Pain stabs me, curdling my heart. I can barely breathe. I drag my gaze away from Liesl’s entry to the next paragraph in the column.
Winchester, Anna May: Vanished on her way to the Trinity May Ball in June of 1995 before making a surprise reappearance at a friend’s apartment nineteen days later, looking disheveled and starved. Her doctor said her stress levels had gone through the roof. Clammed up like an oyster when asked about the reasons for her disappearance; I unfortunately got very little out of her. (NTS: Came away from the Winchester interview feeling that I should learn better questioning techniques. I ought to try to get a place in the next “How to Prise Useful Information Out of People” course in London.)
I look up at Claire Evans.
“Yes, we did find her,” I say.
“You did? Really?”
“Nineteen days after she vanished.”
“Thank God for that.” Relief fills her face. “What happened to her?”
“We never found out.”
“But why did she go missing in the first place?”
“She refused to say.”
“How odd.”
“Odd things happen in my line of work,” I say, shrugging. “Because people are odd. They do odd things all the time. This is an unfortunate fact, which gives poor detectives like me a perpetual headache. Were you once acquainted with Anna?”
She shakes her head.
“Then why does her case matter to you?”
She turns her eyes to my chessboard for a few seconds before replying: “It struck me as being unusual, that’s all. Its timing also coincided with those missing days in my head.”
I sense that Claire Evans hasn’t been entirely forthcoming in her reply. Only a desperate person would come all the way to Parkside to find out more about a girl who temporarily disappeared twenty years ago.
I decide to probe further. “Do you know someone who was bothered by Anna’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know if Ma—” she says, swallowing. “No, I don’t.”
A flash of insight strikes me.
“Your husband, perhaps? Wasn’t he a postgraduate at Cambridge around the same time?”
Her mouth is pinched shut. But she pushes her shoulders back and mumbles: “No. I don’t think Mark knew her.”
“You’re sure?”
She nods, but I sense she’s hiding something darker.
“Could you tell me what your husband did yesterday, by the way?”
She blinks at my rapid change of subject.
“Do I have to answer your question?” she fires back, eyes darkening again.
“No, not at all.” I keep my face even. “But I’ve answered your questions about Miss Winchester. And my question has to do with a man you wish to divorce.”
She sighs.
“Very well,” she says. “Mark was at home yesterday.”
“Did he not leave the house?”
She shakes her head. “No. I felt poorly and spent most of yesterday in bed. Mark kept checking on me all day long. He also made me lunch and dinner. But I had little appetite for either.”
“What was wrong?”
She hesitates for a long time before replying:
“Felt a bit down in the dumps.”
Her answer has the unmistakable ring of honesty to it.
“Any idea why?”
She presses her lips together for a few seconds before shaking her head.
“No.”
Fuzziness clouds her eyes; Claire Evans may well be telling the truth.
“What about the day before yesterday? What did your husband get up to?”
“One moment.”
She opens her handbag—it’s jammed full with yellowing papers—and pulls out her iDiary. She hits a few buttons with a frown.
“Mark took lunch in his study so he could continue writing,” she says, glancing up at me. “He went back there after dinner to do more work. I don’t think he left home on Thursday either.”
I sense that Mrs. Evans is indeed telling me the truth about what’s written in her diary. The details also tally with what her husband said when I questioned him earlier this morning. Alas.
“Thank you for clarifying,” I say.
“I must go,” she says, replacing her diary and shutting her handbag with a snap. She gets up, looking slightly happier than when she first settled down. But before she begins moving in the direction of the door, she fastens her eyes on me.
“Mark didn’t kill Sophia Ayling,” she says with a determined tilt of her chin. “He sleeps with other women, for sure. That’s why I’m divorcing him. But he isn’t a murderer. He’s not one to hurt others. This is a fact I’m convinced of.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She sighs.
“Thank you for your time, Inspector,” she says before walking out the door.
Anna May Winchester? What the hell?
I’m about to pelt down the stairs to the records storage room when I realize that Fiona has reappeared at my door. The broad smile on her face matches the size of the wrapped object in her hand.
“I see you’re rushing off somewhere,” she says, holding out the item in my direction. “But you should investigate this sandwich first.”
“You’re a star, Fi.” I grab the packet from her hand. “How can I ever repay you?”
“You looked starved earlier,” she says with a chuckle as I rip the foil open and begin cramming the sandwich into my mouth. “I realized from my diary that it was way past your normal lunch hour. So I took pity on you. Repayment’s easy, by the way. Just buy me lunch later this week.”
I’m impressed that Fiona has bothered to write down and learn the time I normally have lunch. I should also marvel at her artful attempt at engineering a date with me.
“Claire Evans is quite a character, isn’t she?” Fiona says, giving me another pointed wink. “But I’m not surprised her husband decided to seek greener pastures…”
“Meow. You’re being catty.”
“I’m being honest. She’s no match for the woman on Peter’s screen earlier. Claire’s curves are in all the wrong places.”
“People tend to pile on the pounds when they get married. This is a fact.”
“My, oh, my.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Are you defending Claire Evans?”
“Course not.” I shake my head, trying to gobble down the rest of the sandwich in a dignified manner. “I’m merely pointing out the obvious.”
“Hah. You have a thing for busty blondes, don’t you?”
I’m tempted to groan, but my mouth is stuffed full of crispy bacon. I’m inclined to think that Fiona is flirting with me. Or she could simply be trying to work out my precise tastes in women.
“How are you getting on with the case?” She chuckles at the expression on my face.
I swallow the rest of the sandwich before replying:
“Still more questions than answers. Mrs. Evans’s unexpected visit has added to the riddles in my head. Multiplied them, even.”
“Busty blondes can be problematic.” She gives me a sudden smirk. “You might fare better with skinny but tamer brunettes.”