The Perfect Life

by Valerie Keogh

  When it rang again, seconds later, she gave Amelia a weak smile and felt a shiver of relief. He’d be ringing to apologise, to say he forgave her and that he’d stand by her through the mess she’d got herself embroiled in. Her relief was short-lived. It wasn’t Jack; the number displayed on her phone wasn’t familiar. She hesitated, her heart thumping, before picking it up to answer. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Chatwell, it’s DI Fanshawe. We did ask you to keep yourself available for further questions, but it seems nobody, including your husband, knows where you are.’

  They could only have got the phone number from Jack; he’d neglected to tell her he’d given it to them. She bit back the feeling of abandonment and instilled some strength in her voice. ‘I’m in Pembridge Square Gardens with a friend.’ She didn’t think there was any point in adding she’d come to discuss her situation.

  But Fanshawe wasn’t a fool. ‘Your friend? The one you went to Semington House with when you ran into Oliver Vine?’

  She was tempted to point out that she had more than one friend, but she didn’t think the detective would appreciate the sarcasm. ‘Yes,’ she said without elaborating. Let him think what he wanted. He would anyway. Would he think there was some kind of conspiracy? That she and Amelia had plotted together to kill Oliver Vine? Molly looked across at her friend, who was regarding her with concern, and managed a smile. ‘She is offering me some support. Jack said you had more questions for me. I’m happy to answer any you might have.’

  There were muffled voices in the background. She guessed he was speaking to someone else, his large hand covering the phone. ‘Okay,’ he said, his voice suddenly loud and clear. ‘Here at West End Central Station at two, if you please.’

  In the police station, not at home. She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Perfect,’ she said, her voice cool, and hung up.

  She put the phone gently down on the table with a shaking hand. ‘It was the police, they want to see me today, at the station.’

  17

  Amelia stood, moved around the table and enveloped Molly in a hug. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, remember?’

  ‘I don’t think Jack would agree with you,’ Molly said, giving a loud sniff. ‘And the police… I know they don’t believe me.’

  ‘They have to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. It’s the way it works. You’ll go, answer questions you’ve already answered, and come away wondering why you were worried.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’

  ‘I read all those crime novels and watch every crime drama,’ Amelia said, sitting back in her chair. ‘I’m almost an expert. I know how it goes.’

  No, you don’t, Molly wanted to scream, you’ve no bloody idea. Nothing she had ever read or seen on the TV had prepared her for being involved in something like this. But Amelia was trying to be kind and supportive, the way Jack should have been, so she merely shook her head and shut her eyes briefly to hide the fear she knew was lurking there. ‘West End Central Station,’ she said a moment later, attempting to sound amused. ‘He said it as though I’d know where that was, as if I were acquainted with police stations. I’ve never been inside one before.’

  Amelia stretched behind her for her iPad. ‘We’ll soon sort that out,’ she said calmly. ‘Okay, here it is. Fairly convenient, actually, it’s on Savile Row.’ She looked up. ‘Easy, you get the Circle Line to Oxford Circus, then head down Regent Street, take a right on New Burlington Street and it’s at the end of that road. Six minutes’ walk. It’ll only take you thirty to forty minutes max from here.’ She tilted her head. ‘Why don’t you ring Jack and ask him to go with you?’

  ‘No,’ Molly said, wishing she could. ‘Jack mentioned being really busy. I’ll be fine. You’re probably right, anyway, they’re simply going through the motions.’

  ‘I could go with you, if you like?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Molly said, genuinely touched. ‘But honestly, I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Well, at least let me make you a sandwich. I bet you didn’t have any breakfast.’

  Molly smiled her gratitude and sat back while Amelia bustled about in the kitchen. Molly had plugged her mobile in to charge and checked it for messages, hoping for one from Jack. He would forgive her eventually, but she wondered how long it would take her to forgive him for not standing by her when she needed him most. It was ironic when she thought of how much time she had spent in the last couple of weeks worrying about him.

  She wondered what the police wanted to ask her. There was nothing she hadn’t already told them. She’d been an idiot, but that wasn’t a crime.

  The sandwich Amelia made her was probably nice, but it tasted like cardboard in her mouth. She struggled to eat half, pushing the rest away with an apologetic shrug. ‘I’ve got collywobbles, I’m afraid. But thank you, even that much was enough.’

  At one, she unplugged her phone. ‘I’ll go now. I’d prefer to be early.’

  Amelia gathered her in a hug. ‘You stay strong, okay. Remember, you’ve done nothing wrong.’

  There was light rain falling when she left Oxford Circus. Of course, she hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella. She took it as an omen that the rest of the day was going to be a hellish one. Turning down New Burlington Street, she saw the imposing grey building immediately ahead, police vans parked either side of its entrance. There was nothing threatening about the grey brick or the almost startling white window frames, but her insides spasmed with a fear that intensified as she approached. She could turn and run away but what then? ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she muttered as she used the handrail to negotiate the nine steps to the front door. Another bad omen: lust was one of the nine circles of hell in Dante’s Inferno and isn’t that what had started this nightmare in the first place?

  Inside the station, she gave her name to the bored counter clerk and took a seat to wait. It wasn’t long before DS Carstairs arrived, his too-knowing eyes sliding over her, making her skin crawl.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘We’re this way.’ He headed off down the corridor without another word.

  Instantly irritated at his attitude, Molly lifted her chin and followed.

  He stopped at a door and pushed it open, indicating with a silent jerk of his head that she went inside. It was a standard cold interview room. The only thing that made it different to any number of small conference rooms she’d been in over the years was the table screwed to the floor. The chairs weren’t, she was pleased to see, but they were light moulded-plastic ones that wouldn’t cause much damage if smashed against the side of someone’s head.

  Not that she was planning on doing any smashing, despite the look on the detective’s face that said, as clearly as if it had been written there, that he didn’t think much of her. She met his gaze straight on, her eyes never wavering as she sat on one of the chairs. There was only one way to deal with people like him – show them you weren’t afraid. She guessed she did an okay job as he immediately looked away and told her he’d be back in a few minutes. But if he thought she wasn’t afraid he was a poor judge of people: she was terrified.

  The room was warm. When he left, she took off her dark-blue coat and hung it over the back of the chair beside her, dropping her bag on the seat rather than a floor that looked as if it only ever had a faint relationship with a mop.

  It was after two. She was wondering how long she’d be kept waiting when the door opened and DS Carstairs returned, DI Fanshawe close behind. Neither thanked her for coming in. DI Fanshawe took the chair opposite and put a slim file on the table in front of him before looking at her, his eyes assessing.

  His expression, unlike his colleague’s, didn’t appear to be condemnatory, his grey eyes a little warmer than she remembered. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Tension made her shoulders ache.

  Without a word, Fanshawe opened the file, withdrew a photograph and slid it across the table toward her. ‘Is this the man you met on the canal?’

  Grateful that he ha
d said met rather than any of the words he might have used, and certainly one of the words Carstairs would have chosen, she looked down at the photograph. Her initial reaction was no, it wasn’t him. This man had blue eyes, his skin was pale, hair tousled. But there was something… ‘It might be,’ she said, ‘but his eyes…’

  Fanshawe took a sheet of acetate from the file and laid it over the photograph. ‘What about now?’

  Molly gasped, reaching out and pulling the photograph closer. How well she remembered those fabulous turquoise eyes. Too fabulous; like a lot of that encounter, they weren’t real. She looked at the DI. ‘He was wearing coloured lenses.’ It wasn’t a question; she’d been fooled, but she wasn’t stupid.

  He nodded. ‘When you mentioned his eye colour more than once, it reminded me of a case about a year ago where a witness spoke about a man’s amazing brown eyes. I pulled the case file.’ He tapped a stubby finger on the edge of the photograph. ‘His real name is Lucien Pleasant. He’s been implicated in a number of cases where people, usually women, have been conned out of a lot of money. He’s a slippery individual, we never managed to nail him down until last year when one of his alleged victims was found dead. He was arrested but unfortunately’ – Fanshawe’s lips narrowed – ‘the case was thrown out on a technicality and he disappeared.’

  Molly’s eyes dropped to the picture and a wave of sadness swept over her. She’d been foolish, ripe for plucking. Her cheeks flushed with colour that was part embarrassment, part anger. ‘He was a con man,’ she said, gritting her teeth.

  Fanshawe shook his head. ‘A very clever and slick operator which was why he was able to evade prison for so long.’ He sat back, his hands clasped over the hint of a belly and tapped his thumbs together. ‘Pleasant was way too clever an operator to be sitting by the canal on the off-chance that someone worth targeting would wander by.’ He waited for that to sink in before continuing. ‘Did you get any sense that he was waiting for you?’

  She shook her head slowly, thinking back to that morning. ‘No, I didn’t. I had slowed to a walk and was thinking about turning to go back to the hotel when I saw him.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, looking down at his notebook. ‘Then Pleasant said hello, you said the same and he asked the time. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had been over this so often. There were few words spoken between them during that first encounter. Her indrawn breath was sudden and loud. Eyes wide, she stared across the table. ‘He asked me the time.’

  Fanshawe waited.

  ‘After I sat beside him, he pointed to where he’d seen a kingfisher.’ She met the inspector’s eyes. ‘He was wearing a watch. It didn’t register with me then, but now…’

  ‘Pleasant was waiting for you specifically.’ He nodded as if it was what he’d surmised. ‘And you still maintain that nothing happened between you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Molly’s hair had fallen forward, she brushed it back behind her ears. ‘I was carried away by the romance of it all. It was like something from a movie, you know.’ She avoided looking at Carstairs, guessing he’d find what she said amusing, maybe even pathetic. ‘Had he wanted more, that second morning, I think I might have been tempted. For a moment, I felt young and desirable but it wasn’t what he wanted from me.’

  ‘Then what was?’ Fanshawe said, a frown appearing between his eyes. ‘You mentioned that you thought he’d gone to your house with the intention of blackmailing you. Are you very wealthy, Mrs Chatwell? If he had succeeded, how much could he have hoped to achieve?’

  Molly had made an error of judgement; would she have paid up to stop Jack finding out? She remembered his stricken face, his anger. Yes, she’d have paid anything to prevent that. ‘We’re not wealthy but I suppose I could have got my hands on twenty thousand,’ she said quietly.

  Fanshawe tapped his thumbs together again and his frown deepened. ‘I doubt he’d have settled for that. He knew where you lived, he’d know there was more.’

  ‘But how did he know where I lived?’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘That’s something we’ll be trying to find out,’ he said, taking the photograph and slipping it back into the file.

  ‘There was something else,’ she said, her lower lip quivering. ‘It may be nothing, but I’ve been going over and over the encounter.’ She saw Carstairs’ raised eyebrow and ignored him, keeping her eyes on the inspector. ‘Although he’d looked appalled when I tried to kiss him, when I went to run away I had to wrench my T-shirt from his hand. Why was he holding on so tightly? And why did he run after me for as long as he did? I’m fast and I soon left him behind, but I could hear him shouting after me. Why?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d embarrassed myself, but he’d done nothing. Why not just leave it?’

  ‘You couldn’t hear what he was shouting?’

  Molly shook her head. ‘I was moving too fast and my feet were crunching noisily on the stony path.’

  ‘Probably called you a tart,’ Carstairs suggested.

  She shot him a look. ‘He would have had no reason to, would he? As I have said, more than once, nothing happened. I only heard one of the words he was shouting,’ she said, looking back at Fanshawe. ‘It was, understand.’

  18

  Molly went through it again, every action or word she remembered, every nuance and tone until she was sick of the sound of her own voice going over and over the details of such a short period of her life.

  Short but devastating.

  Finally, when she wanted to scream that there was nothing more, Fanshawe told her she could go.

  His words were sudden and unexpected, and she looked at him in confusion, wondering if this were some kind of trap for the unwary. It wasn’t until he and Carstairs stood and Fanshawe said they’d be in touch that she realised her ordeal was over.

  It was a few seconds before she got to her feet, knees trembling, head swimming. She kept her hands flat on the table for support, unable to move. But when she felt tears well, she knew she had to get out of there. Following the exit signs, she was soon on Savile Row, stepping out onto the street with a feeling of relief. The rain had stopped, but ominous grey clouds reflecting her mood, drew her eyes upward and made her shiver.

  She didn’t want to go home yet. Instead, she wandered down Regent and Oxford Street, swept along with crowds of shoppers and groups of tourists, trailing along aimlessly with them, wandering, backtracking, uncaring as to where she went, trying to exhaust herself so that she wouldn’t have to think.

  Her legs were aching by the time she decided to go home. It was after six, Jack would be waiting. Going into automatic mode, she didn’t remember the journey home, catching the tube without much thought.

  It was six thirty before she opened her front door and stepped into the hallway. She listened. It was an old house; if there was someone home, floorboards would creak, water would gurgle in the pipes. But the silence was telling. If Jack had come, he’d gone again without waiting to see what the police had wanted with his beloved wife. Bitterness twisted her mouth for a moment. She should be glad, shouldn’t she? It was sleep she needed, not an argument; a confrontation that would be difficult, painful and undoubtedly nasty. She knew it would come eventually; wounding words that would slice through what little self-esteem and pride she had left, but she didn’t want it now. Her heart wasn’t in a state to fight back.

  What a price she was paying for those foolish moments. She checked her mobile, saw nothing from him and dashed off quick messages to Remi and Freya, making a joke about misplacing her phone and having to use one of their rejects.

  Her feet feeling like lead, she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom where she undressed and climbed under the duvet. From outside, she heard a car’s engine start, another passing by with a swoosh of tyres on the rain-wet road, the high-pitched laughter of a child – everyday sounds, a reassuring lullaby to remind her that not everything had changed. She lay exhausted, willing herself to fall asleep, for temporary release from the mess she’d made.

  In
her dreams, turquoise eyes gleamed with malice and brought her to the edge of wakefulness each time. Finally, after tossing and turning for what felt like hours, but what a glance at her watch told her was less than one, she gave up and went downstairs. She curled up on the sofa, switched on the TV and found a romcom she knew would be candyfloss for her brain and might, if she were lucky, help her to relax.

  Tucking her feet under, she tried to concentrate on the movie, but her mind had already drifted when the house phone rang, startling her. It rarely rang, their friends and acquaintances usually called their mobiles. A cold caller, she guessed, staring at it, willing it to stop.

  When it did, her eyes flicked back to the movie which she had to admit was excruciatingly bad. Reaching for the remote, she channel-surfed for a few minutes, settling on the rerun of a property programme she’d watched before.

  Then the phone rang again.

  She stared at it, eyes wide, her heart beating a little faster, a little louder. Even when the ringing stopped, she continued to stare at it until, with a frustrated shake of her head, she reached to take the handset off the hook. Her hand was on it when it rang for the third time. Maybe it wasn’t a cold caller. They weren’t normally this persistent.

  She held it to her ear. Unable to hear anything, she muttered, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’

  It was a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but she struggled to remember. Shifting in her seat, sliding her feet to the ground, as if the position gave her more authority, she spoke firmly. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Stuart. Stuart Mercer. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ He sounded relieved.

  Shutting her eyes in disbelief, she was tempted to hang up without another word. Instead, she gripped the handset. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not interested in meeting you.’ She heard a quick indrawn breath on the line before he spoke. This time his voice was sharp, irritated.