I walked the streets after I left the restaurant, churning my conversation with Doyle over and over in my mind. It was two o’clock in the morning by the time I returned to the hotel, cold and in pain from my shoes that had begun to pinch. But still, I couldn’t sleep. It was pointless to even try; I was too angry and frustrated that every move I made turned into a dead end or pointed to a bald truth that Donna Joy was dead.
It was a trick I used with particularly thorny cases, when a killer legal argument seemed elusive: I stopped working, and rebooted. Read or swam, or worked-out at the gym, always thinking, still plotting my next move, but giving my brain some time to breathe. I walked and walked that night and waited until dawn to text Martin on our special number. I kept my message simple. That I wanted to meet him alone. When Martin replied almost instantly, I knew that he wasn’t able to sleep either.
Alex and Sophie Cole lived in a big white stucco terrace on a leafy South Kensington streets, the kind you assume have to be owned by oil sheikhs, ancient aristos or flash bankers seeking respectability. All of which made Alex Cole more predictable than Martin Joy with his cobbled Dickensian bolthole, but none of it made me any less nervous as I walked along the neat row of polished black front doors. I was braced for loitering paparazzi or reporters but saw nothing more sinister than a gaggle of Filipino nannies and a tidy blonde in gym kit striding towards her four-by-four. It was an oasis of polished urban calm; no wonder Martin wanted to stay here.
I took the stone steps slowly and pressed the doorbell, wondering who would answer. Martin hadn’t wanted to step out in public but had suggested during our sunrise communiqué that we meet at the house in the morning, when Alex was at work and Sophie played tennis. But still, coming here, when I knew what I did – that Alex and Donna had been romantically involved – felt more like poking a hornet’s nest with a sharp stick than pressing a bell.
‘Hey.’
Martin looked at me nervously through a crack in the door, then opened it wide enough for me to squeeze through.
When I was inside, we awkwardly embraced, the memory of our uncomfortable goodbye at the hotel still hanging between us.
‘You’re looking much better,’ I said. Better than the crumpled, hunted man who had shuffled into that cheap hotel room, at any rate. He’d showered and shaved, dressed in a navy cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Though he looked more like the old Martin, the purple rings under his eyes remained, like a boxer after a hard bout.
‘Come in,’ he said, leading me through the high entrance hall.
‘Wow,’ I whistled. ‘Nice place.’
In my profession, I sometimes had to visit the homes of the wealthy and they were always impressive, but the Coles’ home was something special. There was a soft, almost ghostly calm to the place, as if I’d entered the relaxation room of a very exclusive spa. There were oil paintings on the walls – abstract patterns in shades of white and cream with splashes of colour that gave them a raw dynamic edge – originals, I assumed, although I did not recognize the artist.
‘Yeah, Sophie has pretty good taste.’
I nodded, but it was a gross understatement.
I’d spent my working life fighting over properties a lot like this one, arguing over art and furniture, bricks and mortar. It was amazing what people would fight over once they had fallen out of love. I have seen thousands of pounds’ worth of legal fees racked up over items of little value – magazine collections, coffee tables, kitchen utensils, things of little financial or sentimental worth, just so they could point score. Just so they could win. But this house was something else; I understood why someone would want to fight over a place like this.
‘I like those paintings,’ I said, pointing at three large canvases on the wall.
‘Donna did those,’ he replied, almost apologetically.
‘She’s talented,’ I said – and it was true.
I tried to ignore how much discomfort it gave me that they were so good. Even when I had seen Martin’s ex-wife in the flesh, seen how beautiful she was, I had always managed to dismiss her as a pampered, self-regarding trophy wife, dabbling in art as a way to pass the time between trips to the Harbour Club and Whole Foods. Even when I saw Donna and Martin laughing together in the restaurant on that hazy, rainy night, I had consoled myself with the thought that I was better than Donna Joy: smarter, sharper, more accomplished. Perhaps I had been wrong about that too.
I followed Martin into the living room, which stretched all the way from the front of the house to a wide set of bay windows at the rear. I could hear birds singing outside, but I felt none of their simple joy.
‘Coffee?’ asked Martin.
‘No thanks.’
I waited until I had his full attention.
‘I need to tell you something.’
‘I sensed this wasn’t a social call.’
‘I’ve been to the police,’ I said finally and he frowned, not following.
‘The police? Why?’
‘To talk.’
‘What about?’
I knew I had to get the uncomfortable stuff out of the way first. The stuff I’d been desperately trying to push to the back of my mind ever since Michael Doyle had told me.
‘Inspector Doyle mentioned domestic violence.’
‘What?’ He sounded astonished. ‘You mean between me and Donna?’
I nodded.
‘It’s utter bullshit. I swear to you, Fran, I have never laid a hand on her. I would never do that.’
‘That’s what I told Inspector Doyle,’ I said, reassured by his bafflement.
Martin pressed a hand against his mouth. I stepped forward and touched his arm reassuringly.
‘Look, I went to see Doyle because I finally got hold of Phil – my investigator.’
That sparked his interest and he stepped towards me, but I held up a hand.
‘It’s not necessarily good news,’ I said with a tone of warning. ‘Donna was seeing someone. Someone other than you.’
I searched his face for a reaction, but there was only confusion.
‘Was this the person she went to Paris with?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘Then what do you know?’
I paused and tried to inhale in the calmness of the room around me.
‘Donna was seeing Alex.’ The words seemed to form in the air between us and I looked away, unable to watch the crash of emotions on his face.
‘Alex?’ he repeated. ‘My Alex?’
I nodded.
‘Is this Phil guy sure about this?’
‘He hasn’t got bodily fluids or video footage, but he’s—’
‘Then how does he know it’s true?’ he interrupted, his voice urgent, loud. I could almost see him winding himself up like a spring, ready to pounce.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Donna and Alex don’t even really get on.’
I noted the genuine disbelief on his face and felt a surge of relief. Phil’s words of caution at our meeting in the Japanese garden had been working through my head like a determined earthworm. An affair with Alex gave Martin more of a motive to get rid of Donna. She could have told him, he could have lost his temper. A crime of passion. But unless he had been studying at RADA, Martin hadn’t had a clue about Alex and Donna’s relationship, however fleeting it might have been. Which made that motive redundant.
I felt guilty for having even considered Phil’s theory, but forced myself to recount everything the investigator had told me, while also giving Martin time to let it all sink in.
‘And you told the police about this,’ said Martin, rubbing his forehead.
‘I wanted to tell them as soon as possible.’
He flashed me a look. ‘Before me?’
‘It’s not a competition, Martin. And since your lawyer told you they might re-arrest you, I wanted to make sure the police were aware of any other suspects with plausible motives as soon as possible.’
He considered this and nodded.
‘So they’re going to bring Alex in for questioning?’
‘They’ve already spoken to him,’ I said. This part wasn’t going to go well either, I could tell.
‘Do you think that’s the reason why they let me go? Why they didn’t charge me?’
I shook my head sadly.
‘They spoke to Alex on Monday.’
The brief look of elation on his face disappeared. He pressed his lips together and I could see him putting the facts together and working out what I had realized hours earlier. Alex had been questioned before Martin had been arrested, which meant that they had eliminated Alex from their enquiries.
‘Listen,’ I said gently, ‘this doesn’t change anything. The police didn’t charge you because there isn’t enough evidence – and with the non-existent body, there never will be. If they are speaking to other people, they’re still open to other lines of enquiry, which means they aren’t convinced you’re their man. And you have to be sure before charging someone. Or at least sure that the CPS have a prosecution case with a realistic chance of conviction.’
‘But how can the police be certain that Alex wasn’t involved in Donna’s disappearance?’ He muttered the question, as if addressing himself rather than me, and trying to process it all in his head. I noticed a pulse beneath his left eye, beating like a tiny heart. Despite what had happened in the Earls Court hotel room, I wanted to wrap him up in my arms and tell him that it was going to be OK. But I still wasn’t sure I believed that myself, not after having spoken to Inspector Michael Doyle. I knew the police weren’t going to break their backs helping Martin out of this hole, so someone else had to do it. I had always loved puzzles and cop shows and I liked piecing things together. Wasn’t that what I did on a day-to-day basis: look for angles and loopholes, trying to out-think the opposition? And right now Martin didn’t need me to be Francine Day the lawyer or even the lover. I had to be the detective.
‘The police claim Alex had an alibi for the Monday night, that last night that Donna was seen,’ I said, feeling a macabre enjoyment in the situation. ‘But for them to discount Alex from the investigation would be to make the assumption that something happened to Donna on that Monday. Why not Tuesday, or Wednesday? Or any day between then and now? What have Alex’s movements been since that Monday?’
Martin looked up. ‘I’m pretty sure he was at a fin-tech conference on the Tuesday and Wednesday. I can ask around, find out.’
I nodded.
‘And here’s something else,’ he said. ‘I’ve stayed here two nights since Alex was interviewed by the police and he hasn’t mentioned it. Don’t you think that suggests he’s got something to hide?’
I was less convinced than he was. ‘I’m not sure the subject of Alex’s affair with your wife is something he’d want to bring up over supper.’
He looked at me, then shrugged, conceding the point.
‘I look so bloody stupid. Everyone knew about it but me.’
‘I’m not sure the police think that Donna’s relationship with Alex was serious,’ I said.
‘Now there’s a consolation.’
Neither of us spoke for a few moments.
‘How did the police find out anyway?’
‘A friend of Donna’s had told them. But Inspector Doyle was vague with the details. It was possibly the same person who my investigator interviewed. It’s unlikely they’d speak to Phil and not the police, given that Donna is missing and the police have been asking people to come forward with information.’
‘And the domestic violence allegations?’ He said that more nervously.
‘I think that was Donna’s sister.’
‘Jemma?’ he said, raising his voice. ‘But she barely speaks to Donna. They’re not even remotely close.’
‘According to Inspector Doyle, she’s helping police with the investigation.’
Martin stood up and walked over to the window.
‘When did it start? Did she tell them? When exactly did my business partner start fucking my wife?’
‘Yes, I’d like to know the answer to that question myself.’
I spun round, heart jumping at the sound of a voice behind me.
‘Sophie,’ I breathed. ‘I didn’t realize you were there.’
‘No,’ she replied tersely. ‘Apparently not.’
She was wearing sports kit, with a gym bag slung over her shoulder. I’m sure that any other day she would have looked like a poster girl for clean living, but now her face looked ashen. The awkwardness shimmered around the room. Martin stood up by the arm of the sofa like a teenager caught taking a fiver out of his mother’s purse.
‘I thought you were playing tennis.’
‘It was called off. Thought I should come back and see you, but clearly I was mistaken.’
There was a faint tremor in her voice and it was hard not to feel sympathy.
‘How much of that did you hear?’ I said slowly.
‘Enough.’
‘I’m sorry if you didn’t know.’
‘I knew,’ she said, standing up straighter, as if she were trying to recover her dignity. ‘I knew what Alex had been accused of, anyway. As you can imagine, it was something the police brought up when they spoke to me – total fiction, of course.’
Interviewing Sophie wasn’t something Inspector Doyle had mentioned in the quid pro quo, but then I supposed that made sense, given that Sophie had apparently given Alex his alibi.
‘Not total fiction, Sophie,’ I said gently. The door was open and I knew I had to use this opportunity to get as much information out of her as possible. The law made you a predator like that. Spot the fault line and pounce.
‘One of my investigation team found out about Alex and Donna when we were evaluating the Joys’ financial settlement. I thought Martin deserved to know.’
‘Is that what qualifies as family law now?’ she demanded, eyes blazing, all the warmth of our previous meetings gone. I could hardly blame her for that.
She turned and looked back at Martin.
‘Alex denies it,’ she said with absolute conviction. ‘It’s up to you who to believe.’
I looked at her with a moment’s admiration. She was protecting her man, as I had made it my mission to look after Martin.
‘But I’m sorry we didn’t tell you we’d both spoken to the police,’ Sophie told Martin in a more measured voice. ‘We weren’t trying to deceive you or be dishonest. It’s just that we came to the decision we wouldn’t make this situation any more difficult than it needed to be.’
Martin rounded on her. ‘Difficult? This isn’t some bloody dinner party faux pas, Sophie. The police – the police – have said Alex had a relationship with Donna. If anything has happened to her, that gives him motive.’
‘Bullshit!’ she snapped back. ‘Alex said they’ve only ever been friends. And it’s not as if you’re a paragon of virtue, is it?’
I didn’t know what she meant by that. At that precise moment, I didn’t want to know.
‘Insulting each other isn’t helping. Maybe we just need to tell each other what we know about Donna in the week running up to her disappearance. Like how long were you at dinner with Alex on that Monday night?’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said Sophie, shaking her head. ‘You come into my home, accusing my husband of having an affair with one of my best friends, and then you insinuate that he might have had a window in his diary to slip away and kill her.’
I thought I saw a tear glisten in the corner of her eye, but I couldn’t be sure.
‘I know this is difficult, but we just want to find out what has happened to Donna.’
‘It’s not Donna you care about,’ she said, flashing a look between me and Martin.
She had a point, but I wasn’t going to stop now.
‘Please, Sophie. Just answer the question. Donna was your friend.’
She put down her bag and sank on to the arm of the sofa. She filled her lungs then let it all out, her shoulders sagging.
‘OK,’ she said and didn’t speak for another few seconds.
‘I met Alex after work,’ said Sophie. ‘Monday is generally our date night. We went for dinner at Locatelli’s, came home about elevenish and watched some television.’
‘What time did you go to bed?’
‘Around midnight. And before you start wondering if Alex somehow slipped out of the house when I fell asleep, I was awake because I left the bedroom to phone my mother. She lives in Chicago, with my step-father. It was her birthday. I hadn’t called her and didn’t want to miss out speaking to her on the big day. It must have been one thirty by the time I finally got back to bed. Alex was fast asleep when I got there.’
She paused and pressed her lips together. ‘As for anything else, any affair: I’ve never noticed anything strange about the way Donna and Alex have behaved. She’s a beautiful woman, obviously, and I’d be a liar if I said I’ve never been a little bit nervous when she’s around. Those summer weeks we’ve spent in Ibiza, Umbria, afternoons by the pool? Not many wives would feel completely secure lying next to Donna with her little bikinis and her perfect body. But you choose to trust your friends and to trust your husband. There’s no alternative, is there?’ she said in a cool, composed voice.
She looked at Martin.
‘Speaking of which, you should talk to Alex, ASAP, clear things up. We don’t want things to be uncomfortable here or at work, do we?’
Martin shook his head, looking down at the floor.
‘I should probably go back to my flat,’ he said.
Sophie’s response was immediate. ‘Don’t be so childish,’ she said, reverting to her crisp efficiency. ‘You said yourself the place is swarming with reporters. All right, so you’ve got to deal with an awkward conversation with Alex, but right now staying here suits all of us.’
I looked at Sophie, not knowing whether to pity or admire her. She was either in complete denial – which I had to doubt, given the woman’s almost pathological pragmatism – or she was being magnificently loyal to both of them: Alex, the man who’d almost certainly cheated on her, and Martin, the man who might well have murdered her friend. I watched as she stood, straightening her skirt and raising her chin defiantly. ‘Now I think we’d all benefit from a decent cup of tea, don’t you?’