“Everything,” he’d said, looking out of the window. “And we were never the same after that.”
I’d often circle back to what had happened to trigger a sequence of events that had turned his wife into an abusive sociopath and him a shadow of his former self. But I’d been unable to get him to return to that place.
It struck me, just as the sun was coming up, that despite Jacob being so open and honest about his marriage, he had actually been very scant on any identifiable details of who he really was.
So, feeling as if I have no other choice, by eight o’clock I’m in my office armed with the phone numbers of all the secondary schools in Canterbury. There’s nothing to tell them apart, as all I know is that he teaches somewhere in town, so I work my way through the list alphabetically. It’s sod’s law that it’s the last one that proves to be the most fruitful.
“Can I ask who’s calling?” says the woman on the other end of the line, when I ask to speak to Jacob Mackenzie. Bingo!
“Yes, it’s Naomi Chandler,” I say.
Now I’m at this point, knowing I’m about to speak to him, no matter what, I find myself not knowing what to say. I’m not angry about the other night; neither am I going to stand in judgment if he’s decided that he’s happier when he’s with his wife. I only ever wanted to make him see that he had options.
As the phone is picked up and he says, “Hello, Jacob Mackenzie speaking, how may I help you?” I realize I just want to know that he’s all right.
“I’m so sorry to call you at work,” I say, exhaling the breath I feel like I’ve been holding in for forty-eight hours. “But I just wanted to check that you’re OK.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” he says, clearly bemused. “Can I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s me, Naomi,” I say, unable to understand why he doesn’t recognize my voice. But then I suppose I don’t really recognize his either. It actually doesn’t sound like him at all.
“Naomi?” he presses, as if needing something more to identify me.
“From Tattenhall,” I say, not wanting to divulge any sensitive information, because an unease is beginning to work its way across my chest.
“Ah, the estate in Whitstable,” he gushes. “Is this about the concert on Saturday? I do hope there’s not a problem, as my wife and I are very much looking forward to it.”
“Er no, no,” I stutter, sure that this isn’t the man I think it is. “Everything’s fine, though I think I have the wrong number.”
“Oh,” he says, before laughing. “I thought you were going to tell me that the lead violinist had fallen ill and you needed me to stand in for them.”
I force a laugh. Now I’m really listening to his voice, there’s no way this is the Jacob I know. The Jacob I need to find.
“I hope you enjoy the event,” I say, before putting the phone down.
I fall into the chair with my head in my hands, struggling to understand how I thought I knew Jacob so well just a couple of days ago.
Despite myself, I can’t help but feel I’ve been duped in some way, but I can’t for the life of me work out how or why. Had it all been about the apartment? An elaborate ruse to get in there, knowing I’d have the devil’s own job of getting him out again? Had he invented his abusive wife? Created an entirely different life from the one he was actually living?
The sun’s just beginning to filter through the lowered blinds and as I pull them up, I’m met with undulating meadows that roll as far as the eye can see. And for a moment, I allow myself to appreciate the view, revel in it even, as I have done every morning since moving here. Though today, for the first time, it is a little harder to garner gratitude for a new dawn when I’m not entirely sure what it will bring.
Desperate for a coffee to mask the bad taste Jacob’s lies have left in my mouth, I head back up to the house.
I’m daydreaming, watching the swirling coffee granules dissolve in my mug, when the doorbell rings. I check the time on the oven; it’s not yet nine and I immediately panic that it’s someone coming to get Leon because there’s a problem on-site.
Walking down the hall, I can see two shadowy figures on the other side of the stained-glass panels in the front door, their outlines aglow with the sun behind them. I pull my dressing gown tighter around me, in need of comforting reassurance.
“Naomi Chandler?” asks the woman, her attempt at a smile unable to belie the fact that they’re obviously here on official business. Just their stance and weathered expressions tell me they’re police officers.
I offer a stiff smile, but it’s almost as if my face has forgotten how to be normal.
“Yes,” I croak. “How can I help you?
“I’m Detective Inspector Robson,” she says. “And this is Detective Sergeant Harris.”
They make a show of presenting their IDs but my brain is racing so far ahead that it could have been their library cards.
“We’re investigating the disappearance of Michael Talbot,” says the man, looking like the classic English TV detective with his Barbour-esque jacket and navy chinos.
“Oh, I don’t know if I can help you,” I say. “Is he a local man?”
They look at each other. “May we come in?” says the woman.
I go to stand aside but feel suddenly vulnerable, as if I’m inviting a pair of serial killers into the house. I’m almost too embarrassed to question their status. I wonder which is the lesser of two evils.
As if sensing my reticence, the woman offers up her ID again and I squint to read the small writing.
I lead them through to the front room and invite them to take a seat, but they say they’d prefer to stand.
“So,” I offer, when they’re not forthcoming. “How can I help?”
“As I said, we’re looking into the disappearance of Michael Talbot,” says the man. “Do you know him?”
My brow furrows. “No,” I say more abruptly than I intended.
They give each other a conspiratorial glance again.
“Are you sure about that?”
I look between the two of them, getting the distinct impression that they know something I don’t.
“So you’re not in any kind of personal relationship with him then,” asks the woman, who I think is Robson, tilting her head to the side.
“Why…” I start, my tongue feeling like cotton wool. “Why would you think that?” I wonder if I’ve misunderstood what she’s trying to imply.
“Because we’ve been following some leads and your name has come up on more than one occasion.”
A heat creeps up from my toes, encompassing my whole body, inch by inch, until it reaches my ears.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I manage. “You must have the wrong person; I don’t know a Michael Talbot.”
Robson gives an almost imperceptible nod to her colleague, who reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a photo.
As I study the man, a burning hot liquid sets my chest alight. It’s traveling with such ferocity that I throw a hand over my mouth to stop it ending up on the detectives’ shiny shoes.
“So, you do know him?” says the man, almost smugly.
I don’t look up, unable to tear myself away from the man in the photo. His laughing eyes crease his crows’ feet and his gentle smile sends daggers through my heart.
“Th…” I go to speak, but can’t form the words.
“Take your time, Mrs. Chandler.”
“Th-that isn’t Michael Talbot,” I stutter.
They look at each other with raised eyebrows.
“So, who is it then?”
My trembling hands can’t keep the picture still. I wait for the face on it to change; to one I’ve never seen before. But the longer I wait, the sharper the image becomes, imprinting itself on my brain.
“Th-that’s Jacob Mackenzie.”
If she wasn’t so intuitive, so curious, then perhaps I could have told her my real name. But she’d only poke around and find out things she didn’t want to know.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
I have to be patient, stick to the plan, because if she finds out who I really am, there’ll be no coming back from it.
PART TWO
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