Mr. Nobody(44)

    “Yes. That would be great.”

“Just to warn you, though”—he frowns—“there’s not a lot to go on. We checked his clothes for labels but they’d all been removed. No distinguishing marks, no tattoos. No fingerprint or dental matches. DNA hasn’t thrown anything up but if he’s not from here he wouldn’t be on the UK system anyway. We’ve put him on the British missing persons database now and as of four days ago there’s a hotline that’s been set up by the Daily Mail. You can imagine how useful some of the caller tip-offs are! But we’ve got to field everything they pass on to us, so it’s…well, let’s just say we’re wading through a lot of…stuff right now. Which I should probably be getting back to.”

He rises now with a sigh, all six feet four inches of him, and slides his notepad out of his uniform pocket. He scribbles something down on it, then, his eyes flicking up to mine, he leans over the desk and holds it out to me. A note. Like in school. I glance down at the scrap of paper. It’s a phone number. When I raise my gaze, he’s watching me. “My mobile,” he says. And for a second, he’s right there, so close, towering over me, in my personal space. I can smell him, the scent of rain and fresh fabric softener. Our fingers brush as I take the paper from him and I feel a jolt of longing surge right through me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Oh, please, no.

His eyes hold mine. The piercing awareness that anything is possible. The awareness that if either of us made a move, something could happen. Something very exciting could happen.

He breaks the moment nodding toward the note in my hand. “Just in case you need me to check anything out for you or if he starts talking,” he says, holding my gaze again. “Just call me, Emma. If I can I’ll help out.”

And then out of the corner of my eye I see it. The soft glint of a wedding ring.

Oh.

“Great. Thanks, Chris.” I rise, businesslike now, trying not to let the bizarre mix of arousal and disappointment I’m currently experiencing show. “I really appreciate you not mentioning…you know, about my name and everything. Oh, and thanks for this.” I raise the scrap of paper he’s just handed me, for clearly only professional reasons.

    He nods a quick goodbye and turns to leave. But to my surprise, he stops by the door and turns back. “You live in London now, right?”

I nod.

“Um, so whereabouts are you staying while you’re up here?”

Something in my chest flutters ever so slightly. Even though it shouldn’t, and even though that makes me a terrible person.

“They’ve put me in a house in the middle of the woods,” I say jokingly. “Near Wells.”

“But nowhere near Holt?” he asks. He’s being protective. My chest flutters again. He’s watching me honestly, openly, like nobody has for such a long time. He’s worried I’m near Holt, close to where it happened.

And then another feeling I haven’t felt in years floods through me. Sadness. Deep, thick, suffocating sadness. For the first time since I’ve returned to my hometown, I feel the warning prickle of tears behind my eyes. I swallow awkwardly. “No, nowhere near Holt,” I reply, by way of thanks. Thank you for caring. But I don’t think I can bear it.

Unsatisfied, he studies my face for a moment longer before nodding. “Good then.”

He turns to leave once more but swings back again, frowning. “Sod it, listen, Emma, it’d be nice to catch up, you know, if you get any time. I know you’ll be busy but”—he points to the note I now realize I’m still gripping tightly in my hand—“you’ve got my number. Lots of nice pubs in Wells. So…”

Oh God. He’s asking me out for a drink.

“Right.” I stall, unsure what to say. But then I say what I want to say…because life is short. And I am so lonely. “That’d be lovely.”



* * *



—

    After he leaves I study the creased note. The solid scrawl and curl of his hand. Then I crumple it up and throw it in the trash can beside the desk. After a few seconds I bend down to retrieve it, hastily smooth out its creases, and tuck it safely away in my bag.

Seeing him is fine, I tell myself. You’re not a bad person, Emma. Just one drink—as old friends. It can’t hurt, can it?





23


DR. EMMA LEWIS


DAY 8—FACEBOOK

Back at Cuckoo Lodge, I pour myself a deep glass of red wine and kick off my shoes. On the drive back from the hospital I called Peter Chorley on the car speakerphone, told him about Chris. How Officer Poole was aware of my history here, who I was, but that it shouldn’t be a problem in terms of the case.

“But will it be a problem for you, Emma?” I’d registered the sliver of concern in his voice and found myself pausing slightly longer than I would have liked before replying.

“No. It won’t be a problem, Peter.” Because Chris is the least of my problems right now. I thought it but I didn’t say it. I didn’t mention who else knew my name today either.

“And how did your initial assessment go?” Peter had asked. I told him we’d had to postpone due to the patient’s condition. A half-truth but not a lie. He’d seemed disappointed but circumspect, ending the call with a rallying “Ah, well, tomorrow is another day.”