Rowan sighs.
“You don’t need to be a fucking genius,” he says, “to figure out that damage has been done. Serious damage. This calls for damage-control mode. Pick-up-the-bloody-pieces mode. Wipe-the-shit-you’ve-made-in-your-own-pants mode. You have two options.”
“Go on.”
“One. Convince people that Claire wasn’t thinking. That she got all emotional when she texted that woman. That it was a massive mistake on her part. She still loves you. She thinks you’ll make a brilliant MP.”
I shake my head.
“Two. Get her to issue an immediate press statement, within the next two hours if possible, stating that it wasn’t she who sent the message. Given that Claire brought this pile of shit on your head, she alone can scrub you clean.”
“But how do I persuade her to do that?”
Rowan sighs again before sinking down on the stool next to mine.
“She isn’t my wife,” he says. “You know more facts about her than I do. Like whether she prefers flowers or fancy lingerie. Or whether you should just grovel at her feet. Good luck, Mark. You’ll need it.”
Monos and Duos should be defined by their humanity rather than their ability to remember one day or two.
—Manifesto of the International
Anti-Discrimination Society, 2015
Chapter Nine
Hans
10? hours until the end of the day
Mark Evans’s neighbors must either be uninterested in their surroundings or only interested in themselves. Or both. I’ve tried four households already and no one has seen or heard anything of significance. This is damned frustrating; I’ve already wasted thirty-three minutes of my fast-evaporating time. Yet there are still two doors remaining on the row of terraced houses opposite Evans’s home. I knock on the penultimate one: a frazzled-looking woman answers the door, a baby boy in her arms. Dark purple bags frame her eyes; mashed carrot stains pepper her shirt. The child’s holding an enormous blue rattle. He must be around a year old.
“Good afternoon,” I say, holding up my badge. “DCI Hans Richardson of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary. Could I ask you a few questions about Mark and Claire Evans, please?”
She wrinkles her nose.
“What about them?” she says.
“Your name first, madam, if you don’t mind.”
“Mary-Jane Rutherford.” She winces as the boy shakes his rattle in her ear.
“Duo?”
“Definitely. I’m afraid I haven’t got all day, Inspector. Not with Fred driving me nuts. What precisely do you need to know?”
I’m going to dispense with all the questions I had originally intended to ask. After all, the Textbook of Criminal Investigation says that detectives should display instinctive, fleet-footed agility when responding to each circumstance.
“Why don’t you like Mr. and Mrs. Evans?” I say.
Surprise glints on her face.
“How…how did you know that I—”
“Your nose said it all when I mentioned them just now. What do you not like about them?”
She puckers her lips in silence. Young Fred shakes his rattle again, this time in my direction. The noise jars my nerves. One should never arm a crook with a gun or a baby with a giant rattle.
“I shouldn’t be saying this…”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“I really shouldn’t, but hey…I’ve always thought that Newnham’s a select neighborhood for Duos. Duos. Even if one half of a partnership is rich and famous. Exclusive areas like this one shouldn’t be polluted with…people of a certain class. Do you get my drift?”
“I most certainly do. But do you not like Claire Evans as a person?”
She grimaces.
“Why not?”
“She gives me envious looks whenever I go by with Fred. The fact crops up often in my diary. It’s probably because she has always wanted a child. But she really shouldn’t…”
She trails off with a scowl.
“Why shouldn’t Mrs. Evans want a child?”
“Haven’t you heard the news this morning?” she says. “Duo-Mono couples have a twenty-five-percent chance of conceiving Mono children. Twenty-five percent, mind you. That’s a pretty large percentage, in my humble opinion.”
“I don’t see why this is wrong.”
“There are more than enough stupid Monos in this world, Inspector. Most murders are committed by Monos. That’s a fact, no? Monos already create enough trouble for us Duos as it stands. Duos shouldn’t be going around polluting their own bloodlines. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Not all Monos are stupid.”
She narrows her eyes at me, nose flaring.
Damn it. I really should bite back the rest of my blistering reply for fear of giving myself away.
“But I’m sure your feelings are shared by many,” I add, trying hard to keep my voice level.
Fact: I meet Duos like Rutherford all the time. I shouldn’t work myself up into a fluster, although it’s tempting to yell at—
A giant rattle is traveling in the direction of my head; I twist my neck, dodging the missile just in time. It hits the ground in a shrill-pitched crash, prompting young Fred to emit a loud squeal of delight.
Mrs. Rutherford sighs.
“Sorry, Inspector,” she says. “Fred’s just being naughty. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“Not really.” I shake my head. “I’ve found out everything I wanted to know about what rattles people on this street.”
Time for the last door, the one belonging to the curly-haired neighbor in the purple dressing gown who came out on her porch earlier this morning to stare at Claire and me. I tap the polished brass knocker; the woman answers within seconds, dark eyes burning bright. She is wearing large hoop earrings and a flamboyant dress that resembles a caftan. Her manicured fingernails are painted alternately purple and green to match her dress. A shiny faux crystal is embedded in each nail.
“Hello,” I say, holding up my identification badge. “I’m DCI Hans Richardson of the Cambridge—”
“I saw you leading Mark away from his home earlier,” she says, her words spilling out in a nasal accent. “Did he do something wrong? Something bad?”
“I cannot answer,” I say, causing disappointment to flood her face. “What’s your name, madam?”
“Carmen Miranda Scott-Thomas.”
“That’s a grand name.”
“My mum’s Brazilian; she named me after the famous samba singer. But my husband’s English.”
“Duo, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Could I ask you a few questions about Mr. and Mrs. Evans, please?”
“Sure,” she says. “Come on in.”
I step into her living room. A veritable blast of sandalwood and patchouli assails my nostrils. Unlike those in Martha Brown’s home, furnishings here are lavish and plush. Purple beaded curtains billow in the breeze wafting through two French doors on the other side of the room. Mrs. Scott-Thomas points me to a velvet sofa with moss-green cushions. I shake my head, preferring to stand.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the Evanses?” I say. “Either yesterday or the day before? Did they get any visitors?”
Mrs. Scott-Thomas frowns.