by Adele Parks
‘Obviously, I didn’t know he was married when I got involved with him,’ says Fiona, there’s heat and shame in her tone. Clements thinks she may or may not have known. Most single women like to think they are not the sort to have a crack at a married man. No one believes they have ‘homewrecker’ on the list of their character credentials. But the truth is, it’s lonely out there. Women who should know better do stumble down that path. Clements herself had once snogged a married colleague at a Christmas party. It is embarrassing to think about. So clichéd; a quick grope in a quiet corridor on the way to the cloakroom at the end of the night. Yes, it was after everyone had had a bit too much to drink. She’d been going through a dry patch romantically and working on a depressing human trafficking case; she wanted to grab at any comfort that came her way. His warm lips, solid body that smelt of sweat and a tang of a citrus aftershave was that – momentarily. A comfort. It hadn’t gone far because she was wearing high-waisted, super-shaper tummy-control pants and she just didn’t have the energy to crawl out of them, couldn’t face the mortification of being exposed in them. She’d called herself an Uber, left the party alone. But if she’d been wearing better underwear, who knows where it might have gone? She is a policewoman not a saint.
‘I should have said something the moment I made the connection,’ admits Fiona apologetically. The regret and pain in her voice loud and clear, even though she’s mumbling.
‘And when was that?’
‘When your colleague – Tanner, is it? – and I were in Mark’s kitchen. He mentioned Daan’s name. You had already said that Leigh was going under the name Kai Janssen but I wasn’t looking for the connection. It didn’t click. I wasn’t even certain you’d said Janssen, I thought most likely Johnson. There was so much to take in. But in the kitchen Officer Tanner said Daan’s name. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to think it was a horrible, strange coincidence; after all, everything about this is off-the-scale strange, isn’t it? I wanted to think that there might be more than one Daan Janssen.’ Clements is all too aware of people’s willingness to kid themselves. ‘But Mark and I did some digging. We googled, it quickly became apparent that there aren’t many people with the same name, fewer still living in the UK, there was only one contender to be Leigh’s Daan Janssen. It’s not like he’s called John Smith—’ she breaks off – ‘I didn’t want to believe it. But now I’m sure. I have to face facts.’
‘And when did you last see Mr Janssen?’ Clements asks.
Fiona hesitates and sighs. ‘This morning.’ Clements allows the pause. Gives it power and space. ‘I wanted to check it was definitely him and to see how he was doing, I suppose. I certainly wasn’t looking for a hook-up. I, I—’ Fiona stumbles. Clements waits patiently. ‘Obviously, I now realise I hardly know the man. I mean, I thought he would be devastated since his wife has gone missing. I thought maybe he’d talk to me about it and I’d glean something because he doesn’t know that I know he’s married, let alone that I’m his wife’s best friend.’
‘And was he?’
‘Was he what?’
‘Devastated.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Fiona admits. The silence sits between them again, this time scratching, burrowing at what needs to be said. ‘I mean, he seemed pleased to see me.’
‘And did you?’
‘Did I what? Glean anything?’
‘Did you hook up?’
‘Is that really a police matter?’ Fiona asks indignantly.
‘You don’t have to answer. You called me. I’m just trying to understand the man. I want to help your friend. That’s what you care about, right?’
‘Of course it is. That’s why I’m calling.’
‘You are, I suppose, saying that you don’t trust him now you realise he was not faithful? Is not faithful?’
‘I’m not saying anything about anyone. I’m just giving you the facts,’ Fiona snaps.
‘I’m sorry if this is awkward for you, Fiona, and I’m not taking a formal statement – anything you say is completely voluntary but if you can answer the question it might help me. Did you have sexual relations with Daan Janssen when you last encountered him?’
‘Yes,’ Fiona whispers. ‘I went to his place, I stopped over. I know that makes me sound pathetic, or heartless, or just plain stupid but I did, yes.’
‘And yet you are ringing me now to say you don’t trust him?’
‘I am.’
‘Why? What went wrong?’
‘Nothing went wrong as such. I’m just trying to be honest. I’d had a glass or two of wine last night, it’s been a very trying time. I wasn’t thinking straight but now, in the cold light of day, I’m trying to do the right thing. I assume you do meet some people who are still keen to do the right thing, Officer?’
‘A few.’
‘Well, I’m one of them. Daan and I were— well, it was a casual thing. We had a few dates in London. He once came to my cottage on the coast for a weekend, but I’ve known Leigh for twenty-three years. I love her. I’m furious with her for lying to me but at the same time I’m really sad that she had no one she thought she could confide in. I could have helped her. Or at least comforted her. We’re best friends. I’m scared for her. Why didn’t she turn to me?’ Clements doesn’t have an answer to that either. Fiona adds, ‘I asked Daan if he is married.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he was. Past tense. And, it’s just, well, that building. It’s so quiet and empty, right? Big parts of it are deserted. Someone could be hidden in it relatively easily, don’t you think?’
‘We’d need a warrant to search it.’
‘Well, get a warrant.’ Fiona sounds frustrated, indignant.
She probably thinks the police are working too slowly on the case. It’s a common misconception of the general public that the police can always be doing more and doing it faster. The truth is investigation is a laborious business, all about perspiration and perseverance. Even the rare bright spots of inspiration need to be backed up with evidence which is inevitably slow to surface.
‘We need evidence to place Mr Janssen under suspicion and to justify a search warrant.’
Fiona sighs. ‘Well, get evidence then.’ She hangs up.
Clements relays the call to Tanner, he looks jubilant. Clements reins him in. ‘Fiona’s information does not place Daan in the frame for Kylie’s disappearance.’
‘No, not exactly but it certainly casts a new light on the situation. Or perhaps more accurately the same light but simply with a higher wattage.’
‘I have been wondering about the fact that the texts that were supposed to be from Kai to Daan dried up as soon as the bigamy came to light. This leads me to believe that Kai never sent the texts, just as Daan claimed.’
‘Because how would she know the game was up and when to stop pretending she was with her sick mother?’
‘Exactly. Why wouldn’t she continue to try to keep up the pretence? It bothers me that the texts stopped at the same time as both men were made aware of her bigamy.’
‘So the question is, who had the phone? Was it the hot dad and was he buying time before her absence was revealed by texting the he-man? Or was it the he-man and he was creating an e-trail alibi by pretending to be in touch with her?’
Clements nods. ‘Stopping the texts was a mistake. Who made the mistake?’
Clements hadn’t liked the way Daan Janssen was able to turn his emotions off like a tap. One minute, he was all passionate concern, demanding they find his beloved wife; the next he was the epitome of icy indifference, as he shrugged off all association. Clements had almost understood the vacillation when she thought he was deeply in love and hurt, but if he is shagging around (and there is no reason to believe Fiona is the only woman he’s having extra-marital sex with) then he is not such a clear-cut candidate for the husband-of-the-year award. If he isn’t heartbroken, then his plunge from impassioned to indifferent simply seems unstable. Clements needs to unpick this, ponder
it. However, she doesn’t have time right away because her phone buzzes again.
‘Detective Constable Clements.’
‘It’s Paula Cook here. I’m Mark Fletcher’s sister-in-law. The sister of his late wife.’
‘Hello.’
‘My nephew had your card.’
Clements gave her card to both of the Fletcher boys but takes a guess, ‘Oli?’
‘Yes. Look, I don’t know how this can possibly be relevant to you. But I thought I had to mention it.’ Her voice is loud but quivering; a contradiction. Almost aggressive with assertion and yet the sort of aggression that comes from a sense of anxiety or apprehension.
‘I’m listening.’
‘You know my brother-in-law and I are close. He’s a good man. A great father.’
‘OK.’ Clements is curious as to where this might be going. It sounds exactly like a sentence leading up to a ‘but’.
‘And you need to know I’m not close or anything with Leigh, or Kai or whatever the hell her name is.’
‘Right.’
‘But that’s natural, since I’m Frances’s sister, I think. Leigh came along very soon after my sister’s death. I just don’t think I was ready for her.’
‘OK.’
‘Oli and Seb are here at mine right now and they’ve been telling me all about you, and the investigation, the things you asked them. Oli mentioned that Mark had told you Frances died of cancer.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Well, she didn’t.’
‘She isn’t dead?’
‘She’s dead but she didn’t die of cancer. She fell down the stairs. She had cancer. She might have died of that eventually or she might have recovered.’ Paula says the word with a hint of breathy hope. Then, more staunchly, she adds. ‘We will never know. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.’
‘But Mark Fletcher said it was cancer.’
‘He always says that.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him that. She was very weak. She was undergoing chemo treatment. Apparently, she had tried to get to the bathroom on her own and just wasn’t strong enough. Mark was downstairs making a cup of tea.’
Clements wonders whether her investigative powers are a little off. Was it an error to have accepted the first wife’s cause of death at face value? She wonders: does she need a holiday? A change of diet? Or was questioning the cause of the first wife’s death out of her remit? Should receiving this information now be seen as a win, rather than a few days’ old mistake? She doesn’t know. Sometimes it is hard to know and easy to doubt herself. She is determined to be thorough now, though.
‘Who else was at home with them when this happened?’
‘They were alone together. I was looking after the boys.’
‘Why are you ringing me to tell me this?’
‘I don’t know. I hate myself for doing so, I’m not trying to cause trouble for Mark. I really don’t think he is involved in Leigh’s disappearance, but I think you have to know the facts. Oli is messed up. Really not himself at all. So angry. I’m worried about him.’
Of course the boy is messed up – his bigamist stepmother is missing – but Clements asks, ‘In what way particularly do you think he’s messed up?’
‘He told me he knew that his mother was having an affair.’
‘He knew?’
‘Yes, he’d spotted her with the other man about six months ago. The poor kid has lived with the weight of that secret for all this time. I was just wondering, if a child could discover her secret, maybe one of the husbands could have. Maybe she wasn’t being as clever and careful as she thought she was.’ Clements can hear contempt and concern in Paula’s voice.
‘What are you saying? Do you think Mark Fletcher is capable of violence?’
‘No, no not really. He’s a really good bloke. I don’t know what I’m saying. I shouldn’t have called.’ She hangs up abruptly. It doesn’t matter, a statement as such isn’t needed, the lead is enough. Clements updates Tanner and tells him to call up the coroner’s report on Frances Fletcher’s death.
‘Thing is, you always wonder, don’t you? Slipped or pushed. You know the pressure of caring for a terminally ill family member is immense,’ Tanner says, he is practically rubbing his hands together with undisguised glee.
‘Well, even if you are right about that, which I’m not saying you are for a minute, there’s hardly a pattern is there.’
‘Two dead wives.’
Perturbed, Clements says, ‘We don’t know Kylie is dead.’
‘We don’t know she’s alive.’
‘There’s no body, no one pushed her down the stairs. Stop it, Tanner, it sounds like wild speculation to me.’
‘I’m not speculating. I’m theorising.’
‘Stick with the facts, Tanner,’ but even as she delivers her rebuke, Clements tries to recall how big Oli Fletcher is. Is he a man or boy? The net – far from drawing in – is widening.
And the clock is ticking.
35
Kylie
Sunday 22nd March
Last night I was freezing, today I feel I am suffocating. The weather is glorious, I can see the blue sky through the window of the next room and even feel the heat of the sun scorching through the boarding that covers the window in this room. It’s only March, how can it be so hot? How long have I been here? Weeks, months? I know this isn’t true, it can’t be. But maybe it is. I am confused. I don’t know what is true anymore.
Maybe I never did.
I long for water, food, a flushing toilet. I lie on the floor, put my head through the hole in the wall I have created and feel the luxury of the breeze from the window. I ache with the effort of crashing my chain against the radiator. No one has come. I need to rest from the repetitive action, just for a while.
I need water.
I’m so tired.
I fall to sleep. I don’t fight it. I sink into it, gratefully.
When I am asleep, I dream I am making a list of what it means to be married to Mark. I present the list to the Father Christmas in the Harrods grotto. We used to take the boys there when they were younger. A wondrous place where sweets and treats are handed out freely, and by some magical process Santa knows the names of the children. Something to do with the elf in the queue having a headset and chatting to the children, repeating the info so Santa is prepped. Mark and I were fooled for a moment. We laughed, delighted to be enticed into the make-believe. It’s charming. I miss it as a Christmas ritual. Why did we abandon it? Oh, I remember. When Oli was about ten, he insisted on telling all the children queuing that Santa wasn’t the real deal, that he was a different bloke every year. ‘Just tug his beard.’
Not the real deal. Not the real deal.
It’s hard to pull the wool over Oli’s eyes.
The list, the list. As I hand it to Santa, I think it might save me. But he looks at it, frowns, shakes his head, tells me I am on the naughty list. I am not nice.
I wake up, or at least I think I do, I’m bleary, dreary. It’s hard to stay conscious in this hot room, with so little sustenance and the pain from the assault pulsing through my body. The list swirls around in my head. What is it like being married to Mark? What does it really mean? I close my eyes again, but I can still see the list, it’s tattooed on to the inside of my lids. Or maybe I can hear it. Who is reading the list to me? Mark? Oli? Santa?
A home that feels like a big smile every time I open the door. Everyone else adoring my man, endorsing my choice because of his deep all-year-round tan and his big biceps. Help with putting on bedsheets. Lots of jars of spicy chutney and cheese in the fridge. Wet towels on the bathroom floor. A constant supply of Merlot on the rack. The sound of football matches blaring through the TV. Being bought Bailey’s year after year for birthdays, Mother’s Day, Christmas and Easter because I once mentioned it was a guilty pleasure. Giving away those bottles of Bailey’s to neighbours and the school tombola; my tastes have changed
, I don’t like Bailey’s anymore, I can’t find a way to tell him. He hasn’t noticed. The alarm going off before the boys need to be up so we can have fifteen quiet minutes lying in one another’s arms. No leaky taps, flickering lightbulbs, wonky shelves ever, he is handy around the house. No one noticing my new underwear. Or my old underwear. Hanging baskets that are the envy of the entire street. Dad jokes. Someone who will listen to me retell a plot of a book but will not read that book. Drinking cans of cider in the back garden on hot summer nights. Being encouraged to plunge into a cold lake to swim. Liking the swim. Singing along to country and western music on long car journeys. Feeling safe.
My throat is dry and scratchy. It hurts but not as much as the thought: he used to make me feel safe. Is that why Santa is shaking his head? Is he sad too?
I crawl around the room to see if anything has been delivered. Close to the door, there is a tray with a chicken sandwich, an apple, water. When did that arrive? I don’t know. I hate myself for not checking sooner. It might have been there for a while, maybe even before I started pulling down the wall. I could have helped myself sooner. Or have I been asleep again, did it just come? I don’t know. I’m scared about how many things I have no idea about. I drink the water. Sips. Sips. I know that now. Three trays in a week? Careful. Careful. Slowly, I start to eat. Chewing every mouthful as if it were my last. Because it might be.
I am alone. It should be a relief. I suppose I have some chance of escaping if I’m not guarded. If I can work my way free of the chain, if I can break down the door, if I can stand by the window and call for help. But I’ve had those ideas for days now. It is impossible. I am not getting out of here unless someone gets me out. So somehow the aloneness is terrifying. What if he never comes back? What if there is no more water or food? I stop eating. I have to ration. The thought makes me want to cry. I’m so hungry I could die.
