I nod.
“Would you mind answering the question?” says Detective Robson, tilting her head in the direction of the tape recorder.
“Yes,” I say loudly.
“Because you were worried about his well-being, but he wasn’t in.”
“He didn’t answer the door, no.”
I squirm as they play the incriminating doorbell footage again.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘Is she in there with you? You’re going to need to come out, because I’m not leaving until I see you’?”
I sigh. “I thought Jacob’s wife might be in there, holding him against his will.”
“Michael’s, you mean?”
I nod before remembering the rules. “Right.”
“Because she’d allegedly threatened him on the phone?”
“Not allegedly, no. She called him to say she knew where he was and implied that she was going to come for him.”
I look from one officer to another. “Can I just ask whether you’re holding her to account in this matter?”
They both look at me blankly.
“She’s the one you need to be talking to,” I cry. “I’m in no doubt that she would follow through on her threat.”
“We’re not at liberty to—”
“For God’s sake!” I’ve lost the patience I’ve tried so hard to hold on to. “He lived in fear of her and now he’s disappeared, you’re wasting your time on me.” I fall back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe and calm down. “I have no reason to wish him any harm. He was my client, nothing more.”
Detective Harris pushes a printout of an email across the desk to me, the tips of his fingers resting on it territorially.
“We have now managed to access Mr. Talbot’s emails and there are a number of messages between the pair of you.”
I squint, more at the false accusation than the piece of paper itself. I can’t ever remember an email exchange between us. I can’t see any reason why I’d even have his email address, as all our conversations were either on the phone or by text.
“I’m sorry, what’s this?”
“It’s an email exchange, apparently between you and Mr. Talbot,” says Detective Robson.
Harris releases the piece of paper from his grip and my brow furrows as I pick it up and start reading.
Darling Michael,
I know you didn’t mean what you said last night.
You’ve probably woken up this morning regretting it, but I just want you to know that I still love you, more than ever, and NOTHING you say will ever make me love you less.
Call me when you can.
Love always,
Naomi x
I look up at the two detectives staring at me. “What is this?” I ask, hoping to God that all the irrational thoughts flying around my head are about to be squashed.
“Well, it seems that it’s an email from you to Mr. Talbot,” says Detective Harris.
My lungs feel like they’re being squeezed. I hold on to the sides of the table to steady myself.
“Where did you get this from?” My voice is just a rasp.
“From Mr. Talbot’s emails on his phone,” says Harris.
“But I didn’t write this,” I say.
“There’s more,” says Robson, laying out sheet after sheet of paper on the table in front of me. “This one is of particular interest as it was sent the night before his wife reported him missing.”
I look at the typed words as they swim in front of my eyes.
Dear Michael,
I know you said that it’s over between us, but you can’t just shut me out like this and pretend it never happened. I put everything on the line for you and I will not be tossed aside just as soon as you’ve had your fun and are ready to go back to your wife.
I love you and I know you love me too—we are made for each other and I will not allow you to throw away what we have. If I can’t have you, no one will.
Naomi x
My blood turns ice-cold as I read the words I don’t recognize.
“Can you explain what you meant by, ‘If I can’t have you, no one will’?” asks Robson.
“I can’t believe you think I’d write something like this,” I choke. “I’m a happily married woman, with a professional reputation I guard fiercely. Yes, I may overstep the line sometimes, but not in this way. And as I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t even know a Michael Talbot. The man you’re talking about is Jacob Mackenzie to me. Why would I have a folder in my office with his name on it? Why would he be listed in my phone as Jacob Mackenzie?”
“To hide your true relationship with him from your husband?” offers Harris. “You’ve already said that your husband didn’t know he was living in the flat you own, so I’m guessing he also doesn’t know that you went round there the night before last. Why wouldn’t you tell him if there was nothing to hide?”
“I’ve told you,” I say impatiently. “Because he already thinks I get too involved with my clients.” Every word I utter feels like I’m sinking further and further into quicksand.
I pick up a printout of an email and look at the sender’s address: [email protected].
“Anyone could have set this up,” I say, forcing a laugh, though nothing about this is funny.
The two police officers give each other a sideways glance.
“We’re looking at all lines of inquiry at the moment,” says Robson.
I want to tell them to look into one they couldn’t possibly have imagined. The recently released prisoner 491032–056 and his rehabilitated daughter who might well be leading this entire operation from a condo on Long Island. They might even be doing it from right here in Whitstable.
I shudder at the thought. Had they seen me? Followed me? Had my sister stood so close that she was able to smell my perfume? I wouldn’t have known, I’m sure of that.
That blonde-haired, blue eyed girl in the Google image is now a woman who haunts me. I try to kid myself that I would recognize her if I saw her now; that I’d have an innate sense of her being my own flesh and blood. But in reality she’s a stranger, with a complex hatred for the sister who she believes abandoned her.
“So unless there’s anything else you’d like to tell us,” says Robson, bringing me back into the room, “you’re free to leave.”
I scrape my chair back and stand up, desperate to get out from underneath her unswerving scrutiny.
We lock eyes and hers tell me everything I need to know.
She’s adamant that I’m a jilted lover, that I’ve abducted Jacob, or Michael, or whoever he is, and am either holding him somewhere against his will, or have already done away with him.
She thinks that it’s only going to be a matter of time before I slip up and reveal my secret. But I haven’t got time on my side. The only way I’m going to get myself out of this is to find Jacob, and find him now.
17
I rush out of the police station, desperate for fresh air, and gulp it down.
I’m only a few miles from home, but standing on that roadside, I may as well be in another country. Everything feels so surreal, as if I’m frozen in time while everyone else rushes around me, utterly oblivious to the precipice I’m precariously balanced on.
It’s as if I’m just waiting for someone to push me off, but without knowing which direction they’re going to come from, it’s impossible to shore myself up. I feel horribly vulnerable and exposed from every angle and would rather get it over with; for whoever is doing this to do their worst, so that I can open my eyes again. It’s the waiting, the not knowing when and how, that’s stopping me from breathing.
I have to take back control of this situation and wonder if I shouldn’t just turn around, go back into the police station and tell them everything. Although I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, there’s still so much more I haven’t told them, and I fear it’s those untruths that I’m going to spend the rest of my life running from if something really has happened to Jacob.
Or I could just start eliminating myself from their inquiries, but to be able to do that, the evidence needs to match the narrative.