The Therapist(45)

‘I don’t know. She was a therapist, maybe he was a client.’

Ginny groans. ‘I wish I hadn’t said anything. It was a joke, Alice, seriously.’ She picks up her menu. ‘Do you want dessert?’

‘Sorry. No, just a coffee.’ I close my menu and put it down on the table. ‘Tamsin has invited me to hers on Friday.’

‘Tamsin? Your arch-enemy? How come? Tell me, I want to know everything.’

I launch into an account of my latest conflict with Tamsin and her subsequent apology and by the time we leave the restaurant half-an-hour later, I can tell Ginny’s relieved that I’ve forgotten what she said about Leo having known Nina. But I haven’t, it’s lodged right there in the back of my mind.

It’s a direct tube ride from Covent Garden back to Finsbury Park. It’s the way I came, on the Piccadilly line, but I go to the map on the wall in the Underground station, wanting to see where else I could get to. My eyes fall on Leicester Square – theatreland – and Knightsbridge, where I know Harrods is. It’s also home to the Natural History Museum, another place I’m keen to visit. I follow the dark blue line past Earl’s Court right to the end, amazed that I can get all the way to Heathrow Airport from practically my front door. The Piccadilly line is certainly a good line to live on. And if I change at Earl’s Court, I could go to Kew Gardens and – I follow another branch of the line – to Wimbledon. Leo and I both love watching tennis and I wonder how difficult it is to get tickets for a match there. And then I wonder if Leo and I will even last until next summer.

I’m about to turn away when I remember that Thomas Grainger’s offices are in Wimbledon. I take my mobile from my bag and find the address – 26 William Street. I stand for a moment. A part of me wants to go and check out the address, just to make sure he is who he says he is, in case I ever need to call him. I don’t know why I’m thinking I might need to call him – except that if there was a miscarriage of justice and I do hear something which could put the real perpetrator away, wouldn’t it be my duty to tell him? There’s something off about the way everyone was so quick to accept that Oliver killed Nina. Maybe they’re protecting someone, someone from The Circle who they suspect of having had an affair with Nina. But who?

I go through the barriers and instead of heading north on the Piccadilly line, I head south towards Earl’s Court, then change to the District line. I’ve never travelled so far on the tube by myself and when I get off at Wimbledon, I’m so out of my comfort zone that I’m tempted to go straight back home. Everyone seems to know where they’re going except me.

I move to the side and use Citymapper to locate William Street. It’s quite a long walk and the further I go, the more I wonder what I’m doing here. William Street is a long road of smart townhouses, most of which seem to have been turned into offices. I approach number 26; there’s a discreet gold plaque on the wall and I have to go up the first two of four stone steps to read the words Thomas Grainger, Private Investigator. Behind the dark blue door, I can hear a murmur of voices and when they get steadily louder, I realise that someone is coming along the corridor. The thought of him discovering me on the doorstep sends me scooting back to the pavement. I just have time to hide myself in the doorway of a house two doors down when the sound of someone saying goodbye – a woman – and a man’s voice answering her, reaches my ears. I bend my head over my phone, pretending to search for something, praying that the door in front of me won’t suddenly open. My back is to the road and when I hear the light click of heels on the pavement, I breathe a sigh of relief. Turning my head slowly, I check number 26 to make sure Thomas Grainger isn’t still there. He isn’t, so I leave the doorway and see a woman, smartly dressed in a camel-coloured coat, walking down the road. I need to go back that way anyway, so I follow her to the tube station, wondering what business she had with a private investigator. The majority of his cases are probably people wanting to know what their partners are up to. Maybe I should get him to check out Leo for me, I think, and then feel guilty.

I get home and even as I’m dialling Thomas Grainger’s number, I’m wondering what I’m doing. What’s the point of phoning him when I have absolutely nothing to tell him? But it’s too late; my call connects before I can hang up.

‘It’s Alice Dawson,’ I say, instantly recognising his voice.

‘Ms Dawson, thank you for calling.’ He can’t quite hide his surprise, which is understandable after I told him that I wouldn’t help.

It sounds too formal. ‘Alice,’ I say. ‘You can call me Alice.’

‘And I’m Thomas.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not really sure why I am – calling you, I mean.’ I hate that I sound flustered. ‘I don’t have any news. I did go and see my neighbour, but she didn’t tell me anything that I’m sure you don’t already know. She was the one who saw Oliver arrive home on the night of the murder and—’

‘I could come by tomorrow afternoon,’ he says, interrupting me.

My heart misses a beat. ‘But there’s nothing really to tell. I can go over it now, if you like.’

‘I prefer not to talk on the phone. I’m going to be in your area anyway, so it’s no trouble. Would 2 p.m. suit you?’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure—’