The Other Woman’s House

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Charlie. ‘People’s brains don’t erase memories. Why that address, anyway? Your post-traumatic memory-wipe hypothesis would make more sense if the address she’d found in the SatNav had been 17 Pardoner Lane.’

  ‘Unless 11 Bentley Grove has equal significance for her,’ said Simon. ‘Which it might. If she’s traumatised enough to delete the memory of putting it into the SatNav, who’s to say she wouldn’t delete all her memories connected to the house? So that, when she sees the address, it means nothing to her.’

  Charlie groaned. ‘Here’s what happened: the husband, Kit, programmed in the address. The simplest solution and all that.’

  Simon held up a peeled prawn and stared at it. ‘Occam’s Razor? It’s a myth,’ he said. ‘If you think back over the last few years of our working life…’

  ‘Connie Bowskill isn’t work, so don’t pretend she is,’ said Charlie. ‘She’s your latest fucked-up hobby. And our working life doesn’t exist. I left CID years ago. I have my own paid job working for the police, in addition to being your unpaid reality-check provider.’

  ‘All right, then, my working life,’ Simon said impatiently. ‘Nothing I’ve ever had to deal with has been straightforward. Nothing’s ever what it looks like, nothing’s predictable.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe the simplest solution’s the winner every time when I’m not around, but it’s never worked for me.’

  ‘The husband’s the one who was a student at Cambridge,’ said Charlie. ‘He was the one who suggested moving there in 2003, and the address was programmed into his SatNav, in his car. I’d think exactly what Connie Bowskill thought: that he must have another wife and family at 11 Bentley Grove—’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ Simon cut her off. ‘I went to Cambridge, called round at the house. The owner’s a woman called Selina Gane, a doctor. Late forties, no kids, lives alone. I asked her if she knew a Kit Bowskill. She said the name meant nothing to her. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so…’

  ‘When was this?’ Charlie snatched the prawn from his hand. ‘When did you call round at 11 Bentley Grove?’

  ‘Few weeks ago. I took a couple of days off.’

  ‘You told me you were buying a new suit and shoes for the wedding.’

  ‘I did that as well.’

  ‘In Cambridge?’

  He knew he’d been caught out.

  ‘You told me you’d bought both at Remmick’s in Spilling.’

  ‘Only because I didn’t want to tell you I’d been in Cambridge. You’d have asked why. It’d all have come out, and I didn’t want to tell you then. I wanted to tell you now.’

  ‘I’m not hungry any more,’ Charlie said, when he tried to hand her another prawn. ‘You saved it up, to tell me on our honeymoon?’

  He nodded. ‘I planned the whole thing – writing the address down somewhere for you to find, denying I wrote it…the whole thing.’ For about two seconds, he tried to look contrite. When he saw Charlie trying not to laugh, he smiled, and she saw that he was still pleased with himself for staging his reconstruction so successfully. ‘We’ve never spent two weeks alone together before,’ he said. ‘I was worried we’d run out of things to talk about.’

  ‘Trust me, that’ll never happen. So, is she attractive?’

  ‘Who? Connie Bowskill or Selina Gane?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I don’t know. You always ask me that.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Charlie protested automatically.

  ‘You even asked it about the face in the mountain. Look.’ He pointed. ‘You can see it from here, surely?’

  Charlie wondered if this was another of his circuitous games. Perhaps Connie Bowskill wasn’t the only damsel in distress he had on the go at the moment. Maybe there was some other woman whose husband had claimed he’d seen a face in a mountain, one that she couldn’t see however hard she tried. Maybe she’d ended up drowing him in a Spanish swimming pool.

  ‘Selina Gane’s what most men would call attractive, I reckon. Shiny blonde hair, decent face, bobbly figure.’

  ‘Bobbly?’

  ‘You know.’ Simon did an outline with his hands.

  Charlie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘More commonly known as “hourglass”,’ she said. ‘She’s in her late forties, did you say?’

  ‘Around that. She’s rich, as well.’

  ‘How old’s Connie Bowskill?’

  ‘Thirty-four.’

  ‘Attractive? For God’s sake, Simon, there’s nothing embarrassing about saying whether someone’s attractive or not!’

  ‘Skinny, dark. You’d say she was very pretty.’

  ‘Oh, I’d say that, would I? How do you know Selina Gane’s rich?’

  ‘The way she looked,’ said Simon. ‘Her clothes, everything. Loaded, I’d say.’

  ‘So, if Kit Bowskill’s involved with Connie and Selina, he’s got it sewn up all ways, hasn’t he? One dark, one blonde; one skinny, one bobbly; one older, one younger; one rich, one not so rich. Maybe he’s like Sellers – as long as she’s female, she’s his type.’

  ‘He’s not involved with both of them,’ said Simon. ‘I spoke to a few of the neighbours while I was at Bentley Grove, asked them about anyone they’d seen coming and going from number 11…’

  ‘I assume you asked in your professional capacity, even though your being there had nothing to do with work?’ Charlie said snidely, knowing Simon wouldn’t have allowed ethical considerations to get in his way. His own take on whether something was right or wrong was all he ever cared about; the general consensus of opinion was irrelevant to him. He and Charlie had that in common; in his shoes, she’d have abused her power in exactly the same way.

  ‘I checked with the Land Registry. 11 Bentley Grove’s listed in Selina Gane’s name only – no mention of Kit Bowskill. I also showed the next-door neighbours on both sides a photo of Bowskill that I’d got from Connie. One of them said he didn’t look familiar, she’d never seen him before. Told me she’d only ever seen various women and an elderly couple visiting number 11. The other neighbour, a bent-double guy who looked about two hundred and had the longest name I’ve ever heard – Professor Sir Basil Lambert-Wall – he said the same about the visitors: lots of women, a couple he described as middle-aged, but I reckon they and the other neighbour’s elderly couple are one and the same – Selina Gane’s parents, probably. Lambert-Wall took one look at the picture of Kit Bowskill and said, “Of course I recognise him. He installed my new burglar alarm.”’

  ‘Alzheimer’s?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Simon. ‘Mentally, he seemed as sharp as a twenty-year-old, even though he was leaning on a stick twice the width of his body. I didn’t want to dismiss what he’d told me just because he was an antique, so off I went to Safesound Alarms in Trumpington…’

  ‘Where they’d never clapped eyes on Kit Bowskill before, or heard of him,’ Charlie summed up.

  ‘No. They hadn’t.’

  ‘So the old man made a mistake.’

  ‘He seemed sure,’ Simon said doggedly. He sighed. ‘You’re right. Despite his spectacular name, he must have got it wrong. What would Kit Bowskill be doing fitting burglar alarms?’

  ‘If I were as mad as you, I might say that if he’s got two lives running concurrently, with a wife and a home in each, then he might have a job in each – data-system blah blah in Silsford, burglar alarm fitter in Cambridge. Maybe there’s a strong anti-cop culture at Safesound Alarms, so they automatically deny everything when the police turn up.’ Seeing Simon’s worried frown, Charlie slapped his arm. ‘I’m kidding. I hope you told Connie Bowskill her husband’s in the clear.’

  ‘Not yet. I didn’t want to get her hopes up. Just because none of the neighbours have seen him at the house doesn’t mean he hasn’t been there. Maybe he and Selina Gane are careful. No.’ Simon did this when he was in obsessive mode: disagreed with himself out loud. ‘They’re not romantically involved. They can’t be. So what’s he doing programming her address into his Sa
tNav as “home”?’

  ‘Why can’t they be romantically involved?’ Charlie asked.

  She watched as Simon realised what he’d said, that he’d sounded a bit too certain. He looked trapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you not want to tell me the whole story now?’ she asked. ‘Are you saving the punch-line for week two?’

  ‘Something strange happened when I was talking to Selina Gane,’ Simon said.

  ‘Even stranger, you mean. The whole thing is strange.’

  ‘I showed her the photo, and drew a blank. She’s not a good liar – I found that out about ten seconds later – so I’m pretty sure her lack of response to the picture was genuine. Kit Bowskill’s face meant nothing to her. Then I put the photo away and asked her if she knew the name. “No,” she said. “Who is she? I’ve never heard of her.”’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Charlie yawned. ‘Kit could be a woman just as easily as a man.’ The heat was having a sedative effect on her. How did anyone manage to work in this climate? If I lived in Spain, I’d have to be a cat, she thought.

  ‘When I told Selina Gane that Kit Bowskill was a man, something happened to her face,’ said Simon.

  Charlie couldn’t resist. ‘Did you see a mountain in it?’

  ‘She was surprised – shocked, even. There was this…I don’t know how to describe it – this outbreak in her eyes of “No, that can’t be right”. I watched her readjust her assumptions. When I asked her about it, she clammed up, but she couldn’t have made it more obvious she was lying if she’d tried.’

  ‘That is strange,’ Charlie agreed. ‘So…’ For a second, she couldn’t get her head round it. No one should have to think so hard on holiday. ‘She didn’t know his face, and she didn’t know his name. So…’ Eventually, her sun-frazzled brain came up with the question it had been fumbling for. ‘So why was she so certain Kit Bowskill was a woman?’

  When Sam got back to the CID room, there was no sign of Sellers or Gibbs. Proust wasn’t in his office either.

  Sam checked his emails. He had seven new ones, five of which looked as if they could safely be ignored; the other two were from DC Ian Grint and Olivia Zailer, Charlie’s sister. Sam opened the one from Grint, who’d been trying and failing to get hold of him. Sam wasn’t sure he had the energy to ring him back after his exhausting session with Connie Bowskill; he felt like an unpaid shrink – another meeting like that and he’d need to see a shrink himself. Grint had probably called with a current phone number for the Beaters, the couple who had owned 11 Bentley Grove before Selina Gane; Sam had requested it at one point, thinking he might ask them about the Christmas tree stain on their carpet. He smiled to himself. Grint probably thought he was crazy; Sam wouldn’t have blamed him if he did.

  The email from Olivia contained a string of confusing instructions, double negatives and veiled non-specific accusations – ‘I’m not saying you should or you shouldn’t…’, ‘please don’t, or rather, only do if you feel you have to…’, ‘after I’d mulled it over, I decided I just couldn’t not give you the number…’, ‘clearly no one else was going to tell you…’ – and provided Sam with a means of reaching Simon, which put him in a position he’d have given anything not to be in. Unforgivable to disturb someone on their honeymoon, even with a quick phone call. Which, Sam had to admit, wouldn’t be especially quick. There was so much he wanted to ask Simon, and tell him, he wasn’t sure he’d know where to begin; the honeymoon would be over by the time he’d filled him in, and Charlie would be marching towards the CID room to bash Sam unconscious with a heavy suitcase.

  The phone on his desk started to ring. Sam prayed for it to be Simon: bored, killing time while Charlie had a nap, calling in the hope of a long chat.

  It was Ian Grint. He launched in without preamble. ‘Looks like your lady’s telling the truth. I’ve had a woman turn up this morning, saw exactly the same thing. Do you believe in synchronicity? I never have, but I might have to start.’

  ‘That’s…’ What was it? Sam didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  ‘Same description,’ said Grint. ‘Of the woman and the room. Framed map, coffee table, the works. Woman: slim, petite, green and lilac patterned dress, dark messy hair fanned out around her head, large pool of blood, darker around the stomach. The timings coincide too. They must have pressed the virtual tour button within seconds of each other. Probably the only two people in the country who did, as it was past one in the morning.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe other people are on their way to you – or aren’t, because they’re not sure how to prove they saw it.’

  ‘It disappeared from the website almost immediately after the two known sightings, there’s no doubt about that,’ said Grint. ‘Jackie Napier – that’s the lady here – she says she shut the tour down, then started it up again and the body wasn’t there. That’s exactly what happened to your Mrs Bowskill, right?’

  ‘It is,’ Sam told him.

  ‘How soon can you and she get down here?’ Grint asked.

  ‘Me and…me and Connie Bowskill?’ He’d extricated himself from her barely controlled hysteria less than five minutes ago, and had no desire to seek her out in the near future. She’d ordered a taxi to pick her up, since her husband had taken the car and left her without a means of transport. She was probably long gone by now. As for dropping everything and heading for Cambridge, Sam could imagine Proust’s reaction. ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘Oh, you can, believe me.’ Grint’s chuckle made it clear that he was unamused. Sam heard the underlying seriousness, the hint of threat. ‘There’s quite a bit more to it, and I can’t go into it over the phone – you need to hear it for yourself. We’ve got a mess on our hands, the like of which you’ve never seen before. I know I haven’t. I need you both here, you and her.’

  A few seconds later, Sam was sprinting along the corridor, in case Connie Bowskill was still waiting in the nick car park for a cab that hadn’t yet arrived.

  POLICE EXHIBIT REF: CB13345/432/23IG

  Dear Elise, Donal, Riordan and Tilly

  Just a quick note, very belatedly, to say thanks SO much for that fab weekend! It was just what we needed after a hellishly stressful few months – a real tonic! Cambridge is every bit as beautiful as you described, and we can’t wait to come and stay again! On the way home, we asked the kids what was their favourite part of the weekend and they said, ‘All of it’ – which pretty much sums up how we all feel. That punting trip down the river was sublime: the beautiful college buildings, the sun…Oh, by the way, we think we might have solved the mystery of that punt we bashed into under the bridge: ‘Step to Heaven’. A mate of ours here was a student at Trinity College, and he says they have their own punts, and each one is named after something that’s one of three – there’s a song called ‘Three Steps to Heaven’, isn’t there? Gene Vincent, or was it Eddie Cochrane? Anyway, we’ve been trying to work out what the other Trinity punts must be called: Musketeer? Blind Mouse? Wise Man? Let us know if you see any of those on the Cam (or the Granta, for that matter!).

  Your house is a stunner – we’re so jealous! Does it feel like home yet, or do you still feel like you’re playing house? I remember you said that about the last place too, and felt as if someone might snatch it away from you when you weren’t looking! Relax, it’s yours! Meanwhile, I wish someone’d snatch our dilapidated hovel – and preferably sort the leaky roof out while they’re at it! Anyway, thanks again for making us feel so welcome!

  Leigh, Jules, Hamish and Ava

  PS. Jules insists that one of the Trinity punts must be called ‘Lion on a Shirt’, but I think that’s probably stretching it a bit!

  11

  Monday 19 July 2010

  I walk out into the heat, stop as the dizziness takes hold. I close my eyes and lean against the police station wall, propping myself up to make sure I don’t end up on the ground. A car horn beeps. I can’t tell how far away it is. It’s
probably my taxi. I ought to look, but I know better than to risk it when my mind is breaking up into clumps of woolly grey. I won’t open my eyes until I’m certain the world will look normal again. The worst thing about these attacks is the visual distortion. If I keep my eyes open, it’s terrifying – like falling further and further back inside my head, being dragged by an internal current away from my eyes, which stay fixed where they are as I recede into the depths.

  ‘Connie!’ The car horn again. I recognise the voice, but can’t identify it. I’m still resting against the wall with my eyes closed when I feel a hand on my arm. ‘Connie, are you okay?’

  My sister. Fran.

  ‘Just a bit light-headed,’ I manage to say. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. What are you doing here? How did you know…?’

  ‘I rang Kit when your phone went straight to voicemail. He told me you’d need a lift home.’

  Because I made him angry, and he left me stranded.

  ‘I’m not taking you home yet, though. Get in the car.’

  Not taking me home? Where, then? I open my eyes. Fran’s Range Rover is parked half in and half out of the disabled space closest to the building. The driver and passenger doors are hanging open. It makes me think of a film I saw when I was little about a magic car that could fly; its doors were its wings.

  Fran’s wearing the faded jeans and orange and white striped rugby shirt that I think of as her non-work uniform. Sometimes, when I’m at her house and see them drying on the clothes rack, I think about stealing them and throwing them away, though there’s nothing particularly wrong with them.

  ‘I’ve ordered a cab,’ I say. ‘I ought to wait.’

  ‘Forget the cab. I’ve called Diane in on her day off to cover for me because I need to talk to you – now. Like it or not, you’re coming with me.’