by B. A. Paris
He gives a quick smile.
“It’s all right, I’m leaving.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, guiltily. “I wish I didn’t still feel angry with you. But I do.”
I wait until he’s left, then take out my cell phone and call Ginny.
“You know when you called me on Saturday to say that Leo was staying the weekend with you? Where was he when you called me?”
“Um—upstairs in his bedroom, I think. He told me that he’d left you a message to tell you he was staying with us and I realized I hadn’t told you that Mark had invited him, and I didn’t want you to think we were taking sides. Is everything all right? It’s not because he’s still here, is it? But he had to be in London today, and again tomorrow.”
“No, it’s absolutely fine, it’s lovely of you to have him,” I say.
“Are you sure you’re all right with it?”
“Yes. It’s just that on Saturday, I was out and when I got back, I was sure he’d been here. But he said that he hadn’t, that he was at yours.”
“Yes, that’s right. He arrived on Friday evening and didn’t go out all weekend. Mark offered to take him golfing on Saturday with him and Ben but he had work to do and spent the day in his bedroom.”
“Great. Thanks, Ginny. Let’s have lunch again soon.”
“Call me when you know what day.”
“I will.”
I cut the call, feeling bad for not believing Leo when he said he hadn’t come to the house. I take the key from my pocket, the one I sneaked from his wallet, and drop it into a little earthen pot that stands on my desk. I’m not going to use it, I can’t. I’m not that sort of person.
TWENTY-NINE
I’m running up the stairs. I need to open the filing cabinet but I can hear someone moving silently through the rooms downstairs. I reach the study, take the key from my pocket, my fingers fumbling as I insert it into the lock. It won’t turn, there’s something wrong. I take the key out, try again. I need to be quick, he’s checking the rooms, looking for me. The key still won’t work. I jiggle it and it turns. I pull open the drawers carefully, my breath coming in short gasps, aware of soft footsteps on the stairs. The first three are full of client files. I tug the bottom one open; it seems empty but I crouch down and reach into the shadows at the back of the drawer. It’s there, the metal cash box is there.
The footsteps are coming along the landing now. I close my hand around the box, lift it out, place it on the floor. The door of the guest room creaks as he pushes it open and checks inside. I don’t dare breathe as I insert the tiny key in the lock. I need to hurry, he’s almost here. I unlock the box; the door behind me pushes open slowly and I crouch lower, hiding myself. I lift the lid and a scream of pure terror unfurls from deep inside me. But before I can give voice to it, a hand clamps down on my mouth, silencing my scream before it’s even begun.
I start awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps, residual damage from the dream I just had. I reach out a trembling hand and switch on the lamp, remembering that as I tossed and turned in the throes of my nightmare, I was aware, on another level of my subconscious, of Nina watching me. I had wanted to call out, ask her to save me from what was to come. But I hadn’t been able to.
I throw back the covers and get shakily out of bed. I’m no longer sure I can do this, stay in the house by myself. The temptation to call Leo, and ask him to come home is so strong that I take my cell phone through to the kitchen with me. I’m in desperate need of a drink, something soothing, so I pour milk into a mug and find the chocolate powder. The comforting hum of the microwave soothes me and I try and recall what the metal cash box of my nightmare had held. But it’s as elusive as the face of the man who stifled my scream.
* * *
I manage not to call Leo, but it’s five o’clock before I feel ready to go back to bed. Although I sleep late, I’m uneasy for the rest of the day, rattled by my nightmare. The discovery of more of my hair in the kitchen, and in the bathroom, depresses me further. I’m still losing it steadily.
There’s a ring on the doorbell. I go to answer it and find Eve, on her way for her morning run.
“I wanted to thank you for Saturday evening,” she says. “Will and I really enjoyed it.”
“I enjoyed it too,” I say, smiling as she hops from one foot to another on the doorstep, already in warm-up mode. “It was lovely to meet Connor and Tim properly. Do you want to come in?”
“No, thanks, I need my run.” There’s a pause. “I’m not being nosy or anything, but it’s hard not to see things here. Is Leo back?”
“No, he came to pick up some files.”
“How is he?”
I pull a face. “Managing to guilt-trip me by feeling hard done by.”
“That’s not fair. He should have been upfront with you about the house in the first place.”
“I know. But if he had, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have met you, I wouldn’t have met any of you. Don’t you think it’s amazing, the way fate works?”
She stops moving and looks at me curiously. “Do you think it’s your destiny to be here?”
“Yes. I’m a great believer that fate takes you where you’re meant to be.”
“For a purpose, you mean?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure what that purpose is.”
“You’re not trying to find the truth behind Nina’s murder, then?” Behind the question, her eyes are innocent.
“But if everyone believes that Oliver killed her, surely there’s no truth to be found?” I say, puzzled.
“Except you don’t really believe that Oliver is guilty.” Neither does Tamsin, I want to say, but as I wasn’t meant to have overheard their conversation, I can’t. “That’s what I don’t understand, Alice. Why do you think he didn’t do it? It’s not as if you knew him.”
“You’re right, I only know what everyone here has told me about him and that’s what I find hard to reconcile; the picture you’ve painted of him and the violence of the crime. But I’m not trying to solve any mysteries. First of all, it’s not my place, and secondly, if everyone is happy that Oliver killed Nina, there isn’t anything to solve anyway.”
We’re interrupted by Will coming out of the house.
“Still here?” he calls over, looking at Eve in amusement. “I thought you were desperate for a run.”
“I am.” She starts to move off. “Bye, Alice!”
She jogs to meet Will at the bottom of the drive. They exchange a few words and she plants a kiss on his mouth before disappearing into the square. Will gives me a wave and follows at a more leisurely pace. I watch them go, acknowledging once again that the more time I spend with the people who knew Oliver and Nina, the more I feel that something is off. Eve said she knew that Leo was at the house yesterday because it’s hard not to see things in The Circle. Yet Nina had apparently had an affair for several months before she died and no one, not one person, had seen someone going into her house more frequently than they should have. Which means that Nina either met up with him outside The Circle, or they were able to sneak into her house undetected—which points the finger right at Will. He’d have been able to come and go as he pleased, using the gap in the fence without fear of detection. Although Eve works from home, she goes for a run for at least an hour every morning, and spends every Thursday with her mum. If Will had wanted to, he had plenty of opportunities to go and see Nina while Eve was out.
* * *
It doesn’t take me long to accept that I am the sort of person who will snoop through her partner’s affairs. The key to the filing cabinet is an itch I can’t get rid of. I’ve tried to distract myself by keeping my head down and working, but by the time I break for lunch on Wednesday, I can’t ignore it any longer.
I take the key from the earthen pot and go up to Leo’s study. There’s no point unsticking the smaller key from the underside of the drawer in his desk if there’s nothing in the filing cabinet except client files. I unlock it; the first three drawers ho
ld exactly that—a neat row of client files lying snugly in their hammocks. I bend to open the bottom drawer and when I see that it contains client files too—not as many as the first three, because they’re pushed to the back, leaving room at the front for new files—I begin to feel a bit foolish.
And ashamed. I sit down on the floor, embarrassed that a part of me had actually wanted to find something. But I need something more, because if I’m to leave Leo, I’m worried that his lie of omission, plus his lie about me—both of which have changed the way I feel about him—won’t be accepted as a good enough reason, not just by Leo but by others I care about, like Ginny, Mark and Debbie. In their eyes, maybe those lies aren’t so great. I still care for Leo but the trust has gone. I told him, the day we spoke about my friend, that if I couldn’t trust him, I couldn’t be with him. He knew, yet he still took the risk.
The bottom drawer is still open and, disheartened, I give it a shove to close it. Something shoots out from under the files; I just have time to see it before the drawer slams shut, pulling it back underneath. My heart in my mouth, I crouch down, open the drawer and reach in under the hammocks. My fingers touch something solid. I pull it toward me, expecting a book, a desk diary maybe. What I get is a black metal cash box.
I stare at it. Apart from the color—I had imagined it red, like the one I had as a teenager—it’s exactly the sort of box I’d imagined the key fitting. And then I remember the nightmare I had, how the box had been black, just like this one, and how what I saw inside had caused me to scream—a scream that had been silenced by a hand over my mouth. I scramble to my feet and look nervously toward the door. Voices reach me from the road outside, a parent speaking, a child laughing in response. They calm me; it’s the middle of the day, there are people around, nothing bad is going to happen if I open the box now, in broad daylight.
I unstick the tiny key from the underside of the drawer in Leo’s desk, telling myself that it might not fit the lock anyway. When I lift the box from the filing cabinet, I’m surprised at how light it is. I move it a little and something slumps against the side, a small book, a diary or journal maybe. My heart thumps, Nina heavily on my mind.
I place the box on the desk and insert the key. It fits. I turn it and lift open the lid.
At first, I think it is a diary. But it isn’t, it’s a passport, one of the old blue ones that are no longer valid. I feel a rush of adrenalin. Was this Nina’s? I pick it up gingerly, my fingers already shaking, because why would Leo have Nina’s passport? I turn to the page where the photograph is, and forget to breathe. Taken twenty years earlier, yet instantly recognizable, it’s not a photo of Nina, but of Leo. And then I see the name, and once again, the world I thought I knew crumbles around me. The passport is in the name of Leo Carter, not Leo Curtis.
I grope behind me for the chair and sit down, vaguely aware of someone ringing on the doorbell. Why would Leo tell me his surname is Curtis when in fact it’s Carter? I remember then, the way he looked as if he was about to pass out, the day I confronted him about the murder, when I asked him who he was. I had meant—who was he that he could lie to me? But he must have thought I’d discovered his true identity.
The doorbell rings again, sending panic surging through me, because Leo must have noticed that the key has gone from his wallet and has worked out that I’ve got it. I jump to my feet; what am I going to say to him about why I took it? And then I realize—if he has a passport in a different name, he must have something to hide, something far worse than sneaking a key from a wallet.
THIRTY
I go downstairs, taking the passport with me, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, dreading the confrontation I’m about to have with him. I open the door and take a sudden step back. It’s not Leo, but Thomas.
“Oh.” I should have realized that Leo wouldn’t ring on the bell, he has keys. But why is Thomas here? Did we have an appointment?
“Alice, I’m sorry to disturb you but could I come in?”
He seems almost as flustered as I feel.
“Um. Yes, I suppose so.” I open the door wider, realizing how ungracious I sound. But my mind is still spinning with the discovery of Leo’s passport.
He comes into the hall and I close the door behind him.
“Can I ask—did you get a letter from Helen, Oliver’s sister?”
It’s hard to focus. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“I’m so sorry. I saw her last week and she said she wanted to write to you. I intended to check that you were open to receiving a letter from her. But when I saw her this morning, she told me that she’d already written and had asked her carer to post it.” He looks at me anxiously. “I hope she didn’t put pressure on you in any way.”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “It was a very sweet letter. It must have cost her a lot physically to write it.”
He nods. “She’s so weak she can barely hold a pen. She can’t hold a book either and she loves reading. Thank God for audio books.” He frowns slightly. “Is everything all right? You look shaken.”
“That’s a good question. I don’t really know.” Even to my ears my voice sounds strangled. “I’ve just discovered something very strange.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you, it’s fine.” I reach around him, intending to open the door so that he can leave, and find myself pausing. He’s a private investigator, maybe he can help me. “Actually, do you have a minute?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I really need a coffee. Would you like one?”
“I’d love one.”
He follows me to the kitchen.
“Have a seat. How do you take your coffee?”
“Black, please, no sugar.”
He sits down. I’m still holding Leo’s passport so I put it on the table and go to make the coffee. My movements feel heavy, and I have to concentrate on getting the capsule into the machine. I take the cup over to the table, then go back for mine.
He waits until I’m sitting down opposite him, then nods at the passport. “I haven’t seen one of those for a long time.”
I pick it up. “It’s Leo’s—my partner’s. He told me he didn’t have a passport and I just found this in a drawer.”
“Perhaps he meant he didn’t have an up-to-date passport. These haven’t been in use for years.”
“It’s not that. It’s in a different name.”
He frowns. “Then—are you sure it’s his?”
“It’s his photo. It’s the name that doesn’t match.” I pick up the passport and turn to the relevant page. “His surname is Curtis, here it says Carter.”
“Could I see?” I hand it to him. He studies it for a moment then looks over at me. “You could always check it against his birth certificate.”
“I wouldn’t know where to find it.”
“Hm. What about his bank cards? Are they in the name of Curtis?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I mean, I’ve never noticed.”
“What about his mail?”
“Um, I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen any mail for him.” I look at him, worry creasing my brow. “Is that strange? We weren’t living together before we moved here, he had a flat in London so his mail went there. And since we moved here—it was only a month ago but he should have received some mail here, shouldn’t he?”
“I would have thought so.”
I raise my cup to my lips, trying to push away the black cloud of terror looming behind my eyes. My hand is shaking so much that coffee spills everywhere.
“Sorry,” I say, horribly aware of the tears pricking my eyes.
He reaches out and takes the cup from my hand, then goes over to the sink and comes back with a cloth.
“Can I make you another coffee?” he asks, mopping up the mess. “Or would you prefer some water?”
“Water, please.”
He goes back to the sink and I hear the sound of running water, then cupboard doors being opened and closed as he looks for
a glass. His movements are measured, giving me time to compose myself.
He brings the water over to me. “Thank you,” I say, taking the glass gratefully. Our hands brush and I pull away, confused by the electricity shooting through me at the feel of his skin.
He sits down. “If I can do anything to help.”
I take a shaky breath. “I think Leo might have known Nina.”
He doesn’t seem shocked, just looks at me intently, and it crosses my mind that maybe he’s known all along that Leo knew Nina. Maybe that’s why he came to our drinks evening, maybe he wanted to see up close the man he believes is responsible for her murder. Is that the reason he’s been visiting me, hoping I’ll let something slip? The sense of impending doom makes my heart race so fast I feel dizzy.
“Why do you think that?” he asks. His voice is calm and some of my terror subsides.
I tell him about the blond woman who turned up in Harlestone.
“And you think it was Nina?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t see her face or anything, I just noticed she was blond.”
“Did you ask Leo about her?”
“Yes. At first he told me she was a client who was harassing him—”
“Is he a lawyer?”
“No, he’s a consultant. In risk assessment.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “And he gets harassed by clients?”
“That’s what he said. But later he told me she was a journalist who wanted to interview him.”
“Do you remember when this was?”
“Not long after we met, so late January, early February last year.” I pause, remembering that Nina had been killed at the end of February.
He nods. “Where does Leo work?” He’s in full investigator mode now.
“In the Midlands. But he used to work in London.”
“Do you know if he saw a therapist?”
“I don’t think so. But I only saw him at weekends, he stayed at his flat during the week, so maybe he did.”
He looks up then and the concern I see in his eyes makes me afraid. I can’t help it; afraid for Leo, afraid for me, I feel close to tears again.