As my eyes opened, I felt calm. Nestled under the warm, fresh-smelling sheets, I was, in that moment at least, safe. Then the familiar feeling of dread pushed to the surface, threatening to escalate to panic.
It’s OK, Clare knows everything, I told myself, fighting the churning in my stomach, and she’s going to help.
It went some way to reducing my anxiety, but not much. As far as I knew, Martin was still in custody and could well have told them every intimate detail of our relationship, making me an accessory and meaning my career was entirely over. Not that it had much future anyway, I reminded myself, not after my freak-out in court. I’d be lucky if I could get work writing up wills.
I forced myself to take a few deep breaths. Much as I wanted to stay there under the duvet, I swung my legs out and headed downstairs. Both Clare and Dom were gone: no surprise as the kitchen clock told me it was almost noon. It was a shock and I immediately wondered if Clare had put something in my drink the previous night, a sleeping potion from her doctor’s black bag, quickly followed by the realization that I wasn’t late for work: there was no work for me, at least not until I got my act together.
Clare had left a set of keys on the kitchen table and a note to say that they thought they should leave me sleeping. I don’t know why they had left me in bed. I’d mentioned to Clare that I was taking a couple of days off, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have plenty of things to do.
My first priority was to help Martin, but I also needed to contact Tanya Bryan and Holly Khan. I was ashamed I had run out of court and abandoned my client and I knew that I had to face the music. Hiding under the duvet wouldn’t solve anything.
My bag was still on the sofa where I had left it the night before.
A blue flashing light told me I had a message. I skipped a heartbeat, wondering if it was Martin; it turned out to be from Sophie Cole, wondering if I wanted to meet for lunch.
I hesitated for a moment and then replied yes. It would serve no purpose moping around Clare’s house. Besides, I wanted to probe Sophie for more information about Martin.
The mobile still in my hand, I gritted my teeth and called Tanya at her office. The gods were smiling, because a receptionist told me she was in court and asked if I’d like to leave a message. I was shocked at how relieved I was to avoid that particular confrontation; my hands were shaking as I put the phone down. There was a solitary foil strip of lithium in my purse and as I took my morning dose, I tried not to think about the fact that I only had a few days’ worth of pills in my bag. It wasn’t Tanya’s anger I feared, but coming face to face with my failings and the very real consequences of letting people down. I was glad to delay hearing about how I’d ruined Holly’s life as well as my own, even if the whispers in my head were constantly reminding me.
Apart from my own internal noises, the house was oddly silent. Sunlight streamed through the bay window and I suddenly wanted to feel some warmth on my face so I opened the back door and stepped into Clare’s garden, a small square of grass and pea shingle; it was bijou, but it was undeniably a sun trap.
I sat down on one of the bistro chairs, closed my eyes and tipped my head back towards the sky. For one blissful moment I was on holiday, an empty day ahead of me on one of my beloved August trips to Italy. I imagined that the sound of wind through the trees was the sea scraping along the shore and the distinct hum of traffic was the sound of mopeds in a distant piazza.
But only for a moment. Then I was back in London, sitting hunched on a rusting chair, avoiding a long list of things to do.
I went back upstairs and took a shower. I’d heard of travelling light, but even I couldn’t resist a snort when I saw my paltry belongings laid out on the bed. A carrier bag containing my wig and gown, and my clothes from yesterday – black skirt, jacket and the stiff-collared white shirt I had worn to court. I slipped on the skirt and bra and took a grey T-shirt from a pile of clean laundry, hoping that Clare wouldn’t mind.
I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my damp hair with a towel as I browsed the net searching ‘Martin Joy arrest’, until my phone gave an angry beep, indicating it was almost out of juice. Usually that sound would bring on an irritated sigh, but today I felt something like fear: the idea of being disconnected from news of Martin made me jump up and run to Clare’s study, knowing she was scrupulously organized: if anyone had a charger, Clare would.
I rooted through the box labelled ‘chargers’, throwing mismatched cables aside, dismissing the notion that I shouldn’t be in here, unasked, rummaging through my friend’s possessions like it was a jumble sale. I was sweating, shaking, on edge. I had to find that cable, had to. It was as if my whole well-being hinged on that one thing. With a whoop of triumph, I found a wire that fitted and jammed it into the phone, sinking down into Clare’s office chair with relief.
It was too tempting not to hop on Clare’s computer to continue my web search. I tapped the keyboard and it hummed to life. The screensaver of Clare and Dom on a beach somewhere, arm-in-arm, grinning, a vision of happy togetherness, didn’t help my mood, but I soon lost sight of it when I clicked on the home page of one of the leading tabloids.
Overnight one of the world’s most famous celebrities, an American reality television star married to a controversial rapper, had been involved in a violent fracas with a fan. Social media, along with a shameful amount of the world’s supposedly serious news outlets, had gone crazy over it.
On any other occasion I would have rolled my eyes at a news item about the unfathomably popular, but right then I was thankful for the insatiable interest the public had for the primped and pampered as it had knocked Donna Joy from the headlines.
I scrolled down the page and I saw the story, Man Held in Connection with Donna Joy Disappearance.
I clicked on the piece, my eyes scanning the text as quickly as they could. With growing relief, I saw that the writer had carefully avoided using Martin’s name or anything that might identify him as ‘the husband’. Press reporting had tightened up lately, particularly in cases where people had been arrested but not yet charged, but I suspected this was the work of Robert Kelly, the media lawyer I had recommended. Bob Kelly was a master in getting stories squashed or neutered to the point of opacity. I picked up my charging phone, initially to call Robert’s office for an update – but then decided to go right to the top and call Martin’s criminal solicitor. But would he tell me anything? Any lawyer worth his salt would be cheek-by-jowl with Martin in the police interview room right now, and I did not want to disturb that work, no matter how desperate I was to know what was happening.
As I was considering my options, the phone began to vibrate in my hand. I flipped to Messages and saw it was from Martin. My heart thudded as I clicked on it.
Let go. Meet me later. Hotel?
I didn’t know which part of the short message excited me more – that he’d been released from custody or that he wanted to meet in a hotel. I touched my face: it was hot and I could feel blood pulsing in my neck. I was light-headed, agitated and uncomfortable. I couldn’t sit down, so I got up to pace around the tiny room, clenching and unclenching my hands, shaking off the pins and needles in my muscles. He was free – and he wanted to see me.
I went back to the bedroom and grabbed my purse, then ran back to Clare’s desk. I clicked off the news site and jumped on to a hotel booking engine, quickly typing in ‘central London hotel’. My hands hovered over the mouse when it asked about the number of guests. I pulled down the list and clicked on ‘one’. I knew I had to start thinking ahead, cover our tracks. Sophie had been right yesterday. My relationship with Martin was no one else’s business, but exposing it to anyone would not help Martin’s cause.
I had to admit I had always enjoyed the illicit nature of my relationship with Martin, and I felt a thrill now as the booking engine threw up hundreds of London hotels. For a moment I imagined us in one of the chicest and most expensive places; crisp white linens, room service bringing us strawberries and champagne. I would run Martin a bath and we would climb in together. He would sit between my thighs and I would soap his chest, washing away the grime of the police station, soothe his frown with my kisses.
But that was just a fantasy and I had to be smart; the Savoy and the Ritz were too high profile, too central, too pap-friendly, even if the tabloids did seem to have lost interest. And so I chose a cheap chain hotel in West London; low-end enough to be anonymous but big enough for no one to notice the comings and goings in the lobby. I texted Martin the details, already giddy at the thought of seeing him once more.
The hotel was a short hop away from Queens Park on the tube but check-in was busy. I joined the longest queue to get lost in a swarm of faces. A bellboy asked me if he could help with my luggage, but I smiled and shook my head. I didn’t want anyone remembering me. Besides, I didn’t have any bags.
The room was small and dark, hidden away at the back of the eighth floor. A room for businessmen and tourists, not lovers. Unless they were like us, I thought, my eyes straying to the low bed, then the walls, wondering how thin they were. I crossed to the door and peered through the peephole into the corridor, as if I’d actually see him standing there. Feeling foolish, I turned on the television and tried to watch a lunchtime soap, but couldn’t concentrate.
Instead, I switched on the classical music channel, kicked off my shoes and stood at the window, eyes trailing over the view of London, telegraph poles and the orange-peel bricks of thin terraced houses, checking my watch over and over, trying to work out Martin’s movements, how long he would be.
And then there was a knock at the door. I stopped breathing as I crossed the room; jittery, nervous, guilty. For so long I had been not merely a law-abiding citizen but a law-serving citizen. I was upright, reliable, above reproach. And yet here I was, meeting a suspect in a missing persons case, a client I was forbidden to have a relationship with. It was so, so wrong. But it was Martin. The usual rules didn’t apply.
I opened the door and inhaled sharply when I saw him. He looked exhausted, hollow eyes, a dark shadow of stubble on his face, shoulders slumped.
‘Hey,’ he said, and I wrapped myself around him, just holding him, feeling his solidity, smelling his smell. Then I pulled him into the room and closed the door, double-locking it. He was mine now and I didn’t want anyone disturbing us.
‘How are you?’ I whispered, knowing how inadequate it sounded.
Martin gave a lop-sided smile.
‘Much better now.’
Now I saw the lilac semi-circles under his eyes, saw how they made his irises even more green, a pop of colour on a pale face.
‘How long did they keep you?’
A more pertinent question. One worthy of my experience in the law.
‘Twenty-four hours,’ he replied, pulling away.
‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, noting the surprise on his face. ‘I mean, good that they didn’t keep you longer. They can only detain you past twenty-four hours if you’re being held on suspicion of a serious crime. Which suggests you’re just a person of interest.’
He pulled away and sat down on the bed.
‘The lawyer said they haven’t got enough evidence yet, that there’s a good chance they’re going to arrest me again …’
He paused as if he was stopping himself finishing his sentence.
‘When they’ve found a body,’ he said.
He looked up at the ceiling and I could see his Adam’s apple rise up and down over his tight throat. I sat down next to him.
‘That’s pure speculation. Since you and I both know there isn’t a body to be found, you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?’ I offered him a smile. ‘Apart from getting caught with me in some seedy hotel room.’
‘Yes, that is a much bigger problem,’ he said, holding my hand.
I looked up at him.
‘I thought you said we shouldn’t contact each other.’
I made it sound like I was concerned, that I was making a practical point. Perhaps it isn’t wise, should we do the sensible thing and both go home? But that wasn’t it at all. I wanted him to confess that whilst he was lying in that tiny cell his thoughts were consumed by me, that I was the one thing that got him through his whole ordeal. I simply wanted to know how much he loved me.
‘Right now, you’re the only person I feel I can talk to.’
I fought to hide my disappointment. At least it was me he wanted to see; it would do for now.
‘How was your lawyer?’
Another practical question. I felt some responsibility here. Matthew Clarkson needed to be good, the best. And although I trusted Tom Briscoe’s opinion that he was great, I still felt responsibility.
‘Can’t say I’ve had much experience in these matters. But he had my back. Difficult bastard, as a matter of fact. In a good way. I think he was a sound pick.’
‘I’m glad,’ I replied.
He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a cheap-looking phone.
‘Alex came to the station and gave me this; one of those disposable things. We should communicate on this number in future. You should get one too.’
‘Makes me feel like a spy.’
He gave a soft snort. ‘It was hard to see any James Bond glamour in the situation last night, I can tell you.’
He took off his jacket and started rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Let me do that,’ I said, climbing behind him, placing my hands on his shoulders. ‘Sophie said you’re going to stay at their house?’
He nodded. ‘She’s gone into full-on damage limitation mode. Arranged for me to stay with them. I’m not sure how long it’s going to shake the press off. Hiding at my business partner’s place isn’t exactly deep cover, but it’s better than going back to the loft.’
He sat forward, head in his hands.
‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Right now, the most important thing is finding Donna. Once she turns up, you have nothing to worry about.’
‘And if they find a body?’
‘If,’ I emphasized. ‘And if they do, then they’ll have evidence. DNA, fingerprints, fibres, things that can help the police track down who has hurt her – and which will prove you had nothing to do with it. Because right now, they are chasing ghosts and ghosts don’t leave a trace, which is why they are coming after you.’
I stood up and went to the kettle.
‘Now, do you want some tea?’
Finally Martin smiled.
‘Thank you,’ he said, coming over to me. ‘I knew I could rely on you to stay focused.’
If only you knew, I thought, as I put tea bags in two cups.
‘Given that there’s no body and no evidence, did the police say why they had brought you in?’
His shoulders sagged and he looked away.
‘They keep saying this is still a missing persons investigation. But I know they think she’s dead.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s gone, Fran,’ he said, irritation overcoming him. ‘She’s disappeared – and it’s been over a week now. I’m the last one who saw her. By rights, I should hate her. We’re getting divorced, she’s after half my money – and to most people, that’s a lot of money. If I was the police, I’d arrest me too. Who else are they going to point the finger at?’
‘So what you’re saying is, they’ve got nothing.’
‘They have enough, Fran!’ he said, his anger flaring. ‘I’ve admitted going back to her place, and there’s nothing to back up what time I left. No taxi driver, no CCTV – and even if there was, what would that prove? How long does it take to kill someone?’
He looked at me without blinking, as if he was waiting for me to give some sort of reply.
I knew I had to tell him. I’d been storing it up like a jack-in-the box, but now it was time to pull myself together and help Martin, and that didn’t mean keeping everything I knew to myself, no matter how awkward it was to reveal it.
‘I think Donna was having an affair,’ I said finally.
His eyes opened wide. ‘What?’ he snapped.
The kettle was coming to the boil, so I switched it off and busied myself making the tea as a way of avoiding his eyes.
‘I hired a private investigator, a guy named Phil Robertson,’ I said. ‘Any means necessary, remember?’ I added, handing him his cup with a challenging look.
‘Phil followed Donna and became convinced she was having an affair. In the end he assumed it was with you.’
‘Why me?’ asked Martin.
‘He had two pieces of information. He photographed you and Donna together and noticed that Donna didn’t return home on two or three occasions. The most likely conclusion was that she was staying with you.’
‘Donna never stayed the night with me.’
I watched his face carefully.
‘So if she wasn’t at your place, she was somewhere else,’ I said slowly. ‘With someone else.’ I sat down next to him.
‘The way I see it, there are three possibilities. Either Donna is off with this mystery man right now, shacked up in some private cabin blissfully unaware of the hoo-ha it’s causing. Or, it’s entirely possible that she is aware of what’s going on, having read the news online, but is in no hurry to come home.’
‘Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Spite, mischief … She’s trying for half your money, remember? It wouldn’t help her cause if she was already in a relationship with someone else.’
Martin digested that and I saw a little hope enter his heart.
‘What’s the other possibility?’
I’d been mulling the theory over and over.
‘Perhaps the mystery lover found out about you and Donna, that your physical relationship wasn’t entirely over,’ I said carefully. ‘Maybe it made them jealous.’
‘And they killed her?’
I nodded slowly, waiting for him to see why this was bad news. It didn’t take long.
‘But I’d still be the prime suspect,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘They find a body, I’m still the one with the motive.’
‘And the opportunity.’
He thought for a while, then stopped sipping his tea.
‘Any idea who it is?’
‘I wondered if you knew.’
‘Of course not,’ he said, frowning.
‘Phil’s trying to find out. Did you go to Paris with Donna?’
‘Paris?’
‘Or Belgium. Or anywhere you’d visit on the Eurostar.’
‘No. I always fly to Europe,’ he said with some irritation. ‘Besides I haven’t been anywhere with Donna since last summer. When was this supposed to be?’
‘The precise dates are in a file at work. But Phil saw her go through the international terminal at St Pancras. He wasn’t booked on to a train so he couldn’t follow her.’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘Yes, but she could have met someone.’
‘Where? In Paris? On the train? Why not meet at the station?’
‘Because she didn’t want to be seen.’
‘So Phil, your private investigator – he’s looking into this?’
I nodded.
‘Is he working alone?’
‘He always does. Better that way, when you’re dealing with privacy issues.’
‘Well, it’s not private any more,’ said Martin, standing up and pacing around like a cat. ‘Get him to put a team together – I don’t care how much it costs. If the police are convinced it’s me, they’re not going to be looking for anyone else. We’re going to have to do it ourselves.’
‘I need to tell you something else.’
He caught my tone and stopped pacing.
‘I saw you go to Donna’s house that night.’ I paused. I had been dreading telling him this. ‘When Phil told me you were still seeing Donna, I was hurt. I wanted to find out if it was true, so I followed her to the restaurant where you met. Then I saw you go back to her place.’
If he thought there was anything strange about that behaviour, he didn’t show it.
‘And did you see me leave?’ he asked.
‘I can’t remember. I was drunk.’
‘You can’t remember?’ he said with a flash of anger. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘I was drunk. I waited in the pub across the road. Got home somehow. When I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t remember a thing.’
He sank to his knees in front of me, taking my shoulders. ‘Fran, you have to try and remember,’ he pleaded. ‘You have to.’
‘I would if I could,’ I said feeling my voice tremble in frustration.
‘Then you you’ve got to think harder,’ he said, his voice taking a stronger, more insistent edge.
‘I would if I could,’ I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. I looked at him and I could see an idea forming in his brain. I knew it was what we were both thinking.
That I could lie for him. That I could tell the police the story I had just told him, except that I could remember seeing him leave.
‘I’m sorry I followed you,’ I said, before he could ask.
He gave me the faintest of smiles.
‘I’m glad you did,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘Why?’
‘Because it means you love me.’
His words made me shiver. As he looked at me, I just wanted to feel him inside me.
‘Come here,’ he said in a softer voice, reaching a hand out towards me.
‘All I wanted to do today was see you.’
‘I wanted to see you too.’
‘Even though I look like this? I’m in urgent need of some fresh clothes.’
‘Not right now, you’re not,’ I said, feeling bold. I began to unbutton his shirt and pulled him close. Placing my hands on his hair as he buried his head into my skirt, I could hear him breathing me in and I wanted to feel his lips against my skin.
My hands reached behind me and I unzipped my skirt, which fell to the floor with a rustle.
I hadn’t had any clean underwear that morning so I wasn’t wearing any.
Standing up, Martin loosened his trousers, until he was naked, his body as magnificent as I remembered. Mounting the bed, he turned and propped a pillow under his head, watching me as I finished undressing.
I crawled on the bed towards him, straddling him. For the first time in days I felt vital and powerful. I sat on his thighs and as we kissed, I pushed my breasts against his coarse scrub of chest hair.
He gave a low moan when we came up for air and then grabbed me, flipping me on to my back. He sucked my nipple and then he was astride my body, lowering himself into me.
His head knocked against the headboard, softly, slowly at first then stronger and harder.
I could feel his frustration in every urgent thrust. I held on to him, fingers pressed against his back, feeling his hard, tense muscles under his skin; I had never really noticed how strong he was before, but now his raw power pinned me down. I was unable to do anything but follow his lead. I felt full of him, and as he pushed my thighs apart, it began to hurt.
I groaned, wanting him to be more gentle, but a part of me was enjoying being totally overpowered by him. It was as if he wanted to consume me and I wanted him to possess me too, to go so far inside me that we became one, fused together, forever.
His moans were harder, more feral as he pumped into me. I could feel his anger, his frustration with every urgent thrust.
His hand pushed my legs even further apart in a rough gesture and I felt a sharp overstretch of muscle between my thighs. I tried to cry out but I could barely breathe, let alone ask him to stop.
The slow swell of desire began to fade as I realized I wasn’t enjoying this any more.
He grabbed my hair and I could feel my scalp pulling away from my skull. His mouth was pressed against my ear, spittle washing up on my skin as he grunted with each thrust.
I just wanted it to be over and I bucked into him, panting louder and louder as I faked my climax.
The veins on his neck popped and his eyes squeezed shut.
‘Donna,’ he moaned, and I felt him explode into me.
I didn’t want to believe what he had said at first, but I could hear the echo of her name in my head, and had to admit what he had just cried out.
I lay absolutely still, staring at the ceiling as he rolled over. Lying side by side, he reached over and put his hand on my thigh as his breathing began to return to normal, but I didn’t want to be near him. Instead, I got up off the bed and walked to the window.
The sky was completely overcast, making the room dark. I folded my arms across my chest and fixed my gaze on a rooftop aerial in the distance.
I stood there until I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t turn to look at him but could feel his breath on my neck.
His arms came around me and I flinched.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said softly.
‘You were too rough,’ I whispered.
‘I’m sorry. I lost control.’
‘Don’t say anything,’ I replied, as he turned me around slowly.
I looked away from him. ‘You called me Donna.’
I was stiff and rigid and could feel goosebumps form on my naked skin in the cool of the air conditioning.
‘Don’t deny it,’ I whispered, almost hearing him thinking up an excuse.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’
Another silence.
‘Why? Why did you call me Donna?’ I stepped away from him and could feel disgust and bile in my throat.
‘Because it’s all I can think about. Her name is the only thing I’ve heard over the past twenty-four hours. I didn’t mean it the way you think I meant it.’
‘And what way would that be?’
For a second the only thing I could picture was Martin and Donna in bed. The sex raw, unbridled, pure desire. I see him holding her wrists, tight, so tight, her skin is turning purple. I see his eyes flash with longing and pain and fury. I see how easy it would be for him to put a pillow over her face, to muffle her screams and I see him fall away from her lifeless body. I can suddenly picture it all.
‘Fran,’ he murmured, putting his hand up to my cheek. For a second my breath stopped.
‘Fran, please. I wanted to see you today because I love you. Because I need you.’
‘I think you should go,’ I said.
He nodded, as if he understood and picked up his shirt from the floor.
We both dressed in silence.
‘Where will you go?’ I asked.
‘Alex’s house.’
I wished I had a drink or cigarette and could barely wait to open the mini-bar.
‘Will you call Phil?’ he said finally as he hovered at the door.
I nodded, arms still wrapped around my chest and watched him close the door, glad, for the first time ever, to see him go.