexist.”
Janssen gives one quick little nod, his long blond hair falling over his eyes. It irritates Mark. Leigh always swore she didn’t fancy blond men. Bitch. Liar. The spiteful words slice through his consciousness. He is startled by them. He thought he was feeling calmer. He barely feels responsible for the spite. He is not responsible, is he, if it is in his subconscious? The fury has not gone, it’s in flux. Mark should not be surprised. Deep wounds take a long time to heal and some scars never fade.
“Where do you live?” Janssen asks.
“Balham.”
“A Victorian terrace?”
“Yes.”
Janssen nods again, no doubt quickly able to visualize where his wife spent half her life. People know what terrace houses in South London look like. Imagining her life here had been harder. Mark doesn’t know where to start. He clings to small details, unable to supply a broad picture. “I walk past a supermarket trolley every day, a different one. Sometimes Oli and Seb push them back to the supermarket, to collect the pound. Oli does that less now. A quid isn’t worth the walk and effort once you’re sixteen.”
“Oli and Seb? Those are your boys?”
“Yes, our boys—my boys. Oliver and Sebastian.” Mark colors. He hadn’t meant to talk about them. He doesn’t want them in this place. He realizes he can’t do this. He can’t talk about his home to this man. He owes him nothing. It’s better to focus on getting answers, rather than providing them. He decides to change the subject. “Did you think you were going to get old and die with her?”
“I don’t think about getting old,” replies Janssen. “You?”
“No one knows when they are going to die,” Mark comments. Janssen raises his eyebrows. “My first wife died of cancer. I’ve never taken long life for granted.”
“I see.”
“You know the police will be looking at one or the other of us right now, and thinking we are responsible for her disappearance?”
“I do.”
“Well, I didn’t hurt her,” Mark says.
“You are bound to say that,” points out Janssen.
“You haven’t said it,” counters Mark. The men meet one another’s gaze and try to read the rules of the game they are playing. Mark notices Janssen is sweating; there are dark patches under his arms. It looks like he slept in that T-shirt. Seeing the man disheveled, chaotic and vulnerable is a relief. Mark has been imagining that he’d still be crisp, confident, in control; most likely continuing to wear pristine white shirts and sharp dark suits. It helps to think they are leveled; equally disturbed, distraught, desperate. “What I can’t work out is why she stayed with me, considering all this luxury.” Mark gestures about. “Coming here must have been quite the holiday from her real life.”
Janssen’s upper lip curls slightly, probably objecting to the implication that her life here, his life, isn’t real. “Are you implying she was with me just for my money?” He laughs. The laugh is a little forced and goes on a little too long. It’s hard to believe it reflects any real mirth.
“I’m just saying it would have been easier for her to divorce me and then to marry you, if she had wanted you.” Mark knows Daan must have had this thought too. He must be furious. How furious?
“And if she had wanted you, why did she even notice me?” asks Janssen coolly. “You can’t point score. We are in the same boat.”
Mark sighs, nods. “Shit creek without a paddle.”
Janssen nods. “I know this expression. Exactly this. The English always have the exact phrase.” He sighs. Mark doesn’t know him well enough to understand if it’s impatience, regret, sadness. “Anyway, I guess the wealth didn’t mean all that much to her, in the end, because she was able to leave it. Walk away.”
“If she left,” Mark challenges.
“Of course she left.”
“You believe she walked away from you. From all this?”
“What other explanation?”