Woman Last Seen(90)
It’s confusing. They start to question Mark about his first wife. Details around her death. It makes no sense to Fiona. Why are they talking about Frances? And then, slowly, she begins to understand. They are saying Frances didn’t die of cancer; it transpires she fell down the stairs. Fiona turns to face Mark. It’s like driving in a fog—she is disorientated, stressed. She grips tightly, peers closely but can’t recognize anything familiar.
DC Clements glances at Fiona. Fiona can feel heat rise through her body. She feels they want to ask why she is here. Again. She wishes she hadn’t stayed last night after all. Her head is too hot. She’s relieved that they don’t ask her anything but instead continue to direct all questions to Mark. “Why did you lie to us?”
“Did I?”
Tanner pulls out his notebook, flips through it. The sound of the turning pages cracks like a whip. “When DC Clements was talking to your eldest son, you said, ‘My first wife died of cancer when Oli was five years old. I suppose he remembers Frances a bit. But Leigh has been his mother since he was not quite seven.’” The policeman snaps closed his book.
Mark looks surprised. Didn’t he know they would be taking notes? They are the police, for God’s sake. That’s their job. To investigate. “She did have cancer. She would have died of that—that is the sad truth,” he says. “Then she slipped.”
“Slipped.”
“Or tripped,” he says firmly. “I didn’t actually see the accident. I assume you’ve read the coroner’s report.”
“Yes, yes we have,” says the detective. Fiona can see Mark looks frozen to the chair. A statue touched by the Queen of Narnia. “Did Leigh know how Frances really died?”
“No.” His voice cracks with the admission.
“You didn’t tell her?”
“It never came up.”
“Oh, come on, Mark. All those years?” Tanner doesn’t try to keep the exasperation or disbelief out of his voice.
“It was an impossible thing to tell her.”
“What? The truth was impossible?”
“Yes.” His voice is steady, neither defensive nor regretful. The lack of emotion unnerves Fiona more than his previous displays of anger have. What will the police make of it? He plods on. “The thing is, it was all to do with how we first met. You’ll remember, Fiona, you were there at the play park, the day Seb fell off the slide and cut his head open.”
Fiona nods. That much is true. “Do you remember, I froze? It was because I was thinking of Frances and her bleeding out at the bottom of our stairs. Later in the hospital when I told Leigh I was a widower I couldn’t bring myself to say my wife died of a head injury following a fall. It was too much. Especially in front of Oli, I didn’t want him thinking Seb might die like his mother.” Mark sighs. “I was trying to protect Oli and so I said, she had cancer. Which she did. I thought I was just saying something that wasn’t a lie as such, just a less uncomfortable statement to a stranger. I never expected the stranger to end up being my wife.”
Fiona wants to believe him. A less uncomfortable statement, not a lie. She can understand that. She wants the police to believe him too. “But afterward? You had years to tell her the truth,” the detective points out.
“Well, how do you come back from that? How do you say, ‘Oh, by the way I got it all mixed up about how my first wife died’? It was easier all round to just stick with the original story.” He is getting impatient.
“So, you lied to your sons, too, about how their mother died?”
“Well, yes, I had to be consistent.”
“Jesus, Mark.” The words tumble out of Fiona’s mouth. She is shocked, exasperated. Clements and Tanner turn to her. Fiona doesn’t know whether she wants to collapse on the sofa and put her arms around him—this poor man who didn’t have the confidence to correct a simple lie and has therefore made things very awkward for himself all these years later—because obviously the police have some level of suspicion of him now. Or, ought she make a dash for the door? Because one dead wife is a tragedy until a second goes missing and then it is a genuine problem. Why stay and support this man, this liar?
Clements allows the interruption to sit with them for a moment and then she says, “Well, that’s all we wanted to clear up for now. We’ll be in touch.” Fiona sees the police officers to the door. She doesn’t know what to say to them, so she stays silent. Clements simply comments, “Nice to see you again, Ms. Phillipson. It’s good of you to keep such a close eye on your friend’s family.”
“The boys,” Fiona mutters, by way of explanation.
Clements smiles briefly. Fiona gets the sense Clements knows her concern extends beyond the boys. Fiona returns to the sitting room. Mark hasn’t moved a muscle. It is tricky negotiating the intimacy of sleeping on this man’s couch, feeding his children, kissing him; this man who is her best friend’s husband. Yet she owes her best friend nothing because Leigh has lied to her too, to everyone, for four years. Why is the truth so hard to pin down and offer up? She should probably grab her jacket and walk out, right now. The problem is she wants to stay, to kiss him again. She does neither thing.
“Why didn’t you tell her? Trust her to understand the initial lie in the hospital.”