“Come on,” I said to Anna. As I was nearest her, and she lived nearest me, I got to play the peacemaker. Simultaneously, Heather latched onto Macy. “It’s okay,” she kept saying, like she was talking to Lulu. “It’s okay. Come along with me now. We’ll have some nice tea, shall we?”
Tea. A line of coke might have been more like it, but the words had the desired effect. Macy stepped back from the brink and followed Heather meekly into the kitchen.
Having little choice, I left with a still-fuming Anna.
The drive back from the Anna-Macy playoff had been about as uncomfortable as it gets. Clearly, Anna was as ill at ease to find herself in my Mini—being escorted home like someone tossed out of a pub—as I was to have her there.
“Can you tell me what that was about?” I ventured, partly because my apparent cluelessness might add an air of normalcy to the ride, which was otherwise suffocating in more ways than one. The warm air outside had come up against a cold front, resulting in the densest peasouper fog I’d ever experienced on these shores. I wasn’t sure whether to turn the heat up or down against the windscreen to combat the blinding mist, so while I experimented, nearly running us off the road in the process, Anna took a moment to consider the question. And to dial it down a notch, as I was relieved to hear in her voice when she finally spoke.
“What really fucking goddamn galls me,” she said, as if continuing a previous conversation, “is her presumption. That she knows all about my marriage, and what my husband needs and thinks and feels, and I—just the wife, you know—have no clue. Well, walk a mile in my shoes, bitch. If you can fit your size forty-one Louboutins in there. You ever notice how big her feet are? Cow.”
I nodded, still fiddling with the dials. Mercifully, the bottom of the screen started to clear, so if I ducked down and drove like a ninety-year-old Floridian, I could just see my way ahead. Anna’s language alone was a barometer of her state of mind—she seldom swore. Professionally, she had to keep it clean so as not to offend potential clients. She dealt with so many types of people, she had adopted an excruciatingly polite, bland, yet la-di-da way of speaking. I always thought she might have been overcompensating for her background.
“When Macy lived over in the Court,” she began, “she’d come over every ten minutes with some lame excuse. She couldn’t find the valve to turn on the water to the patio outside. Did we have a chainsaw she could borrow. Did we—”
“A chainsaw?”
“Yes, God knows what for. She didn’t have any body parts to dispose of that I’m aware of, although I wouldn’t put it past her.” Anna paused to push glossy locks of dark hair away from her face, using both hands. The movement pressed her large breasts against the thin white fabric of her Oxford shirt. Even dressed down for a book club with a bunch of other women, Anna was stunning. Sexy without really trying, damn her—unlike Macy, whose every moment and every available fund were devoted to enhancing her allure.
I forget what I was wearing. Jeans, probably. Some no-iron shirt, fresh from the dryer. Will was right. I was in a rut.
“I mean, you don’t get where she is without being out on the pull most nights—if you get my meaning.” I had no idea but I nodded sagely, not wanting to stem the flow. “Hanging around bars was the only way she was going to meet someone with Barry’s cash. She could hardly enroll in law school, now, could she? She came from nothing and now she practically lives in a fucking palace.”
As Anna’s vocabulary continued its descent, traces of her Bristol accent came creeping in. I thought it was funny that she considered Macy to be a social-climbing bimbo when she could so easily have been tarred with the same brush. Me too, come to that.
“Well, none of us are actually going without, now, are we?” I said. “We don’t have the manor house but loads of people would envy us.”
She turned in her seat to face me. “Oh, shut it, Mary Poppins.”
“Sorry,” I said mildly. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel in an appeasing gesture. “Didn’t mean to condescend.”
Sitting back now in my worn chair in the coffee shop, I thought: So. Anna had thought Macy was after Alfie. And Macy thought Anna was after Barry. Interestingly enough, Macy had not brought up Anna’s accusations the day of the salade niçoise.
I watched the rise and fall of Bathsheba’s rib cage, remembering one other thing about that book club night. The wind had roared for hours, clearing away the fog as it lifted some of the tiles of our roof. It was a huge storm, and probably a metaphor for something but I had been too tired to think about it.
Will had not come home until midnight. I heard him head downstairs and later I thought I heard him throw something against a wall, a book or something, which he sometimes did when he was angry.
It was crazy, I know. Crazier still that I put up with him for so long.
22
After a reasonable amount of time, I went to make a condolence call at the home of Alfie Monroe, widower. At least I hoped I’d waited long enough. Ten days might have been more like it but I didn’t feel I had that long. I bought a gluten-free casserole from Waitrose and popped it in the oven, hoping it was something Alfie could eat. I could hardly show up with a tub of yogurt. When I saw his car pull in, I gave him ten minutes to pour himself a drink and then I went over with my offering. He had been to and fro a lot since Anna’s death, I guessed having things to do with winding up her estate. And talking to Sergeant Milo.
I hadn’t been in the Monroe townhouse since the last time Anna had hosted the book club. I’d forgotten how over the top it was: Imelda Marcos might have been the design consultant. Anna was big on brocade and satin, so at the book club sessions held in her parlor, as she called it, it was a challenge for the more inebriated participants not to slide off the sofa onto the floor. I had taken to wearing high heels whenever Anna was hostessing because they allowed me to brace myself against the rug the way a mountain climber might cling to a sheer rock face.
The fabric that predominated in the room, covering the chairs and sofa and windows, was a pale green textile she’d had imported from France. I’m sure the fact the color perfectly matched her eyes was the purest coincidence, right? But why not play up that striking coloring? I remembered her as she had sat on her usual chair, curled up like a cat with the firelight throwing shifting haloes and shadows at her back. She was so alive. Just as Will had said. I’d taken advantage of that relaxed setting when I made that video of her. Subliminally, it suggested that if you allowed Anna Monroe to broker your house deal, you would find yourself living in similar comfort and luxury.
Just then something nudged against my knee and I practically jumped out of my skin. It was Georgina, their dog. I forget what breed it was—the kind with Rastafarian hair. I reached down absentmindedly to stroke the top of its head. It occurred to me I might offer to walk her for Alfie.
I crossed the room to look at the collection of framed photos, Georgina trailing me. There was one of Jason as a rebellious teenager, looking pissed off and ready to bolt, taking his bad complexion with him. The photographer didn’t have to be a genius to capture the fact that Jason was wishing himself anywhere but at the studio, posed before a phony backdrop of the Roman coliseum. This surly Jason was lined up next to playful, happy Jason: Jason as a toddler, tightly—too tightly—hugging a long-ago family cat. There was also a photo of Anna that I’d seen many times, the backlit glam shot that appeared in all her realtor ads. She looked like an angel, but then again, that photo was at least ten years out of date. There were no family group photos and none of Alfie, not even of Alfie before disease had begun ravaging his frame. I suppose staring at photos of yourself as you used to be and never would be again was best avoided. He had only to look down at his arms and legs, which showed little sign of fat or muscle, the raw-looking, age-spotted skin stretched over tendon, to see the damage done.
I heard the sound of a door opening; Alfie had returned
from depositing the casserole somewhere. God knew, he might have a dozen such meals crammed into the fridge or the rubbish bin by now, but it was the thought that counted. I couldn’t show up empty-handed, and there are times when a card just doesn’t cover it. It’s a missed opportunity but card manufacturers haven’t produced anything to moderate the mind-blowing loss of a loved one to murder.
For many reasons, I liked Alfie, as I’ve said. People did. He had kept his nickname despite its less-than-aristocratic associations, for one thing. Anyone with a shred of pretension might have insisted on Alfred. But Alfie suited him. Friendly and approachable. Put aside images you may have of Michael Caine in the role of the callous scoundrel who seduces his way across London. This Alfie’s defining characteristic was his humility, whether a legacy of his religious upbringing or some genetic marker—who can say. But what struck me most about him was his gratitude to Anna and to God, presumably, for Anna’s having married him. He truly worshipped her and could not seem to believe the good luck that had brought her to him. Or, presumably, the bad luck that had taken her away.
He wore small dark glasses that, along with his wizened physique, made him look like a blind beggar in some Dickensian drama. They—teams of white-coated specialists in tropical medicine—had never been able to sort out exactly what was wrong with him, but the bug he’d picked up in Africa made recurring appearances, rendering him periodically useless. Anna would complain and I couldn’t honestly blame her—the frustration of not knowing or being able to fix what was wrong must have been colossal. Alfie had this philosophical, “whatever God wills” sort of resignation to the situation; Anna, not so much. I think she felt she’d bought a cat in a bag, as the French would say. Because the National Health wasn’t well equipped to cope with long-term cases such as Alfie’s I’m sure the couple’s finances, substantial though they appeared to be, took a hit as well as their marriage. Vacations had often been planned when Alfie seemed to be on the mend, but more often than not had been cancelled last minute when he just could not manage the strain of air or train travel. What their sex lives were like (and on this subject, Anna did not share), I didn’t care to dwell on, but “sporadic” is probably the best way to describe it.
Alfie indicated that I should sit on one of the slippery chairs, so I did—tentatively, hoping it would keep me in its embrace.
“How’re you holding up?” I asked him, plumping a tasseled pillow behind me and planting my feet on the rug.
He just shook his head, his expression bleak. It is unfortunate but true that you can’t choose where you love, and he had loved Anna. It’s like there is a little department in the human brain, the Department of Bad Choices, and when it spots a likely target it says, “There’s a really selfish jackass, made just for you. Go for it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I determined to keep this as brief and painless as I could. “Have the police been awful?”
“Apart from having decided, on the basis of nothing whatsoever, that I probably killed my wife? Because it’s always the husband, you know. They’ve come close to trying to nail me a few times, but having no, like, evidence, they’ve snapped shut their notebooks and gone the fuck away. For now.” He stopped, took a big gulp of air, and said, “Sorry. Sorry for the language. Just … sorry.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Say what you want and don’t edit for the likes of me. I just wish … you know.”
“You wish you could help. Yes. Half the neighborhood has been by to offer little pep talks about time healing all wounds. What is flaxseed, anyway? Heather came by with this brick made of it. I’m not sure if I’m meant to spread it with butter or wait for her to bring more over so I can cement the bricks together. Anyway, being the police’s main suspect is no joke. Correction, their only suspect. The only person they can be bothered to question. But at least the neighbors don’t seem to share their opinion.”
“I’ve spoken with Sergeant Milo. Honestly, he seems, well—he’s no Rhodes Scholar but he might be a bit less inclined to fall for clichés than most.”
“You think so? Really.” Alfie was not actually listening. He had brought out some water and glasses on a tray and busied himself trying to pour me a glass. I was surprised he didn’t offer me tea, that British solution to everything, including Zulu uprisings. But that’s how far standards had fallen at the Monroe house. He probably didn’t know how to boil water. I finally took the pitcher from him; his hands were shaking so hard with the effort it was a very good thing it was only lukewarm water.
Inspired, I asked, “Would you like me to make you some tea?”
“Oh!” he said, as if realizing for the first time it was the one thing he did want in the way of help. “Yes, please, would you? I’m afraid I’m hopeless. Anna always … She always made us tea right about now. When she was home.”
Which was practically never, but you could see how that little lie comforted him. Anna, domestic goddess, adoring wife and stepmother, putting aside her dreams of world conquest to make tea for her happy family.
The dog and I followed him out to the kitchen, with which I was only fleetingly acquainted from the nights when I dropped off my contribution to the book club. We drew lots for what to bring and somehow I most often drew the dessert card. Once I no longer had a day job I’d arrive laden with something I’d slaved over literally all day. The last meeting—the one where it went irretrievably to hell—I’d brought individual ramekins of chocolate panna cotta. The ramekins were still over at Macy’s house—I kept forgetting to ask for them back.
Alfie pointed out where the tea things were kept—his best guess, in some cases, including under the sink—and stood back while I filled the electric kettle before setting it back on its base and turning it on. I busied myself with tea cups and saucers before finally turning to him, asking, “Are you really their only suspect? That’s absurd.” And it was. There must have been a hundred people they could pin this on.
“I think so. And I agree that it’s absurd.” He ran one hand through hair that looked like it would soon be in need of a good wash. This time with shampoo. “But there was someone—” He dropped a spoon, interrupting himself.
“Someone?” I prompted.
There was a long, heavy pause at this. He put the spoon back on the saucer. I removed it, replacing it with a clean one.
“A witness, I guess. Because they kept asking me if I owned a blue jacket. I asked them if they knew anyone who didn’t own a blue jacket.”
“A blue jacket,” I repeated. “Nothing more? I mean, they didn’t say why they were asking?”
“They didn’t confide their strategy to me. No.”
I felt a twinge that there I was, pressing him. Then I reminded myself that this was a way I could help him—by pointing the police in the right direction and getting them off Alfie’s back.
The one person in the world they should probably be open with, I thought, and they were playing games with the guy. I knew Alfie didn’t do it; he couldn’t have done such a thing in a million years. They were just being dense. And lazy, wanting to wrap this up as soon as possible. But then, they didn’t know the man as I did. He loved Anna, as I’ve said, and not in a “if I can’t have her, no one can” sort of way. He just did.
23
I stayed nearly an hour at Alfie’s, doing what little good I thought I could: just sitting there listening as he praised Anna’s many virtues, which to be honest, wasn’t easy. I left promising to pitch in with walking Georgina where needed. He didn’t seem to have any better idea than I did where the police were in their investigation.
I thought Oscar Mayhew, my old colleague, might have ways of finding out. That evening I shot him a test email. Oscar changed jobs often and there was no guarantee he’d be in the place where I’d left him. I soon received a reply with one of those paranoid legal disclaimers four inches long at the end, as happens wheneve
r you communicate with any corporate email account, demanding that I delete any messages received in error and notify the authorities, or something. I thought it rather sweet that they imagined I was going to trash any juicy emails from my system just because they asked. But given the level of distrust under which news organizations operated, email didn’t seem the best forum to discuss a murder investigation. So I simply asked Oscar if he could meet me over drinks or lunch as soon as possible. He knew I lived in Weycombe; I figured he’d know what it was about.
We arranged to meet at Murano’s near St. Bride’s Church—known as the journalists’ church. If that isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is. Anyway, the restaurant was hidden in a ganglia of lanes behind Fleet Street, where Oscar was now plying his trade alongside the other ink-stained wretches. He gave me good directions, saying he wanted to meet close to his offices to allow us time to talk. Not that it mattered: Oscar was the kind of reporter who set his own rules, seldom bothering to tell anyone where he was. He was known for turning off his mobile when he didn’t want to be disturbed. He might be out chasing a lead or getting blind drunk. With Oscar, the result might be the same—he’d get the breaking story no one sitting at their desk had even heard about until they saw the words running under his byline. He was a legend in the business, as much for his personal life as for his nose for news.
He’d run through three wives already. I’d asked him once why he bothered to get married and he’d said they all looked like different types before the marriage, and had all turned out to be the same woman afterward. This confession would have been more appealing had a couple of the previous wives not told me the hair-raising stories of life with Oscar, when he was seldom home and seldom sober—or alone—when he was. Still, he arrived on time for our meeting and as he politely pulled out a chair for me, he signaled the owner to bring the wine he’d already ordered. He’d not drunk a drop, awaiting my arrival, but I knew from experience we’d make up for lost time quickly. I was fine with that. Over drinks was always the best way to tease things out of Oscar.
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