by J. L. Butler
‘Lots of Donna’s friends have got in touch with information they think might be useful.’
‘What have they said?’
Doyle pulled a face but didn’t immediately respond.
‘Someone witnessed a romantic episode between Mrs Joy and Mr Cole,’ he said finally.
‘Which means what?’
Doyle fixed me with a steely stare which told me he wasn’t going to give out any more information there.
‘You are going to interview Alex Cole, aren’t you?’ I said, already feeling my heartbeat speed up.
‘We already have.’ Doyle dabbed the side of his mouth with a napkin.
I gawped at him, feeling blindsided again.
‘And what did he say?’
‘Miss Day, you are Mr Joy’s divorce lawyer and this is a police investigation,’ he said, his warning to butt out not even thinly disguised.
‘But I’m here, trying to help your investigation,’ I said, struggling to recover my poise.
Doyle gave a soft sigh. ‘Alex Cole was with his wife on Monday evening. They went for dinner and returned home.’
‘So he has an alibi.’
His patience clearly wearing thin, Doyle scrutinized the remains of his salad as if it were the slightly preferable option to continuing his meeting with me.
‘OK, so can you tell me why my client was arrested when you clearly have no evidence that any crime has been committed?’
Doyle sighed, again.
‘Miss Day, I didn’t have to see you. I’m sure you can talk to Mr Joy’s other legal team if you want to know anything else.’
‘If you know I’m going to find out from Mr Joy’s criminal solicitor why don’t you save my phone bill and just tell me?’
Doyle released a puff of breath as the waitress brought over my coffee.
‘What is it you want?’ he said finally.
‘I need to know what’s going on. I need to know why my client was arrested, when there are certainly other people you should be interested in.’
His face remained stony.
‘I still don’t see what this has got to do with you,’ he said. ‘Presumably the divorce is on hold given Mrs Joy is not likely to turn up in court?’
He had a point, but I had an answer ready.
‘I appreciate you probably couldn’t care less about a bunch of lawyers, but this is about my business and we need to know what – and who – we’re dealing with. I know any reputational damage to our chambers is none of your concern, but . . .’
He nodded.
‘You don’t want to carry on defending Martin Joy if he’s guilty as hell, right?’
Not exactly what I meant, but if it got me the information I needed, I was prepared to play ball.
‘So, is he?’ I asked. ‘Or rather, can you prove he is?’
Doyle put down his napkin and looked at me.
‘Let me put it this way: Donna Joy has been missing for ten days,’ he said. ‘There’s been no activity on her social media accounts that she previously used regularly. Her phone, her bank cards haven’t been used. We can’t assume she is safe, unless we have evidence to tell us that she is. If anything has happened to Donna Joy we want to find that out as soon as possible as well as who was involved.’
‘I think we are all agreed that we want to find out what’s happened to her.’
‘Then how about you help me out, Miss Day?’
I shrugged non-committally. ‘If I can.’
‘Donna claimed unreasonable behaviour when she filed for divorce,’ continued Doyle. ‘Her sister Jemma Banks has been helping with our enquiries. She says that Martin had quite a temper. Were you aware of any episodes of domestic violence in their marriage?’
‘Have you never heard of legal privilege?’ I said, looking over the top of my coffee cup.
Doyle responded with the whisper of a smile. ‘I know you don’t have to tell me anything. But I don’t need to be having this conversation with you either.’
I let him wait, which also gave me time to think.
‘There was nothing of that nature,’ I said finally. ‘No threats, no violence. It was a marriage gone stale and there were the usual mutual frustrations, but he never laid a finger on her.’
‘To your knowledge.’
‘I would have heard,’ I said plainly.
‘Well, we’ve heard otherwise,’ said the policeman.
That stopped me from breathing. I could feel my emotions spiralling, my need to push for more information overcoming my sense to pull back.
‘From whom? Her lawyer? Her sister?’
It was Doyle’s turn to shrug. He clearly wasn’t going to reveal that little detail.
‘Quid pro quo, Inspector: why did you arrest him yesterday?’
‘Quid what?’
‘Come on. I told you something, now it’s your turn.’
He remained silent.
‘Come on Inspector, you know Mr Joy’s legal team will tell me this, it’s not a secret.’
He pushed his plate to one side and looked at me.
‘Martin Joy had a suspicious-looking cut on his hand when we interviewed him. He said it was a bike accident but officers said the bike looked brand new. Unused.’
‘I’m not sure it’s possible to tell that . . .’
‘Cadaver dogs searched Donna’s flat yesterday,’ he said after another pause. ‘We discovered traces of blood.’
I felt a thickness in my throat and took a breath to compose myself.
‘Where?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘On the bed. In the bathroom.’
‘Menstrual?’
Doyle smiled.
‘That’s what Martin Joy said.’
I felt weak and cold, as if my own blood was slowly draining away.
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Doyle. ‘Menstrual blood contains traces of endometrial tissue which we’ll discover from forensics. If it’s not menstrual blood, then we have to consider the possibility that something happened at the house that night.’
‘Can you tell how long it’s been there? I mean if it is Donna Joy’s blood, can it be dated to a specific night?’
Doyle smiled again, sensing my discomfort, presumably interpreting it again as evidence of Martin Joy’s divorce lawyer losing faith in her client.
‘Clever chaps, these forensic guys,’ he said. ‘Have to see what comes back from the lab.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But you haven’t answered the main question: is Martin Joy guilty? Did he kill his wife?’
‘You’re right, we don’t have the evidence right now, but if you’re asking for gut feel based on my experience, Miss Day?’
I nodded, feeling dread fill my chest.
‘I’d say he was as guilty as sin.’
Chapter 32
I walked the streets after I left the restaurant, churning my conversation with Doyle over and over in my mind. It was two o’clock in the morning by the time I returned to the hotel, cold and in pain from my shoes that had begun to pinch. But still, I couldn’t sleep. It was pointless to even try; I was too angry and frustrated that every move I made turned into a dead end or pointed to a bald truth that Donna Joy was dead.
It was a trick I used with particularly thorny cases, when a killer legal argument seemed elusive: I stopped working, and rebooted. Read or swam, or worked-out at the gym, always thinking, still plotting my next move, but giving my brain some time to breathe. I walked and walked that night and waited until dawn to text Martin on our special number. I kept my message simple. That I wanted to meet him alone. When Martin replied almost instantly, I knew that he wasn’t able to sleep either.
Alex and Sophie Cole lived in a big white stucco terrace on a leafy South Kensington streets, the kind you assume have to be owned by oil sheikhs, ancient aristos or flash bankers seeking respectability. All of which made Alex Cole more predictable than Martin Joy with his cobbled Dickensian bolthole, but none of it made me any less nervou
s as I walked along the neat row of polished black front doors. I was braced for loitering paparazzi or reporters but saw nothing more sinister than a gaggle of Filipino nannies and a tidy blonde in gym kit striding towards her four-by-four. It was an oasis of polished urban calm; no wonder Martin wanted to stay here.
I took the stone steps slowly and pressed the doorbell, wondering who would answer. Martin hadn’t wanted to step out in public but had suggested during our sunrise communiqué that we meet at the house in the morning, when Alex was at work and Sophie played tennis. But still, coming here, when I knew what I did – that Alex and Donna had been romantically involved – felt more like poking a hornet’s nest with a sharp stick than pressing a bell.
‘Hey.’
Martin looked at me nervously through a crack in the door, then opened it wide enough for me to squeeze through.
When I was inside, we awkwardly embraced, the memory of our uncomfortable goodbye at the hotel still hanging between us.
‘You’re looking much better,’ I said. Better than the crumpled, hunted man who had shuffled into that cheap hotel room, at any rate. He’d showered and shaved, dressed in a navy cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Though he looked more like the old Martin, the purple rings under his eyes remained, like a boxer after a hard bout.
‘Come in,’ he said, leading me through the high entrance hall.
‘Wow,’ I whistled. ‘Nice place.’
In my profession, I sometimes had to visit the homes of the wealthy and they were always impressive, but the Coles’ home was something special. There was a soft, almost ghostly calm to the place, as if I’d entered the relaxation room of a very exclusive spa. There were oil paintings on the walls – abstract patterns in shades of white and cream with splashes of colour that gave them a raw dynamic edge – originals, I assumed, although I did not recognize the artist.
‘Yeah, Sophie has pretty good taste.’
I nodded, but it was a gross understatement.
I’d spent my working life fighting over properties a lot like this one, arguing over art and furniture, bricks and mortar. It was amazing what people would fight over once they had fallen out of love. I have seen thousands of pounds’ worth of legal fees racked up over items of little value – magazine collections, coffee tables, kitchen utensils, things of little financial or sentimental worth, just so they could point score. Just so they could win. But this house was something else; I understood why someone would want to fight over a place like this.
‘I like those paintings,’ I said, pointing at three large canvases on the wall.
‘Donna did those,’ he replied, almost apologetically.
‘She’s talented,’ I said – and it was true.
I tried to ignore how much discomfort it gave me that they were so good. Even when I had seen Martin’s ex-wife in the flesh, seen how beautiful she was, I had always managed to dismiss her as a pampered, self-regarding trophy wife, dabbling in art as a way to pass the time between trips to the Harbour Club and Whole Foods. Even when I saw Donna and Martin laughing together in the restaurant on that hazy, rainy night, I had consoled myself with the thought that I was better than Donna Joy: smarter, sharper, more accomplished. Perhaps I had been wrong about that too.
I followed Martin into the living room, which stretched all the way from the front of the house to a wide set of bay windows at the rear. I could hear birds singing outside, but I felt none of their simple joy.
‘Coffee?’ asked Martin.
‘No thanks.’
I waited until I had his full attention.
‘I need to tell you something.’
‘I sensed this wasn’t a social call.’
‘I’ve been to the police,’ I said finally and he frowned, not following.
‘The police? Why?’
‘To talk.’
‘What about?’
I knew I had to get the uncomfortable stuff out of the way first. The stuff I’d been desperately trying to push to the back of my mind ever since Michael Doyle had told me.
‘Inspector Doyle mentioned domestic violence.’
‘What?’ He sounded astonished. ‘You mean between me and Donna?’
I nodded.
‘It’s utter bullshit. I swear to you, Fran, I have never laid a hand on her. I would never do that.’
‘That’s what I told Inspector Doyle,’ I said, reassured by his bafflement.
Martin pressed a hand against his mouth. I stepped forward and touched his arm reassuringly.
‘Look, I went to see Doyle because I finally got hold of Phil – my investigator.’
That sparked his interest and he stepped towards me, but I held up a hand.
‘It’s not necessarily good news,’ I said with a tone of warning. ‘Donna was seeing someone. Someone other than you.’
I searched his face for a reaction, but there was only confusion.
‘Was this the person she went to Paris with?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘Then what do you know?’
I paused and tried to inhale in the calmness of the room around me.
‘Donna was seeing Alex.’ The words seemed to form in the air between us and I looked away, unable to watch the crash of emotions on his face.
‘Alex?’ he repeated. ‘My Alex?’
I nodded.
‘Is this Phil guy sure about this?’
‘He hasn’t got bodily fluids or video footage, but he’s—’
‘Then how does he know it’s true?’ he interrupted, his voice urgent, loud. I could almost see him winding himself up like a spring, ready to pounce.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Donna and Alex don’t even really get on.’
I noted the genuine disbelief on his face and felt a surge of relief. Phil’s words of caution at our meeting in the Japanese garden had been working through my head like a determined earthworm. An affair with Alex gave Martin more of a motive to get rid of Donna. She could have told him, he could have lost his temper. A crime of passion. But unless he had been studying at RADA, Martin hadn’t had a clue about Alex and Donna’s relationship, however fleeting it might have been. Which made that motive redundant.
I felt guilty for having even considered Phil’s theory, but forced myself to recount everything the investigator had told me, while also giving Martin time to let it all sink in.
‘And you told the police about this,’ said Martin, rubbing his forehead.
‘I wanted to tell them as soon as possible.’
He flashed me a look. ‘Before me?’
‘It’s not a competition, Martin. And since your lawyer told you they might re-arrest you, I wanted to make sure the police were aware of any other suspects with plausible motives as soon as possible.’
He considered this and nodded.
‘So they’re going to bring Alex in for questioning?’
‘They’ve already spoken to him,’ I said. This part wasn’t going to go well either, I could tell.
‘Do you think that’s the reason why they let me go? Why they didn’t charge me?’
I shook my head sadly.
‘They spoke to Alex on Monday.’
The brief look of elation on his face disappeared. He pressed his lips together and I could see him putting the facts together and working out what I had realized hours earlier. Alex had been questioned before Martin had been arrested, which meant that they had eliminated Alex from their enquiries.
‘Listen,’ I said gently, ‘this doesn’t change anything. The police didn’t charge you because there isn’t enough evidence – and with the non-existent body, there never will be. If they are speaking to other people, they’re still open to other lines of enquiry, which means they aren’t convinced you’re their man. And you have to be sure before charging someone. Or at least sure that the CPS have a prosecution case with a realistic chance of conviction.’
‘But how can the police be certain that Alex wasn’t involve
d in Donna’s disappearance?’ He muttered the question, as if addressing himself rather than me, and trying to process it all in his head. I noticed a pulse beneath his left eye, beating like a tiny heart. Despite what had happened in the Earls Court hotel room, I wanted to wrap him up in my arms and tell him that it was going to be OK. But I still wasn’t sure I believed that myself, not after having spoken to Inspector Michael Doyle. I knew the police weren’t going to break their backs helping Martin out of this hole, so someone else had to do it. I had always loved puzzles and cop shows and I liked piecing things together. Wasn’t that what I did on a day-to-day basis: look for angles and loopholes, trying to out-think the opposition? And right now Martin didn’t need me to be Francine Day the lawyer or even the lover. I had to be the detective.
‘The police claim Alex had an alibi for the Monday night, that last night that Donna was seen,’ I said, feeling a macabre enjoyment in the situation. ‘But for them to discount Alex from the investigation would be to make the assumption that something happened to Donna on that Monday. Why not Tuesday, or Wednesday? Or any day between then and now? What have Alex’s movements been since that Monday?’
Martin looked up. ‘I’m pretty sure he was at a fin-tech conference on the Tuesday and Wednesday. I can ask around, find out.’
I nodded.
‘And here’s something else,’ he said. ‘I’ve stayed here two nights since Alex was interviewed by the police and he hasn’t mentioned it. Don’t you think that suggests he’s got something to hide?’
I was less convinced than he was. ‘I’m not sure the subject of Alex’s affair with your wife is something he’d want to bring up over supper.’
He looked at me, then shrugged, conceding the point.
‘I look so bloody stupid. Everyone knew about it but me.’
‘I’m not sure the police think that Donna’s relationship with Alex was serious,’ I said.
‘Now there’s a consolation.’
Neither of us spoke for a few moments.
‘How did the police find out anyway?’
‘A friend of Donna’s had told them. But Inspector Doyle was vague with the details. It was possibly the same person who my investigator interviewed. It’s unlikely they’d speak to Phil and not the police, given that Donna is missing and the police have been asking people to come forward with information.’