by B. A. Paris
She doesn’t sound too worried and another possibility adds itself to the ones already crowding my mind, none that I like very much. Could Will be lying? Maybe he’s put the keys somewhere else, or they’re in the pocket of the jeans he was wearing last time he went on a night prowl. But maybe it’s not him, maybe someone saw our keys on the wall by the fridge and took them. I look over at Tamsin, then at Tim and Maria. They are all frequent visitors here.
“No problem,” I say, except that it is a problem, because now I know that Leo isn’t my prowler, I won’t be able to sleep in the house when I leave the hotel tomorrow, not when a set of keys has gone missing.
I finish my cake, make my excuses and leave.
“When is your friend arriving?” Will asks, coming to the front door with me.
“Friday,” I say.
“Well, let’s hope we can find the keys before then.”
* * *
Back at the hotel, my phone rings. It’s Ginny.
“How are you?” she asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“I had a call from Leo. He’s worried about you, Alice. He said you were accusing him of prowling around the house at night, and something he didn’t understand about him spreading hair everywhere.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I say. “And anyway, he’s exaggerating.”
“Hm.” She doesn’t seem convinced. “Are you still away?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Alice, that’s what I don’t understand. You ask Leo if you can have the house for two weeks and then you go away.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She sighs. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“There’s nothing going on. Sorry, but I really need to go. Can I call you in the morning?”
“All right, but—”
“Thanks, Ginny, I’ll speak to you then.”
PAST
I like my new client. I can already tell she’s going to be more of a challenge but that’s OK. She sits opposite me, her slim legs crossed, oozing confidence. She is a woman at peace with herself. But we all have darkness within us and the deeper it’s buried, the more interesting it is.
I take my pad from the table and my pen from my pocket. I could use a laptop for my notes but clients still like to see a good old-fashioned notepad. The problem with using a screen, I guess, is that the client never really knows what we’re doing behind it, whether we’re taking notes or watching something on Netflix.
I begin asking her the standard questions and she raises an amused eyebrow.
“Really?” she says.
I frown and, chastened, she sits upright, uncrosses her legs, straightens her skirt, and turns her attention to giving me her answers.
“Why are you here?” I ask, when we get to the end. And then I give her the usual spiel about how anything she says won’t go further than this room.
This room. I look around it, at the pale pink walls, at the window that looks onto the road outside. There are no blinds on the window shielding us from prying eyes, just curtains which I can’t close, not at this time of the day. It’s why I’ve made sure we’re sitting toward the back of the room. Discretion, as always, is everything.
“I don’t have any major problem,” she says. “I just think that it would be good for me to be in therapy, to experience what it’s like. And to talk. It’s always good to talk, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” I agree.
So we talk, about her childhood—happy; her teenage years—no real problems; her career—she loves it. The one thing she doesn’t talk about is her husband. I know she’s married so that in itself is telling.
I put down my pad. “How long have you been married?” I ask.
She looks surprised, so I look pointedly at her left hand, at the thin gold band on her ring finger.
“I might be widowed,” she says.
“Are you?” I ask.
“No.” I wait. “Seven years,” she says. “I’ve been married seven years.”
“Seven happy years?” I ask.
“Seven ecstatic years. Not an itch in sight.”
I suppress a sigh. She’s disappointed me.
I lean toward her and fix her with my eyes. “Do you know what Henry David Thoreau said about happiness?”
Now she looks disappointed. She leans forward too, stares right back at me. “Yes,” she says. “I know exactly what Thoreau said about happiness. And it’s a load of bollocks.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The next morning, I check out of the hotel and cross the square to the house, my feet rustling crisp fallen leaves as I walk. I could have booked myself in for another couple of days but I don’t like being bullied, and making me afraid to stay in the house is a form of bullying. So, I’m going to do what I did before, and stay awake during the night. If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll call the police.
It’s cold, and there’s no one sitting on the benches in the square, no one even walking across it on their way to work, which isn’t surprising, given that it’s half-past ten. It’s amazing how conspicuous it makes me feel. For all I know, any number of people could be watching me from their upstairs windows. I raise my eyes and turn my head, scanning the houses as I walk, starting on the left-hand side with number 1 and carrying on to numbers 2, 3 and 4, then to Eve and Will’s, past theirs to ours, onto Lorna and Edward’s, then Geoff’s, then Maria and Tim’s. And stop. Because Tim is there, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, watching me watching him. I raise my hand in a wave, glad he can’t see the shiver that runs down my spine, and he waves back. I pick up my pace, eager to be inside but as I go through the gate, Edward comes out of his house, his gardening shears in his hand.
“Good morning, Alice,” he calls. “Been for a walk?”
“Yes, it’s always lovely at this time of the year. How are you and Lorna?”
“We’re fine, doing well.”
“Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’m going to be leaving The Circle. But not Leo. He’ll be staying.”
“Oh dear, I am sorry,” he says. “When will you be leaving?”
“I was going to leave next weekend but I might go earlier.”
“Really? Right. Well, we’ll be very sorry to see you go.”
“Would you tell Lorna?” I ask.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll come and say goodbye,” I promise.
“You do that. Lorna will be pleased to see you.”
I flick my eyes toward Maria and Tim’s house. Tim is still at the window. Edward follows my gaze and gives Tim a wave.
“Bye, Edward,” I say distractedly. I start to move off but he shuffles closer.
“Don’t tell anyone when you’re leaving,” he whispers. He pitches his voice back to his normal level. “Bye, Alice.”
* * *
I let myself into the house, my heart thumping. First Lorna, now Edward. Two warnings, don’t trust anyone and don’t tell anyone. Who are they warning me against? Edward had seen Tim watching us. Is that why he said it?
I pace my study, thinking about Tim. There’s nothing physically creepy about him and when they all came for dinner, he was perfectly lovely, helping me in the kitchen. But there’s something slightly creepy about the way he always seems to be watching from the window. It could be perfectly innocent. He’s studied psychology, and isn’t psychology the study of people, how they act, react, interact? And if he’s training to be a psychotherapist, it’s normal that he finds people fascinating. Anyway, psychologists and psychotherapists help people, they don’t kill them.
No sooner has that thought entered my head, something shoots forward from the recesses of my mind, a news story from a few years back about a woman and her therapist, who ran off together. It had made the headlines, because at first, the woman had been reported missing and when she hadn’t been found after a few days, the media focus was that she had p
ossibly been murdered. I can’t remember why that changed, if she herself had come forward to say she had run off with her therapist or if someone had seen them together.
I find my laptop, open my search engine and type in “woman and therapist.” There are several links to news articles, from June 2016. I click on one; it’s more or less as I remembered—a thirty-year-old solicitor, Justine Bartley, left her office one lunchtime to go for an appointment with her therapist and never returned to work. She was reported missing the next day by her husband, after she failed to return home the previous evening. I trawl through other articles about the same story and discover why it had no longer become newsworthy. Justine’s best friend told the police that Justine had fallen in love with her therapist and in the weeks leading up to her disappearance had become both excited and secretive. The friend also told the police that Justine had been experiencing problems in her marriage, hence the therapy sessions. Because no trace was found of her therapist—a Dr. Smith—her friend believed he and Justine had run off together, and the police seemed to agree that it was the likeliest possibility. I search for further news stories about the case, but like Justine Bartley, it never re-surfaced.
June 2016. Eighteen months before Marion Cartaux’s murder in France. I don’t get too excited. Apart from Justine Bartley having long blond hair, there is nothing to link her disappearance to the murders of Marion Cartaux and Nina, especially as nobody seems to think there was anything sinister in her having gone missing.
I carry on looking into Justine Bartley’s disappearance anyway, watching videos of news bulletins and interviews. She was last seen turning into a street in Hampstead. Her phone had been turned off not long after.
I call Thomas.
“Did you know that Nina saw a therapist?” I ask.
“No, but I think it’s quite usual for therapists to be in therapy.”
“It’s just that when Tamsin told me that Nina saw a therapist, I presumed the therapist was a woman. But what if it was a man?”
“Um—what if it was?” Thomas sounds puzzled.
“Do you remember the case about three years ago, the solicitor who went missing, Justine Bartley?”
“Yes, I think so. Didn’t she disappear after going for an appointment during her lunch hour? Ah, I see where you’re going with this—her appointment was with her therapist. I’m not sure that there’s a connection with Nina, though, because didn’t the police come to the conclusion that they had run off together?”
“Yes, but what if they didn’t? I’ve just read up on the case and apparently, the police couldn’t find any trace of a therapist called Dr. Smith. What if that wasn’t his real name? Maybe they didn’t run off together, maybe he murdered her.”
There’s a pause, as if he’s wondering how to tell me that I’m being ridiculous.
“If you’re thinking that Dr. Smith might have been Nina’s therapist, I think—again—that it’s a long shot,” he says diplomatically. “But you could always check with Tamsin, see if Nina ever mentioned the name of her therapist, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll try, but Tamsin isn’t always very forthcoming about Nina. I don’t know if it’s relevant or not but Tamsin asked Nina to refer her to her therapist, and Nina never came back with a name.”
“Maybe she didn’t get around to it or maybe she felt uneasy about Tamsin seeing the same person as her. But it’s good to keep it in mind. I’ll call Helen and ask her if she knows anything about Nina seeing a therapist. If we don’t come up with a name, I’ll speak to my police contact.”
“Great.”
“Thanks, Alice, let’s speak soon.”
I hang up, realizing I’ve already hit a problem. I can’t call Tamsin and start asking her about Nina’s therapist. I need to be subtler than that, see her face to face, chat about other things first. It would also be easier if Eve were there. Except that it’s Thursday, and Eve spends Thursdays with her mum. The thought of not being able to speak to Tamsin until tomorrow is frustrating—and that’s presuming that both she and Eve are free to meet up.
I think for a moment, then message Eve, asking if she’s free for lunch the next day as I feel like getting out and there’s a brasserie I want to try near Finsbury Park. I’ve eaten there before, with Leo, but she doesn’t have to know that. I also suggest that we ask Tamsin and Maria to join us, if they’re free.
Her reply comes in ten minutes later—it’s a brilliant idea, she’s already checked with Tamsin and Maria, they can both come if we meet at one o’clock, as that’s the time Maria has her lunch break. Relieved that they can make it, I message her back with details of the brasserie and tell her I’ll make a reservation.
In the middle of the afternoon, there’s a ring on the doorbell and I run down to answer it, thinking it’s Thomas, because it’s about the time he usually calls. Maybe he’s had news about the murder in France. I check my hair quickly in the mirror and open the door.
But it isn’t Thomas, it’s a young man with sandy hair and a confident smile.
“Ms. Dawson?” he asks.
I look at him warily. “Yes.”
“We haven’t met before.” He holds out his hand. “Ben, Ben Forbes. From Redwoods, the estate agents.”
THIRTY-NINE
It takes me a moment to swallow the disappointment of him not being Thomas.
“Oh, hello,” I say, shaking his hand. He’s younger than I expected, early thirties, I’m guessing, and very good-looking. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Ben.”
“I was at a property here in The Circle, discussing a possible sale, and I thought I’d come by and introduce myself seeing as we only met over the phone.”
“I should have called you back to apologize,” I say, embarrassed that I hadn’t. “It never occurred to me that Leo already knew about the murder.”
“Please don’t worry. I’m just glad it didn’t put you off living here.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” I admit. “And I won’t be here much longer. Another week and I’ll be going back to Harlestone. Leo is staying,” I add, in case he thinks that the house is going to be back on the market.
“Right.” He doesn’t seem surprised and I wonder if he already knows from Mark that Leo and I are splitting up. He peers behind me into the hall. “Ginny told me you knocked two of the upstairs bedrooms into one. It must be amazing.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to invite him in to see it. But something holds me back.
“Why don’t you drop in next time you’re in the area? I’m sure Leo will be happy to show you around.”
“I’ll do that, thanks. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Me too.” I give him a smile. “How’s the golf going? You can’t believe how grateful Ginny is that you’re getting Mark out of the house at weekends.”
He laughs. “He’s becoming very good. Well, I’d better get on. Perhaps I’ll see you again, if ever you’re at Ginny’s.”
“I’m sure I will be. Thank you for coming by. It was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
He leaves with a wave and I watch as he crosses over the road and disappears into the square.
I take out my cell phone and text Ginny—I just had a visit from Ben.
She texts back—Lucky you! How come?
He was in the area and wanted to introduce himself.
That was nice of him. He’s lovely, isn’t he?
I want to tell her that he is, but not as nice as Thomas, and I feel guilty that I can’t, guilty that I’ve never told her about him, because I usually tell her most things.
I go back to my study but I can’t concentrate on work because Ben’s visit is on my mind. Is it weird that he turned up? Ginny didn’t think it was, she said it was nice of him to call. I need to stop being suspicious of everyone.
Even of Will, it seems, because at eight o’clock, he comes to the door with a set of keys dangling from his finger.
“Found them,” he says, smiling happily.
>
“Great!” I say. “Where were they?”
“On the side, among Eve’s clutter. They must have fallen off the hook and got buried before anyone noticed.”
“It happens,” I say, because it does. “Thanks, Will.”
* * *
When evening comes, even though I no longer have to worry about a set of keys being in the wild, I move to the sitting room. I plan to spend the night watching television. If I feel tired, I can doze on the sofa.
I don’t have the volume on the TV turned up loud but at around three in the morning, I find myself muting it. There was a noise, from the kitchen, I’m sure of it. My heart in my mouth, I get up from the sofa and look around the room. If someone has got into the house, I need to stop them getting in here. They’ll have heard the television, they’ll know where I am.
Moving quietly, I take a low table and put it tight up against the door, then fetch a couple of lamps and put them on top of the table. If someone opens the door, the table and lamps will go flying, buying me enough time to dial 999.
I wait five minutes, my body tense with nerves, my phone ready in my hand, then wait five minutes more and when I don’t hear anything else, I try and relax. But I can’t bring myself to go and check if there was anyone there. I don’t feel like going back to the film I was watching so I curl up on the sofa and wonder if it really is worth staying another week. The reason I asked for two weeks was because I hoped Thomas would have made some progress by then. And because, if I’m honest, I didn’t want to never see him again. But now that he’s said he’ll come and see me in Harlestone, I no longer have to worry. It’s probably better that I go. I told Thomas that I want Nina’s killer brought to justice, no matter who it is. But what if it does turn out to be someone from here, how will I feel then?
At six o’clock, I open the curtains and look outside. It’s still dark but there are lights on in some of the houses, people getting ready to go about their everyday lives. That’s what I want, I realize, an everyday life, not one with secrets and lies, fear and mistrust. I’m going back to Harlestone today.
