What an unexpected development. I wonder why Claire Evans has come to Parkside to see me. Fact: My hunches about people are usually right. And my intuition says that Mrs. Evans is a woman with secrets. Of course, I already know that she’s on antidepressants and has tried to damage herself in the past. However, my gut also tells me that I’m merely scraping the surface.
Two female figures loom at the door, just a few yards away. Mrs. Evans’s lavender eyes have turned a couple of shades darker since this morning. They are also framed by puffy eyelids.
“Step right through, madam,” says Fiona before giving me a pointed wink and disappearing outside.
“Ah, Mrs. Evans.” I stand up to greet her. “Nice to see you again. Please have a seat.”
She settles down on the chair previously occupied by her husband. Her hands have acquired a nervous fidget since we first spoke. They also look different to me. They are now devoid of jewelry, although there is still a gold bracelet around her wrist. I could have sworn I saw a diamond ring and a wedding band on her left hand earlier this morning. I squint; two pale flesh circles have replaced the rings on her finger. So Hamish’s report about what transpired at that Guildhall press conference was accurate.
“What can I do for you?” I say.
She does not answer. She merely studies her naked fingers. Fact: Silence can be just as revealing as an extended gabble of speech. Her reticence tells me that she’s struggling with something tumultuous within.
“Does Miss Ayling’s diary say they started their affair around two years ago?”
She lifts her head and fixes her eyes on me. Turmoil rages within their depths.
I nod.
She sighs. “I thought so. Mark began spending more time in London then. That’s what my diary says.”
“I’m sorry. Telling wives their husbands may have strayed isn’t my favorite part of the job.”
She shrugs.
“I should have smelled a rat when Mark began disappearing from Cambridge. But I failed to read the signs. Even though they were there from the start.”
So Mark Henry Evans is a serial adulterer.
“You’ve since decided to divorce him.”
Astonishment surges to Claire Evans’s face. But she pulls her shoulders back, lifting her chin.
“Word gets round fast in this town.”
“My visit must have prompted this decision. Otherwise you wouldn’t have known, would you?”
“If your wife was unfaithful, would you still want to stay married to her?” Her eyes flash red.
“I’m not married. My job takes up most of my time.”
“Lucky you,” she says before falling silent again and staring down at her hands.
I wait for her to speak once more. Fact: Most people are uncomfortable with prolonged silences. They usually become desperate to fill the gaps with words. And sentences born out of desperation, as I’ve learned over the years, can be pretty damned revealing.
“Did Miss Ayling’s diary say that Mark…was in love with her?” she says in a sudden rush.
“I can’t answer that question.”
Did I just see a glimmer of relief in her eyes? A distinct flicker of hope that her husband was never in love with his mistress? If so, she must still be subconsciously holding out for a reconciliation.
“Are you still investigating Mark, then?”
“We’re following up all possible leads. They include the men Miss Ayling may have been intimate with.”
“Have you found anything?”
“Again, I cannot say.”
“You’re like a stone wall.” She rolls her eyes at me. “It must come with the job you’re married to.”
“But you didn’t come here just to tell me that I resemble a stone wall, I presume. What really brings you to Parkside, Mrs. Evans?”
She opens her mouth only to close it a few moments later. Again, I wait in companionable silence.
“I’ve…er…I’ve come to ask you about a girl named Anna May Winchester.”
“Anna May Winchester?” It is my turn to look surprised.
“Yes. She was a Cambridge alumna who disappeared on her way to the Trinity May Ball in June of 1995. You were the DC on the case. At least, that was what the newspapers said at the time.”
Of course. Fact: Anna May Winchester did indeed vanish on her way to a ball in 1995. It was one of the first investigations I took on as a DC. But why is Claire Evans interested in the Winchester case? I rack my brains, trying to pull up a factual connection between Claire and Anna. But my mind’s an utter, abject blank.
“Why are you interested in her?”
“Much of the period between the thirteenth and twenty-fourth of June that year is a black hole in my head,” she says, sudden sheepishness shading her face. “That’s why I dug up a few newspaper articles from that period. Anna is featured in some of them. I’m hoping you could tell me more about her.”
This is both odd and intriguing.
“Did you not keep any diary records of those twelve days?”
“I…er…did. But I…er…may have lost them.”
I’m gobsmacked. Diary loss is serious business. People do not normally lose their lifelines to the past if they can help it. Fact: The Protection of Personal Diaries Act (1995) has reduced the number of thefts and extortion rackets by obliging citizens to install safes in their homes for the storage of hard-copy diaries (though thefts from people carrying diaries in public places is still a problem).
“Lost them? Did you report the loss, as required by the Protection of Personal Diaries Act?”
“Er…no.” Embarrassment floods her eyes. “Let’s just say…I may need to search my home again.”
“But surely you must have worked hard at learning those pages before losing them.”
Her lower lip trembles.
“Maybe not hard enough,” she says with a sigh, refusing to meet my eyes. “I’ve misplaced those pages, that’s all. That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping you could tell me what happened to Anna.”
“Mrs. Evans.” I heave a sigh in return. “I’m in the middle of a criminal investigation. I’m up to my neck in the case. You know what I’m investigating. I’m sorry to say that my current job description does not extend to a historic disappearance.”
“Please, Inspector.” A shrill note of desperation jangles her voice. “Could you at least tell me what happened to the girl? Did you find her in the end?”
Maybe I should answer her questions. Claire Evans, after all, is a Mono, as I am. Monos ought to be nice to their own kind—otherwise, who else will be nice to them? Fact: I also understand how missing girls, the embodiment of unanswered questions, can gnaw away at one’s psyche.
“I’ll check,” I say, turning to the shelf behind me and reaching for a purple notebook entitled “Enforced or Voluntary Disappearances: Lessons Learned.” I flip through its pages and run my finger down the column labeled “U-V-W.” My eyes gravitate to the main entry, highlighted with a fluorescent marker.
Von Meier, Liesl: What more can I write about poor Liesl, apart from the terrible, soul-destroying realization that I had an opportunity to solve her case within a single day and that I will forever be haunted by my failure to do so? (NTS: I should—