I open my eyes wider. ‘Shave it off? No way. We didn’t say anything about this.’
She picks up the scissors and the packet of disposable razors. ‘It’s not negotiable, Dan. Pretty soon now the police are going to be looking for an English bloke with hair over his ears and a scruffy beard, not a Norwegian bloke with a shaved head.’
She’s got a point.
‘I hope I’m not going to be the only one doing this. What’s your plan for yourself, O mistress of disguises?’
‘I’m going to cut my hair shorter. Not as short as yours, mind. Or, more accurately, you’re going to cut it for me.’
‘Me?’ I yelp. ‘What the hell do I know about cutting hair?’
‘Oh yeah, cool, I’ll just call the mobile hairdresser out, then, shall I? Or maybe pop into the salon in town and ask for a Fugitive Special?’
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ I say, completely refusing to acknowledge the fact that she’s right and I know it. To be fair to her, she looks pretty damn good with the short hair and baseball cap combination. She’d look good in anything, though.
‘What about supplies?’ I ask. ‘Food and stuff like that.’
‘There’s a little shop on-site. Does everything you need, apparently. Not much point going there while we still look like this, though.’
It’s been a while since I’ve had a haircut, and I’ve never gone as short as having my head shaved, but I can see Jess’s reasoning. To be quite honest, I don’t give two hoots about my hair or my beard – they’re both pretty low maintenance aside from the occasional beard trim, and it saves regular trips to the barber’s or constant shaving, which I hate. I’ve always been lucky that my hair grows pretty slowly and always tends to look neat, plus I had the advantage that fashion actually seemed to catch up with me for a change in terms of my facial hair. Deep down, I know that my reluctance to do this isn’t because of me personally; it’s because I know how much Lisa likes – liked – my hair and my beard. It feels as though it’s the last thing keeping the memory alive, as daft as that sounds after she’s only been dead a matter of hours. However, out here in a strange country in a strange car with – let’s face it – a strange woman, it’s one of the only constants I’ve had.
‘It’ll grow back soon enough,’ Jess says, as if she’s been reading my mind.
I swallow and nod, then pick up the razors and head for the bathroom.
22
After my haircut and shave I feel as though I’m starting to think more clearly. It’s as if the hair was somehow clouding my brain.
I can’t help but keep touching it. It feels odd.
‘Right, we need to sit down and go through everything,’ I say as Jess tries to neaten up her new fringe in the mirror. Thankfully she can’t see the back, because I’m fairly sure I’ve butchered it. ‘We need to try and make sense of all this.’
‘I think you need to tell me something first,’ she says.
I swallow. ‘Like what?’
‘That text message. Are you sure you didn’t send it?’
‘No! Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Why would I? She was seventy miles away. That’s just the thing: I didn’t even know she was in Herne Bay, never mind at the hotel, so why would I tell her to come up to my room?’ I sigh loudly. ‘Jess, she didn’t even know which hotel I was staying at. I don’t even know for sure that I specifically told her it was Herne Bay. I might’ve just told her it was Kent. I go away on work that often, it’s not even a talking point in our house any more.’
‘So why was she there? And how did she get there?’ Jess asks.
‘I don’t know. That’s what’s really freaking me out.’
‘Was her car in the car park?’
I think for a moment. I hadn’t even thought about that until now. ‘No. I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t see it, but then I wasn’t exactly looking out for it. It’s a silver Fiesta, so it’s not exactly an uncommon car.’
‘And she didn’t tell you she was coming?’ As she speaks, Jess starts rifling through the cupboards.
‘No, of course not. I think I’d remember that.’
‘Score. Minibar,’ she says, pulling a bottle of red wine out of the cupboard. ‘Right. Glasses . . .’
I can’t help but shake my head. ‘Are you actually taking this seriously? My wife’s dead, I’ve been framed for her murder, we’re . . . fuck knows how many miles away from home in fuck knows what country, and you’re more worried about wine glasses?’
‘Switzerland,’ she says, opening another cupboard and pulling two wine glasses out.
‘What?’
‘The country. It’s still Switzerland. We’re not far from Germany or Liechtenstein, though.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ I yell at the top of my voice, all of my emotions finally bubbling to the surface. I stand and slam my hands down on the table before marching over to Jess, towering over her as she stands in front of me, her face neutral and a wine glass held in each of her hands. ‘What is wrong with you? Are you some sort of mental case or something? This is serious shit, Jess! Why can’t you grasp just how serious this is? This is my whole life, fucked up by one act that wasn’t even my fault! I’ve lost my wife, I’ve lost my freedom and I’m about to become the most wanted man in Europe!’
‘Probably the world, to be fair,’ she says.
I grab her by the shoulders and start shaking her. ‘I’m serious! Will you stop being such a fucking idiot and grow up for a minute so we can get our heads round this?’
‘Grow up?’ she says, her voice calm. ‘You want to talk about growing up?’ As she speaks, I hear the anger starting to come through in her voice, bit by bit until she’s roaring at a full crescendo. ‘You’re away on work, having a great time and you decide to bed the young receptionist while your good little wife waits at home for you, completely unaware of what you’re doing? Is that what you call grown-up?’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is all about, is it? You can hardly talk, Jess. It takes two to tango.’
Before I can realise what I’m doing, I’ve done the stereotypical soap opera turn-away-towards-a-window move.
‘What do you want me to do, exactly?’ she says. ‘I got you out of there. I got you safe. I got you the time and space to think, but I can’t think for you, Dan. I don’t know who would’ve wanted to kill your wife and frame you, do I? I barely fucking know you.’
She says those last few words in a way which has them laced with hidden meaning.
‘And what do you mean by that?’ I ask, turning back to her.
‘Exactly what it sounds like. You need to get your brain into gear and work out what’s gone on here, because I can’t help you with that. I mean, yes, I’m a pretty good judge of character after the stuff I’ve been through over the years, but what’s to say it wasn’t you who killed Lisa?’
‘It wasn’t,’ I say quietly, almost whispering.