A sudden black desperation floods my soul; I’m now frantic to pull up some facts from that twelve-day vacuum. Anything at all. Moving away from the table, I begin pacing around the room, trying to jolt the information into my head. I grimace at the cobwebs in a corner of the ceiling, hoping they might trigger a revelation or two. I squint at a redbrick building outside the window. But there’s only darkness inside me, a frustrating void. I suppose it’s impossible to dredge up what I never tried to learn in the first place.
Sighing, I return to the table and continue riffling through the remaining items from Mark’s folder. I pause at a couple of invoices from the Cambridge law firm Harrison & Co. for “services rendered.” The documents are dated 20 and 24 August 1995, and show the amounts of ￡135 and ￡229. I wonder why on earth Mark needed the services of a law firm. There’s also a receipt for a two-carat solitaire diamond ring from the jeweler Ernest Jones, dated 13 July 1995, for the sum of ￡1,888.
I suck in my breath before collapsing on Emily’s bed.
Didn’t Mark propose to me at 21:07 on 14 July 1995, on the upper balcony of the De Vere Hotel, whipping out a solitaire diamond ring as he fell on one knee? Unlike the twelve-day void in my head, this little fact rushes instantly to mind. Additional fact: I reacted by gaping at the dazzling ring, speechless for once. But as soon as my astonishment wore off and I realized that Mark truly intended to marry me, I was over the moon (though I did my best not to appear too giddy).
Incidentally, the diamond is still on my left hand. After years of wearing my engagement ring, I’d forgotten to remove it when I told Mark I wanted a divorce.
I stare at the glittering gem on my finger, chewing my lower lip. The solitaire sparkles even in the dim light, its multiple facets piercing the gloom of the room. I should be flattered that Mark paid a whopping ￡1,888 for the ring twenty years ago. Didn’t I learn from Cosmopolitan magazine that a man should be willing to part with at least double his monthly salary for an engagement ring? If Mark’s Trinity fellowship allowance was ￡975 that term, he must have either begged, borrowed, or dipped heavily into his personal savings to buy this one.
For me.
But did he ever love me in the first place? Or was his proposal driven by other reasons? If he wanted me purely for sex on the first day we met, why did he eventually ask me to marry him?
I think I know the answers to these questions. I can’t ignore the facts I’ve learned.
Taking a deep breath, I begin tugging at the two rings on my finger. The engagement ring slips off at once, but my wedding band refuses to budge. Twenty years of marriage has resulted in ten pudgier fingers, left ring finger included. Gritting my teeth, I yank harder. To my relief, the gold band comes off in a sharp, chafing rush.
I set the rings down on the table. It feels as though two enormous weights have been lifted off my hand. Even my shoulders seem lighter.
I feel strangely liberated.
But there’s still a sense of disquiet in my stomach. Doubting questions still circle my mind like vultures, refusing to be shooed away. Earlier this morning, I was confident that Mark had nothing to do with the death of Sophia Ayling. Mark isn’t a murderer, I thought. He’s a cheat. A man who has sex with other women to the detriment of his wife’s happiness and sanity.
But a missing woman has now entered the fray.
A thought slips into my head.
Maybe I should speak to that gray-haired detective. He might be able to shed light on the reasons behind Miss Winchester’s disappearance. Maybe even illuminate that troubling void of darkness in my head. And while I’m at it, I could ask him a few probing questions about my husband’s nocturnal shenanigans.
Anyone with information as to her whereabouts is urged to call 999 at once.
Call 999.
A call twenty years overdue, but better late than never.
I reach for the phone in my handbag. As I do so, someone knocks on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
The door creaks open; Emily is at the threshold. Her face is a flustered shade of red.
“Sorry for disturbing you, sweetie.” She bustles in, wiping floury fingers on her apron. “You must be up to something, with those papers around you. Is everything all right? Did you get some rest?”
“Not really.”
“Mark…er…Mark called the landline,” she says. “He wanted to know if you’re here.”
I gasp.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“You told him that I’m here?”
“Er…yes…I did. He said he’s coming over to talk to you.”
“He said what?” I stare at her in horror.
“I’m sorry.” Emily raises her hands, spraying flour on the carpet. “But we don’t have to let him in. Even if he makes a scene outside my door. He wouldn’t dare to anyway. Not when I have two nosy neighbors right across the corridor who’ll be itching to report him to the press.”
I leap to my feet and begin stuffing Mark’s papers back into my handbag.
“I’m so sorry, Claire.” Emily’s forehead contracts into a mass of wrinkles. “It was silly of me to tell him that you’re here. But I did say that he’s the last person in the universe you wish to see, after everything he’s done.”
I reach over and squeeze my best friend’s arm to indicate that I’m not upset.
“There’s nothing wrong with the truth, Em. I’m getting really sick of lies. I need to leave anyway.”
“Where are you going?” Surprise floods Emily’s face.
“I’m seeing a detective who might help me figure out what happened twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago?”
“Yes. The summer of 1995.”
The United Kingdom Human Rights Act 1953 (Amendment)
Art. 8(1) and Art. 8(2)
Article 8: Right to respect for privacy and memory
1. Monos and Duos have the right to privacy in their family lives, homes, and diaries in life and in death. Unless a person’s will specifically states that a private diary should be preserved after death, electronic and written diaries shall be destroyed upon the death of each individual.
2. There shall be no interference by a public authority in the exercise of this right except in accordance with the laws of a democratic society and in the interests of national security, public safety, and the mitigation of disorder or crime. Public authorities may therefore be empowered by warrant to inspect the diaries of deceased persons to ensure the continued protection of these interests.
Chapter Sixteen
Hans
8? hours until the end of the day The clock on the wall tells me that it’s half past three in the afternoon. My lunch is long overdue, and my stomach is growling, forcibly reminding me that I’ve been on the Ayling case for ten consecutive hours. I should step outside for a quick bite. But the phone on my desk is erupting with a shrill clamor; I pick up the receiver with a sigh.
“Hans,” a female voice says. “Front desk. A woman here wishes to see you. She says her name’s Claire Evans. You apparently visited her garden this morning.”
I sit upright in my chair.
“Get someone to bring her up.”
“Fiona, then. She’s passing by.”