by J. L. Butler
‘No. I always fly to Europe,’ he said with some irritation. ‘Besides I haven’t been anywhere with Donna since last summer. When was this supposed to be?’
‘The precise dates are in a file at work. But Phil saw her go through the international terminal at St Pancras. He wasn’t booked on to a train so he couldn’t follow her.’
‘Was she on her own?’
‘Yes, but she could have met someone.’
‘Where? In Paris? On the train? Why not meet at the station?’
‘Because she didn’t want to be seen.’
‘So Phil, your private investigator – he’s looking into this?’
I nodded.
‘Is he working alone?’
‘He always does. Better that way, when you’re dealing with privacy issues.’
‘Well, it’s not private any more,’ said Martin, standing up and pacing around like a cat. ‘Get him to put a team together – I don’t care how much it costs. If the police are convinced it’s me, they’re not going to be looking for anyone else. We’re going to have to do it ourselves.’
‘I need to tell you something else.’
He caught my tone and stopped pacing.
‘I saw you go to Donna’s house that night.’ I paused. I had been dreading telling him this. ‘When Phil told me you were still seeing Donna, I was hurt. I wanted to find out if it was true, so I followed her to the restaurant where you met. Then I saw you go back to her place.’
If he thought there was anything strange about that behaviour, he didn’t show it.
‘And did you see me leave?’ he asked.
‘I can’t remember. I was drunk.’
‘You can’t remember?’ he said with a flash of anger. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘I was drunk. I waited in the pub across the road. Got home somehow. When I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t remember a thing.’
He sank to his knees in front of me, taking my shoulders. ‘Fran, you have to try and remember,’ he pleaded. ‘You have to.’
‘I would if I could,’ I said feeling my voice tremble in frustration.
‘Then you you’ve got to think harder,’ he said, his voice taking a stronger, more insistent edge.
‘I would if I could,’ I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. I looked at him and I could see an idea forming in his brain. I knew it was what we were both thinking.
That I could lie for him. That I could tell the police the story I had just told him, except that I could remember seeing him leave.
‘I’m sorry I followed you,’ I said, before he could ask.
He gave me the faintest of smiles.
‘I’m glad you did,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘Why?’
‘Because it means you love me.’
His words made me shiver. As he looked at me, I just wanted to feel him inside me.
‘Come here,’ he said in a softer voice, reaching a hand out towards me.
‘All I wanted to do today was see you.’
‘I wanted to see you too.’
‘Even though I look like this? I’m in urgent need of some fresh clothes.’
‘Not right now, you’re not,’ I said, feeling bold. I began to unbutton his shirt and pulled him close. Placing my hands on his hair as he buried his head into my skirt, I could hear him breathing me in and I wanted to feel his lips against my skin.
My hands reached behind me and I unzipped my skirt, which fell to the floor with a rustle.
I hadn’t had any clean underwear that morning so I wasn’t wearing any.
Standing up, Martin loosened his trousers, until he was naked, his body as magnificent as I remembered. Mounting the bed, he turned and propped a pillow under his head, watching me as I finished undressing.
I crawled on the bed towards him, straddling him. For the first time in days I felt vital and powerful. I sat on his thighs and as we kissed, I pushed my breasts against his coarse scrub of chest hair.
He gave a low moan when we came up for air and then grabbed me, flipping me on to my back. He sucked my nipple and then he was astride my body, lowering himself into me.
His head knocked against the headboard, softly, slowly at first then stronger and harder.
I could feel his frustration in every urgent thrust. I held on to him, fingers pressed against his back, feeling his hard, tense muscles under his skin; I had never really noticed how strong he was before, but now his raw power pinned me down. I was unable to do anything but follow his lead. I felt full of him, and as he pushed my thighs apart, it began to hurt.
I groaned, wanting him to be more gentle, but a part of me was enjoying being totally overpowered by him. It was as if he wanted to consume me and I wanted him to possess me too, to go so far inside me that we became one, fused together, forever.
His moans were harder, more feral as he pumped into me. I could feel his anger, his frustration with every urgent thrust.
His hand pushed my legs even further apart in a rough gesture and I felt a sharp overstretch of muscle between my thighs. I tried to cry out but I could barely breathe, let alone ask him to stop.
The slow swell of desire began to fade as I realized I wasn’t enjoying this any more.
He grabbed my hair and I could feel my scalp pulling away from my skull. His mouth was pressed against my ear, spittle washing up on my skin as he grunted with each thrust.
I just wanted it to be over and I bucked into him, panting louder and louder as I faked my climax.
The veins on his neck popped and his eyes squeezed shut.
‘Donna,’ he moaned, and I felt him explode into me.
I didn’t want to believe what he had said at first, but I could hear the echo of her name in my head, and had to admit what he had just cried out.
I lay absolutely still, staring at the ceiling as he rolled over. Lying side by side, he reached over and put his hand on my thigh as his breathing began to return to normal, but I didn’t want to be near him. Instead, I got up off the bed and walked to the window.
The sky was completely overcast, making the room dark. I folded my arms across my chest and fixed my gaze on a rooftop aerial in the distance.
I stood there until I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t turn to look at him but could feel his breath on my neck.
His arms came around me and I flinched.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said softly.
‘You were too rough,’ I whispered.
‘I’m sorry. I lost control.’
‘Don’t say anything,’ I replied, as he turned me around slowly.
I looked away from him. ‘You called me Donna.’
I was stiff and rigid and could feel goosebumps form on my naked skin in the cool of the air conditioning.
‘Don’t deny it,’ I whispered, almost hearing him thinking up an excuse.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’
Another silence.
‘Why? Why did you call me Donna?’ I stepped away from him and could feel disgust and bile in my throat.
‘Because it’s all I can think about. Her name is the only thing I’ve heard over the past twenty-four hours. I didn’t mean it the way you think I meant it.’
‘And what way would that be?’
For a second the only thing I could picture was Martin and Donna in bed. The sex raw, unbridled, pure desire. I see him holding her wrists, tight, so tight, her skin is turning purple. I see his eyes flash with longing and pain and fury. I see how easy it would be for him to put a pillow over her face, to muffle her screams and I see him fall away from her lifeless body. I can suddenly picture it all.
‘Fran,’ he murmured, putting his hand up to my cheek. For a second my breath stopped.
‘Fran, please. I wanted to see you today because I love you. Because I need you.’
‘I think you should go,’ I said.
He nodded, as if he understood and picked up his shirt from the floor.
We both dresse
d in silence.
‘Where will you go?’ I asked.
‘Alex’s house.’
I wished I had a drink or cigarette and could barely wait to open the mini-bar.
‘Will you call Phil?’ he said finally as he hovered at the door.
I nodded, arms still wrapped around my chest and watched him close the door, glad, for the first time ever, to see him go.
Chapter 30
I decided to stay the night at the hotel. Not because I’d paid for it, although there was a very careful side of me, the side that always made me watch my money, that didn’t want to let it go to waste. But after everything that had happened with Pete Carroll and my hour with Martin, I didn’t want to look Clare in the eye over the breakfast table or have a prickly encounter with Dom; I just wanted to be on my own.
I made some notes about a potential Khan vs Khan appeal, got an early night, and when I woke up the next morning I called down to reception, extended my stay and then hit the streets, realizing that with not even a toothbrush to my name, it was time to go shopping.
The hotel was a short walk away from the Westfield centre. At ten thirty in the morning, it was already crowded. In my current mindset, it was overwhelming: chatter, muzak and a thousand echoing footfalls congealed into a roar, the endless bodies seeming to bob and weave into my path whichever way I turned. There was however method in my madness, this was a sort of smash-and-grab shopping spree and a gigantic mall was the quickest way to get it done. I bought toiletries from Boots, and some basics from the Gap; underwear, trousers, a couple of fresh T-shirts and a small rucksack to put it all in, and emerged back out into the daylight feeling as if I was about to run away.
I was making my way down Holland Park Avenue when my phone rang. I was surprised to see that it was from Phil Robertson; I’d left him several messages since my conversation with Martin but heard nothing back.
‘I was beginning to think you’d skipped the country.’
‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘Although it’s always a possibility. Got a few things to tell you first, though.’
I knew better than to ask him over the phone. Like most investigators who spent their lives easing information from sources and exploiting weaknesses in security systems, he was paranoid as a matter of routine.
‘How about we meet in the Japanese garden in the park?’
Open air, but not too open, exactly the sort of spot Phil liked.
‘It’s a date,’ he said.
I killed some time in a local café and was surprised to find him waiting for me on a bench next to the fountain.
‘Never knew this was here,’ said Phil, sipping a takeaway coffee. ‘Never fancied going to Japan but this is nice.’
‘How can you not want to go to Japan?’
‘Have you been?’
‘No.’
‘There you go,’ he grinned. ‘You can’t want to go that much either.’
‘I do. But I’ve always wanted to see the cherry blossom in spring or the autumn leaves in October. I tend to be busiest at those times of year so I’m stuck in the office.’
‘I didn’t know divorce was seasonal,’ he said smiling cynically.
I laughed. There didn’t seem to be much to smile about in my line of work of late, but I always liked Phil’s matter-of-fact approach to life.
‘Strangely yes. Lots of people break up after Christmas or the new school year.’
‘Fresh starts,’ said Pete nodding sagely.
I exhaled softly and tried to soak up the calm of the garden. Weak sun was trying to peer from behind the clouds but it was still empty and I could hear the gurgling sound of the waterfall quite clearly.
‘I wanted to speak to you,’ I said finally. ‘Martin Joy was arrested and he’s not convinced the police are looking for anyone else. We need to find out who Donna was having an affair with, to take the heat off him.’
‘Which is why I’ve been avoiding you until I had something to tell you.’
I leaned in to listen to him, nerve endings twitching in hope.
‘Without access to Donna’s house, her phone, the only way I could find that out was by asking around. I used her social media accounts, society magazine clippings to build up a web of her social circle. I layered that with parties, events I discovered she went to and started speaking to people. Some wouldn’t talk. Some had already been questioned by the police. Eventually I found someone. Someone who’d seen her with somebody she shouldn’t have been with.’
‘With somebody?’
‘Kissing.’
My eyes widened. ‘When was this? Do you know who it was?’
‘It was at a party last summer. And it was Alex Cole.’
I was stunned, although when I took a moment to think about it, it wasn’t too far-fetched. How many affairs were carried out in plain sight? Co-workers, friends, neighbours – those were the people you had every reason to trust, which made them the easiest people to fall for.
‘It gives Alex Cole a motive,’ I said, thinking out loud.
‘Do you think so?’ replied Phil. ‘I’d have said the opposite. The police will think it gives Martin more motive to kill Donna.’
‘No one’s talking about Donna being murdered,’ I said sharply.
His face said otherwise. ‘Either way, you’ve got to tell the police.’
I nodded, even though I knew it was a risk.
‘They’ll want to question Alex.’
Phil sat forward, his face concerned. ‘Fran, you do realize this isn’t necessarily good news for Martin Joy?’
‘It means there’s another suspect, Phil.’
‘Sure, but you can imagine what the police are going to make of it. They already suspect Martin, and this is only going to confirm it.’
‘How?’
‘This is how they’ll see it,’ he said patiently. ‘Martin goes back to Donna’s house for a bit of kiss and make-up and call-off-the-divorce shagging. Donna tells him about Alex. There’s arguing, fighting, Martin loses control. Next thing you know, she’s dead. Forget the idea that he got rid of Donna so he could keep his fortune, a simple crime of passion is one of the oldest reasons in the book. From the police’s point of view, Martin’s now an even more plausible suspect.’
‘But if Alex was sleeping with Donna . . .’
He paused as if he were listening to the wind in the trees and then looked at me.
‘Were you having a relationship with him, Fran? With Martin?’
I paused for half a beat. There was no point in hiding it from Phil.
‘That obvious?’
‘Credit me with some powers of deduction,’ he smiled ruefully.
‘Go to the police, Fran,’ Phil said, placing a hand on my knee. ‘Before they come to you.’
Chapter 31
Inspector Michael Doyle, the officer in charge of the Donna Joy case, wanted to meet in Pizza Express in Pimlico at 8 p.m., which seemed a bit irregular, although I was glad of the neutral venue, relieved that I wouldn’t have to go back to the Belgravia station interview rooms. I’d already lied to a police officer once this week, and hopefully the informality of a Pizza Express would make things easier. Besides which, I hadn’t eaten all day and I was starving.
Doyle was in his forties with dark hair and shrewd eyes, which seemed predictable enough for a senior police officer. That he was eating a salad and sipping tea that smelt herbal was more of a surprise.
‘I’m Francine Day,’ I said, extending my hand.
‘Michael Doyle. Thanks for coming.’ He nodded his head in invitation for me to take a seat.
‘If this was a cop show we’d be in a greasy spoon eating a fry-up,’ I said, trying to get the meeting off on an easy-going note but Michael Doyle looked as if I had offended him.
‘My boss just took early retirement. Forty-nine, heart disease and diabetes. The whole department is on a health kick,’ he said raising a brow.
I ordered a coffee from the waitress, wondering if I could be out of
there before it even came.
‘So what did you want to discuss?’
The light was bright overhead and I wished we had a more tucked-away table. When I had called the number that Sergeant Collins had given me, I’d decided that this was the right course of action. My first port of call could have been to tell Martin about Alex, but as he was staying with the Coles, I wasn’t sure that was wise, especially as his behaviour at the hotel showed he was unpredictable and on the edge. I could have called Matthew Clarkson, Martin’s defence lawyer, but as I didn’t know him I wasn’t sure if I could get information out of him in return for what I was about to share.
I sat back in my chair and watched Doyle wait for me to say something. I wondered whether training at Hendon involved a psychiatric evaluation of guilt. I had recalled a TV show about a doctor who specialized in deciphering body language and I wondered what Doyle could read from me now.
‘I don’t know how much you know about the work that I do,’ I began.
‘As a divorce lawyer?’ he said, taking another swig of tea. ‘I can guess. I have some experience.’
I smiled back, knowing that I had to tread carefully. Half the coppers I’d ever met were divorced. If his wife had got the house and his kids, then Michael Doyle probably didn’t like people like me. Cops in general didn’t like lawyers anyway, which put me on the back foot.
‘I deal with a lot of high-net-worth individuals and the dissolution of their marriages,’ I said carefully. ‘That brings an added dimension to my work, we get involved in forensic accounting and other investigative areas that might not be necessary with more regular divorces.’
‘And . . .’ he said, making a circular motion with his fork.
‘Several weeks ago, I asked a colleague to look into Mrs Joy’s personal affairs. It’s fairly standard practice in high-end divorce settlements when we’re trying to work out the fairest financial result for our clients.’
‘How the other half lives, eh?’
‘My investigator found evidence that Mrs Joy was in a relationship. He discovered that she was involved with Martin Joy’s business partner, Alex Cole.’
‘I know,’ said Doyle, spearing a tomato.
My jaw dropped. ‘You know?’