I thought that things couldn’t get any worse when I heard the news on the radio this morning. But they have.
They say that ignorance is bliss. I look back into Claire’s eyes, the eyes that first entranced me twenty years ago when I gazed into them at Varsity Blues (as my diary says). Her pupils are crystal clear today, unsullied by the burden of knowledge. What a difference a day can make. Yesterday, torturous agony was spilling from them. Today, she has the lavender irises of a serene woman, one secure in the comfort of not remembering, exempt from the punishment of knowing.
The wind begins to howl above the treetops.
For once, I would give anything to be a Mono like Claire. Especially today. I know she’s envious of me. Deeply so. It’s an issue that crops up repeatedly in our marriage—and in my diary. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve written sentences beginning with “Claire’s latest rant about Duos is that they are…”
Little does Claire know that being a Mono is what gives her the right to be a happier person.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
“How odd,” I say.
“Inspector Richardson’s waiting, Mark.” Claire crosses her arms, fastening vexed eyes on me.
I’m left with no other option but to follow her up the garden path to the spot where the detective is waiting. Even from a distance, I see that he’s tall and well built, with powerful shoulders. No-nonsense, I-mean-business shoulders.
I squint; the man’s slipping something into his pocket. It looks like a camera case. Damn. What has he been photographing in my garden? I hasten my stride over the remaining yards.
“Morning, Inspector,” I say. Up close, I realize his features are marred by a hawkish nose.
“Good morning, Mr. Evans.”
“I understand you wish to speak to me.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir; I know you’re busy. But I have some sad news about Miss Sophia Ayling. I’m sorry to say that her body was found in the Cam earlier this morning.”
“What?”
“Now, sir, it’s standard procedure in a case like this to take witness statements from family and friends. We need to piece together the deceased’s movements prior to her death, to make sure the coroner’s inquest has all the facts it needs. You were acquainted with Miss Ayling, it seems. Do you mind coming with me to the Parkside station, where I’ll take your statement? It shouldn’t take long.”
I hear Claire sucking in her breath.
“Did you…did you say Mark and Sophia were acquainted?”
“I did.” The inspector nods.
“Mark…” Claire turns back to me, pupils wide and accusing. “Is this a fact?”
Damn. I really ought to defuse the suspicion smoldering in my wife’s eyes.
“I’ll check,” I say, pulling out my diary and examining it with the most innocent expression I can muster.
“My diary says I ran into Sophia in York, at a writers’ conference two years ago,” I say. “An aspiring novelist writing about…er…patients in a mental hospital. Their drug-addled fantasies, in particular. She asked me to sign her copy of On Death’s Door. Said she was a massive fan of my books. How did you know we were acquainted, Inspector?”
“Miss Ayling wrote about you in her diary.”
Shit. What is Sophia’s diary doing in the inspector’s hands?
“I’m surprised you have access to her diary,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “If I learned my facts correctly, the United Kingdom Human Rights Act of 1953 protects a person’s right to privacy. This includes correspondence and diaries.”
“That is correct, sir, but only in general terms.”
The detective pauses, his mouth taking on a curl.
“The 1998 Data Protection Act has been amended to enable the police to obtain ‘personal data revelation warrants’ when necessary. We may seize or inspect e-diaries in the interest of national security. Or when we are investigating serious crimes such as murder and child abduction. You know, the very serious offenses.”
I swallow hard.
“We’ve since obtained one of these warrants for the inspection of Sophia’s diary. Its contents, we feel, might aid our current investigation into her death.”
“What did Sophia say about me?”
The detective shakes his head in silence, thrusting his jaw forward.
“Inspector.” I look him in the eye. “You’ve just told me that poor Sophia has been found in the Cam. And you’re standing in my garden asking me to help you. I wish to know the context.”
“Do you really wish to?”
“I absolutely insist.”
“Well, if you insist…” He holds my gaze with unflinching eyes.
I hear Claire sucking in her breath once again.
“Sophia suggested in her diary that the two of you became quite close after your first meeting in York.” The corner of the detective’s mouth twitches.
Claire takes a step backwards. She looks as though she has been punched in the gut. But the horror that first registered on her face is replaced by something else. Her cheeks are a thunderous flush. Her eyes are blazing over pinched lips.
Damn. I’ve just made a terrible mistake. The best course of action would have been to deny any factual memory of Sophia in the first place. But I was thrown off balance by Claire’s initial reaction. I have to dig myself out of the hole I’ve created. Make sure I won’t slip up again.
I have four options:
(A) deny an affair occurred;
(B) cast doubt on Sophia’s character;
(C) find out what Sophia wrote about me in her diary, preferably not in front of Claire; (D) all of the above.
“That’s a lie,” I say, bunching my fingers into a fist. “Sophia made it up. She said she was crazy about my books. Crazy about me, even though we’d never met before.”
The detective does not look convinced.
“She wrote down what she wanted to believe. She was desperately unhinged. You’re wasting your time here, Inspector.”
“I’m obliged to follow all possible leads.” The detective’s jaw is rigid. “They include the men whom Miss Ayling was quite close to.”
I glance at Claire. She’s clenching her fingers, as I am. Molten lava is still surging to her eyes. But she is, thankfully, amenable to persistent persuasion, as my diary jottings over the past twenty years have tended to suggest. Fact: One of my June 1995 entries, for instance, says that Claire is partial to crimson roses and that “dogged pleading is the key to her stubborn heart.”
Yet I can’t help but shudder. If the tabloids ever hear I may have strayed from Claire, I can wave good-bye to my dream of becoming an MP.
“Inspector,” I say. “I hope it isn’t your intention to arrest me—”
“Dear Lord, no. Of course not, sir. We merely require a witness statement.”
I’m not sure if I should be alarmed or relieved by this.
Richardson clears his throat, tilting his chin a little.
“You wanted to know what Sophia wrote about you,” he says. “Well, under the terms of our warrant, we may disclose the contents of her diary to those directly affected by the investigation. I may share some details at the station.”