by Adele Parks
His heart breaks.
He thinks he can hear it crumble, the destruction rolls through him like an avalanche. The last time he cried was at Frances’s funeral; then as now, overwhelmed by regret and sadness, a yearning for things to have turned out differently. Fat tears slide down his face now for the same reasons.
‘Your coffee is ready.’ The firm, foreign voice startles Mark back into himself. He is glad he has his back to the door and whilst Janssen must have seen him swaying, and quite possibly saw the dress too, he could not have seen the tears. Mark wipes his face on the dress and then drops it on the floor. He follows Janssen back into the kitchen and never wonders what is behind the third door.
They sit at the breakfast bar, staring at the cups of coffee. Mark wishes now he had said yes to the vodka. Fuck it, what does he have to lose? What more does he have to lose? He reaches for the bottle and splashes a generous measure into his coffee. He’s glad Janssen doesn’t comment but just reaches for the bottle and mirrors the action. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Janssen asks.
‘I don’t know what I was looking for. I found something.’ Mark isn’t normally cryptic. He considers himself an easy-going, straightforward bloke but he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s thinking. The anger is no longer pulsing in his throat, an emotional hairball threatening to suffocate him. He hasn’t swallowed it down, or spat it out exactly, but he’s no longer choked with fury. It is some improvement.
‘Can I see your home?’ Janssen asks. He then tries to clarify or be more tactful perhaps. ‘Her home. The home she has with you?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ replies Mark gruffly. ‘You know, the boys. It wouldn’t be fair on them.’
Mark knows he’s not playing ball. It ought to be quid pro quo, but he can’t do it. He can’t be that generous. He can’t let this man into his home. This man who has been inside his wife. This man who is married to his wife. He doesn’t want to see his eyes flicker with judgement, curiosity or superiority and surely there would be at least one of these things. The cork pinboard, with curling scribbled notes pinned to it, muddy shoes tumbling out of the understairs cupboard as though they can walk on their own. The gleaming cleanliness of this place had been enlightening, all the mess and chaos of his would be exposing.
‘Well, will you tell me about it at least?’ Janssen pursues.
Mark is momentarily irritated that this man hasn’t googled him and looked up their address, turned Google Maps on to photo mode to scope out the streets she spent half her time in, as Mark had done for the section of her life that was a mystery. The lack of interest is somehow a snub, a sign of superiority or laziness. What else has Janssen had to do with his time this past week? Mark considers, maybe he has searched but as Mark Fletchers are more abundant than Daan Janssens possibly the search wasn’t fruitful.
He takes a deep breath and says, ‘It’s nothing like this. It’s—’ He breaks off, he doesn’t want to call it ordinary, although it is. Or scruffy, although it is. The scruffy normality is not the heart of the house that Leigh lives in with him, and presumably that is what Janssen needs to hear about. The heart. Would telling him comfort him or torture him? Mark doesn’t know which he wants to achieve. ‘Lots of the houses in our street have cigarette packs and empty bottles pocking the small area from front door to road, others have well-kept gardens and hanging baskets. It’s varied. Disinterest lives cheek by jowl next to pride.’ He is circling, starting wide and then getting closer to the target. ‘It is amazing how contrast can cohabit, coexist.’
Janssen gives one quick little nod, his long blond hair falling over his eyes. It irritates Mark. Leigh always swore she didn’t fancy blond men. Bitch. Liar. The spiteful words slice through his consciousness. He is startled by them. He thought he was feeling calmer. He barely feels responsible for the spite. He is not responsible, is he, if it is in his subconscious? The fury has not gone, it’s in flux. Mark should not be surprised. Deep wounds take a long time to heal and some scars never fade.
‘Where do you live?’ Janssen asks.
‘Balham.’
‘A Victorian terrace?’
‘Yes.’
Janssen nods again, no doubt quickly able to visualise where his wife spent half her life. People know what terrace houses in South London look like. Imagining her life here had been harder. Mark doesn’t know where to start. He clings to small details, unable to supply a broad picture. ‘I walk past a supermarket trolley every day, a different one. Sometimes Oli and Seb push them back to the supermarket, to collect the pound. Oli does that less now. A quid isn’t worth the walk and effort once you’re sixteen.’
‘Oli and Seb? Those are your boys?’
‘Yes, our boys – my boys. Oliver and Sebastian.’ Mark colours. He hadn’t meant to talk about them. He doesn’t want them in this place. He realises he can’t do this. He can’t talk about his home to this man. He owes him nothing. It’s better to focus on getting answers, rather than providing them. He decides to change the subject. ‘Did you think you were going to get old and die with her?’
‘I don’t think about getting old,’ replies Janssen. ‘You?’
‘No one knows when they are going to die,’ Mark comments. Janssen raises his eyebrows. ‘My first wife died of cancer. I’ve never taken long life for granted.’
‘I see.’
‘You know the police will be looking at one or the other of us right now, and thinking we are responsible for her disappearance?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I didn’t hurt her,’ Mark says.
‘You are bound to say that,’ points out Janssen.
‘You haven’t said it,’ counters Mark. The men meet one another’s gaze and try to read the rules of the game they are playing. Mark notices Janssen is sweating; there are dark patches under his arms. It looks like he slept in that T-shirt. Seeing the man dishevelled, chaotic and vulnerable is a relief. Mark has been imagining that he’d still be crisp, confident, in control; most likely continuing to wear pristine white shirts and sharp dark suits. It helps to think they are levelled; equally disturbed, distraught, desperate. ‘What I can’t work out is why she stayed with me, considering all this luxury.’ Mark gestures around. ‘Coming here must have been quite the holiday from her real life.’
Janssen’s upper lip curls slightly, probably objecting to the implication that her life here, his life, isn’t real. ‘Are you implying she was with me just for my money?’ He laughs, the laugh is a little forced and goes on a little too long. It’s hard to believe it reflects any real mirth.
‘I’m just saying it would have been easier for her to divorce me and then to marry you, if she had wanted you.’ Mark knows Daan must have had this thought too. He must be furious. How furious?
‘And if she had wanted you, why did she even notice me?’ asks Janssen coolly. ‘You can’t point score. We are in the same boat.’
Mark sighs, nods. ‘Shit creek without a paddle.’
Janssen nods. ‘I know this expression. Exactly this. The English always have the exact phrase.’ He sighs, Mark doesn’t know him well enough to understand if it’s impatience, regret, sadness. ‘Anyway, I guess the wealth didn’t mean all that much to her, in the end, because she was able to leave it. Walk away.’
‘If she left,’ Mark challenges.
‘Of course she left.’
‘You believe she walked away from you. From all this?’ ‘What other explanation?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘I don’t imagine her leaving the boys.’
‘Face it, we weren’t enough for her. All four of us combined, not enough. She was a very greedy woman.’
It’s a sad condemnation. Janssen doesn’t trust in Kai’s love the way Mark trusts in Leigh’s. Is it easier for Mark because he knows Leigh would not have left through choice? He feels grimly smug. He loves her more. Of course he does. His actions prove that. ‘If you think she walked away, where do you think she went?’ he challenges.
Janssen shrugs stiffly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
‘You are very cold.’
‘I am very hurt.’
‘Did you kill her?’ Mark wants to see how Janssen responds to the question, asked straight out. What might the DC see if she asks the same thing of him?
Janssen meets Mark’s eyes. ‘No. Did you?’
‘No.’ They stare at one another both aware that either of them might be lying.
39
Fiona
Fiona didn’t want the kiss to stop. His lips were warm and soft and urgent. Yes, urgent. He wanted her. Needed her, that might be better still, more reliable, more enduring. Even so, the cool air from the window breathed on to her cheek, the non-descript pop music needled, the blanket no longer felt soft and comforting, but instead started to scratch. She pulled apart.
‘God, sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,’ Mark said immediately. He rushed the words out, like vomit. The retraction, more urgent than the kiss. Even though she was the one that stopped the kissing, she felt disappointed that he so quickly scurried into an apology. Into regret. She wished men would kiss her without regret more often. He scuttled back to the other end of the sofa.
‘No, no. Don’t apologise.’ She wanted to tell him it was nice. Not to be sorry for it, but to do it again, that she regretted stopping him, but she was too embarrassed. From the look on his face – panicked, nervous – he obviously was glad she’d come to her senses, brought him to his. So instead she said, ‘It’s just that I’m not sure it’s really what you want.’ She glanced at the empty wine bottle, to indicate her reasoning. ‘And even if it is something you might want one day, it’s too soon.’ She hadn’t been able to resist adding that. Leaving the door open just a little bit. A crack.
Mark got to his feet; he was swaying a little. He asked her to stay over again, pointed out she’d also been drinking too and shouldn’t drive. She hesitated. He said she could have one of the boys’ beds if the sofa wasn’t comfortable. He would put on clean sheets; she didn’t think that was necessary, she’d only just changed them herself the day before yesterday.
‘I can get an Uber back or I can walk, it’s not far.’
‘It’s late, though.’ His concern for her safety was probably just that, normal friendly concern but it felt just a bit more. A little insistent. In a good way. ‘You’ve been really good for the boys. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’ It was a familiar chant. Fiona remembered he used to say it to Leigh when they first met.
She didn’t know what to do. It was late. He’d spoken about Leigh in the past tense and he’d seemed categorical when he said, ‘She’s not coming back, Fiona.’ How could he be so sure? She needed to think that through. It might mean nothing. It might just mean that he was simply talking about what she did before – ‘Leigh made the house warmer and happier’ – it didn’t necessarily mean that he thought Leigh was dead. Maybe just gone. Gone for good. He saw her in the past tense. Fiona had drunk quite a bit; he was right about that. She couldn’t reason. She was being wild, leaping to crazy conclusions. She agreed to sleep on the sofa. Was that sensible? As she fell to sleep, she thought that she was living Leigh’s life a little. One night with one husband, the next with the other. The thought was disquieting. Leigh was no longer someone anyone in their right mind could aspire to be.
Though this morning, Fiona is glad she stayed. She woke up to find the house empty. Wherever Mark had gone to, he was not home to greet Oli and Seb when they returned from their aunt’s. But she was. She makes them a sausage, beans and bacon brunch, even though they both say they’ve already had breakfast. ‘A bowl of cereal isn’t much of a breakfast at your age,’ she comments. She doesn’t point out that prepping food and eating it fills the day. They all need that. The day to be filled. After the fry-up, they debate whether to have pancakes too, that’s when they hear Mark’s key in the lock. A hush descends. The boys are nervous of their dad, unsure when his temper might flare up again, what they might do that will trigger it. Fiona is embarrassed after last night. She decides the only option is to front it out. She smiles brightly. ‘Oh, great timing, Mark. We’re just in the middle of a massive blow-out brunch,’ she smiles. ‘To pancake or not to pancake? That is the question.’
He is pale, black bags gather like clouds under his eyes, but he smiles back at her. She thinks she can see the smile reach his tired eyes. The first time since Leigh went missing. She’s pretty sure she’s not kidding herself but the doorbell rings again and the moment dissolves.
It is the police.
Fiona tells the boys to go upstairs. No doubt they will listen in from the landing, but she can’t do anything about that. She sits down on an armchair in the living room, while Mark answers the door. Is this the moment? From now on will life be divided between before and after? She wonders what they know exactly. What they have come to say. That they have found Leigh? That there is a body? That they have arrested Daan? There must be something because why else would they be here? Time slows. It pulls at her skin, drags her down. The room feels too full. Oppressive.
It’s confusing. They start to question Mark about his first wife. Details around her death. It makes no sense to Fiona. Why are they talking about Frances? And then, slowly, she begins to understand. They are saying Frances didn’t die of cancer; it transpires she fell down the stairs. Fiona turns to face Mark. It’s like driving in a fog, she is disorientated, stressed. She grips tightly, peers closely but can’t recognise anything familiar.
DC Clements glances at Fiona. Fiona can feel heat rise through her body. She feels they want to ask why she is here. Again. She wishes she hadn’t stayed last night after all. Her head is too hot. She’s relieved that they don’t ask her anything but instead continue to direct all questions to Mark. ‘Why did you lie to us?’
‘Did I?’
Tanner pulls out his notebook, flips through it. The sound of the turning pages cracks like a whip. ‘When DC Clements was talking to your oldest son you said, “My first wife died of cancer when Oli was five years old. I suppose he remembers Frances a bit. But Leigh has been his mother since he was not quite seven.”’ The policeman snaps closed his book.
Mark looks surprised. Didn’t he know they would be taking notes? They are the police, for God’s sake. That’s their job. To investigate. ‘She did have cancer. She would have died of that – that is the sad truth,’ he says. ‘Then she slipped.’
‘Slipped.’
‘Or tripped,’ he says firmly. ‘I didn’t actually see the accident. I assume you’ve read the coroner’s report.’
‘Yes, yes we have,’ says the detective. Fiona can see Mark looks frozen to the chair. A statue touched by the Queen of Narnia. ‘Did Leigh know how Frances really died?’
‘No.’ His voice cracks with the admission.
‘You didn’t tell her?’
‘It never came up.’
‘Oh, come on, Mark. All those years?’ Tanner doesn’t try to keep the exasperation or disbelief out of his voice.
‘It was an impossible thing to tell her.’
‘What? The truth was impossible?’
‘Yes.’ His voice is steady, neither defensive nor regretful. The lack of emotion unnerves Fiona more than his previous displays of anger have. What will the police make of it? He plods on. ‘The thing is, it was all to do with how we first met. You’ll remember, Fiona, you were there at the play park, the day Seb fell off the slide and cut his head open.’
Fiona nods. That much is true. ‘Do you remember, I froze? It was because I was thinking of Frances and her bleeding out at the bottom of our stairs. Later in the hospital when I told Leigh I was a widower I couldn’t bring myself to say my wife died of a head injury following a fall. It was too much. Especially in front of Oli, I didn’t want him thinking Seb might die like his mother.’ Mark sighs. ‘I was trying to protect Oli and so I said she had cancer. Which she did. I thought I was just saying something that wasn’t a lie as such, ju
st a less uncomfortable statement to a stranger. I never expected the stranger to end up being my wife.’
Fiona wants to believe him. A less uncomfortable statement, not a lie. She can understand that. She wants the police to believe him too. ‘But afterwards? You had years to tell her the truth,’ the detective points out.
‘Well, how do you come back from that? How do you say, “Oh, by the way I got it all mixed up about how my first wife died”? It was easier all round to just stick with the original story.’ He is getting impatient.
‘So, you lied to your sons, too, about how their mother died?’
‘Well yes, I had to be consistent.’
‘Jesus, Mark.’ The words tumble out of Fiona’s mouth. She is shocked, exasperated. Clements and Tanner turn to her. Fiona doesn’t know whether she wants to collapse on the sofa and put her arms around him – this poor man who didn’t have the confidence to correct a simple lie and has therefore made things very awkward for himself all these years later – because obviously the police have some level of suspicion of him now. Or, ought she make a dash for the door? Because one dead wife is a tragedy until a second goes missing and then it is a genuine problem. Why stay and support this man, this liar?