by Gytha Lodge
Sheens headed straight to his office once they were back at CID. Lightman had left, presumably to do whatever it was he’d had planned for the evening, and there weren’t a lot of other detectives there at almost five on a Friday. It was the sort of quiet environment conducive either to good concentration or to a soporific wind-down.
O’Malley woke his desktop and logged in to the database. He started looking for previous convictions for all the names they had so far, beginning with Zoe’s parents. There was nothing related to them, or to any other spellings of the name that O’Malley could think of, so he moved on to Aidan Poole, who also had a clean slate.
To O’Malley’s momentary excitement, Angeline Judd actually did appear in the system. But on checking, it turned out to be a caution for cannabis possession at the age of fifteen. She’d been picked up with a group of friends, and nothing much had come of it. He made a note, but overall wasn’t inclined to link that episode with their current case.
With no further results, he decided to try Google. Angeline had a minimal online presence outside social media, where she seemed to be moderately active on Twitter. Most of her posts, however, were about feeling sad and betrayed. The rest generally featured kittens. Not particularly promising when it came to guessing whether she had murderous intent. Though when he clicked on a few of the more morbid ones from a few months ago, he saw that Zoe Swardadine had been one of the few people to reply to her. The essential message was always the same: Hang on in there. Be strong. You are loved. It’s all going to be OK.
But as the months wore on, Zoe’s replies had become sporadic. O’Malley could hardly blame her. He was pretty sure he’d be fed up with the very public emoting in no time.
Aidan Poole had a much more extensive online presence. The top entry was a Southampton University staff web page. O’Malley opened it, and was confronted with a somewhat moody image of a dark-haired man taken from above and to the side. It was an arty shot, and made Poole look sulkily handsome, to the point where O’Malley couldn’t help laughing to himself. What the photo didn’t do so well was convey an air of professionalism, but perhaps it hadn’t been his choice of shot.
O’Malley read the brief bio, realizing that Aidan Poole’s undergraduate degree had come from Warwick, which was where Hanson had gone. They were a good fifteen years apart, though, so that was unlikely to be a useful link.
There wasn’t much else of interest on the page, so he clicked back and tried the Royal Economic Society listing. Aidan’s photograph was that same sulky one. So Aidan probably had chosen it. There was a certain vanity to it that he found both interesting and amusing.
Having found little else beyond a series of publications, O’Malley rang the numbers he had for Victor Varos and Maeve Silver. There was no reply from either of them, but Hanson had sent an email including details of Victor’s work at Gina’s coffee shop, which was back toward Zoe’s flat. Victor should, it seemed, be on his shift now.
With a sigh, O’Malley rose again to gather his coat and keys. He tapped on the DCI’s door on the way out.
“Off to see if I can track down one of the friends,” he said. “Do you want me to call the university on the way to break the news?”
“I tried a few minutes ago,” Sheens answered, shaking his head. “I got a secretary who wouldn’t budge on the chancellor being busy all day.”
“I wonder what it would take to make him not busy,” O’Malley said, considering. “If you like, I could call and say someone’s broken into his house.”
Sheens laughed. “If I don’t get a call back, you’re on.”
* * *
—
CAFÉ GINA LOOKED expensive from the outside. It was well lit, with a series of stylish bare-bulb lamps hanging down from a ceiling that was crisscrossed by obvious pipework. It hung so low that he was positive it must have been added in for effect. There was a large handwritten blackboard out at the front that read Coffee, like life, is for savoring in artistic writing. He had a funny thought that Zoe might have been the one to write it, if she worked here.
O’Malley let himself into the warm, bright interior. It looked expensive from inside, too. They had what he thought of as deliberately uneven tables, the kind that looked like they’d been individually carved out of pieces of oak by someone determined for you to know that they’d done it by hand. There was a wide blackboard behind the counter with decorated lists of food and drink, and he could see a coffee for almost a fiver.
At the moment there was only one person behind the counter: a short, stocky young man with an air of slight amusement.
O’Malley approached him and gave him a small smile. “I’m looking for Victor.”
“Oh, he’s…” The barista waved toward the rear of the counter, but at that point a tall, lean man with very dark hair and intensely blue eyes emerged from a door to the rear of the coffeehouse.
“Victor,” O’Malley said. “I wondered if I could have a quick word. I’m from the police.”
Victor froze in place, and then there was movement behind him, and suddenly a young woman’s Northern Irish voice cut through the moment of silence.
“Is it about Zoe? What’s happened?”
He had to turn to see her. She’d come to a stop a short distance from him. Her face was absolutely white except for two smudges of red color on the cheeks.
“Are you a friend?”
“Yes. I’m…I used to be her housemate. I’m Maeve.”
O’Malley gave a nod. “Ah. I tried to call you earlier.”
“My phone was…” She indicated a table by the wall, where an iPhone was connected to the power by a tangled white cable. “What’s happened? There were police cars.”
O’Malley gave her a smile that he only ever used when breaking bad news, and then turned toward Victor. “Is there a back room we can all talk in?”
If Maeve had looked frightened, Victor looked worse. His face wore the expression, in fact, of a man whose world has just crumbled in front of him.
April—nineteen months before
Zoe had felt periodic rushes of excitement every day since Gina’s wedding. They had hit her at random intervals, while painting, while cycling, while at lectures, while talking to friends. She’d found it almost impossible not to smile every time she remembered something Aidan had messaged her, or his expression at the bar when he had finally said goodbye, in the long seconds before he had leaned in and kissed her.
God, that kiss. It had been electrifying. Muscle-weakening. It had been everything that kisses should be.
It was such a long time since she’d felt like this. Every other relationship she could remember had started with intense conversations about the saddest times in their lives. None of them had begun with this constant urge to laugh.
With infuriating timing, Aidan had been away for the last week and a half. She’d had to make do with messages and occasional Skype chats until this week. But now it was Thursday at last, and they were meeting tonight, and she was so keyed up it felt like she was about to win some kind of award.
Aidan already had a hotel booked so he wouldn’t have to commute home to “the wilds of Alton.” The idea of that hotel room had crept into her thoughts a few times. Which wasn’t the way things usually ran with her. It generally took her time to get to know someone. To feel like spending the night together was a natural next step. But Aidan…Aidan made her feel like someone else entirely. Like someone impulsive, who was willing to risk everything on a whim.
She was thinking vividly of that kiss again as she let herself into the house. She felt wrong-footed as she walked through into the living area and found Maeve there, moving up and down the kitchen with jerky steps, whiter than Zoe had ever seen her and with clear marks of tears down her face.
“Hey,” Zoe said, dumping her bag down on one of the armchairs. “Are you all right? What’s going o
n?”
“I’m…The bastards at church have…they’ve been spreading lies about me,” she said before her face contorted and she turned away to hide the fact that she was crying.
“What?” Zoe went over to her and hovered, wondering whether to try to hug her. She knew Maeve hated it under normal circumstances, and that she might hate it even more when she was genuinely upset. Zoe settled for a brief rub of her shoulder. “Hey, if they’re lying, then we can do something. They can’t just do that.”
“They’ve already spread it everywhere!” Maeve said, turning around and looking upward in an effort to control the tears. “There was this…this horrible atmosphere, and I knew something…was up. And then Alison…Alison told me that Isaac’s wife had said something…”
Zoe was too shocked to answer for a moment. “What…But you’ve never met her! How can she complain about you?”
Maeve shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I don’t know.”
“Did she see some messages?” Zoe asked. Her stomach squeezed. Maeve had poured her heart out in her messages. She’d shown Zoe a few of them. If Isaac’s wife had found out…Well, they’d both look bad, but somehow the cheat never ended up in trouble. It was always the other woman who was condemned, in Zoe’s experience.
Not that it had been full-on cheating. Maeve didn’t believe in sex before marriage, and the two of them had never done more than kiss. Which had only been twice, and which Isaac had then said he felt wretched about.
Zoe wasn’t sure she believed him, however profoundly Maeve did. He was not only a married man but also the pastor of their church. Faith Leader Isaac. He should never have involved himself with a student. And he definitely shouldn’t have strung her along, telling her he was going to leave his wife and children to be with her, but never quite doing it.
Zoe had been overwhelmed with frustration about the whole thing. She had come to the conclusion, after listening to hours of Maeve’s defenses of him, that Isaac was an asshole. And even if he was marginally better than Zoe thought and he meant what he said about leaving his wife, she wished Maeve could have more willpower. This was a family she was thinking of wrecking. There were kids. It was all so wrong.
And then it had all gotten better. Maeve had reached breaking point, and told him she’d had enough. She’d promised Zoe that it was over. She’d gone on dates and talked about other things. She’d seemed better. Why was this happening now? Was it just unfair timing?
“What has she been saying?” Zoe asked.
Maeve shook her head again, and then reached out and grabbed two pieces of paper towel from the dispenser and blew her nose into it. “I’m sorry. I’m so…so pathetic…”
“Don’t be silly!” Zoe said. “You have to cry sometimes. You can’t be positive when life throws shit at you.”
“But I always am,” Maeve said with what was almost a small child’s wail. “Even after he invited me for a stupid coffee, and then told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I was strong about it. And then…and then she starts telling everyone I’m some kind of seductress.”
“Oh, Maeve,” she said. “Didn’t he admit that it was his fault?” She didn’t really need to ask the question.
“I don’t know,” Maeve said. “He won’t answer my calls.”
Zoe winced. Maeve ringing him repeatedly was only going to make her seem obsessed. “Look,” she said, “if he…if he told her it was just you, and protected himself at your expense, then that’s shit of him. It’s understandable, but it’s still shit. Please don’t blame everyone else at church and not him.”
“I’m not,” Maeve said. “I’m not. But he didn’t tell them. It was her….”
And Zoe had the familiar sinking of her heart when, once again, Maeve slid into blaming Isaac’s wife for everything. A woman who had only ever been wronged.
She looked past Maeve and realized that it was a lot later than she’d thought. She had only half an hour to get ready before she needed to be out the door if she was going to meet Aidan on time. Given that she needed to shower and then dry her hair, that would be pushing it even if she hadn’t stopped to talk to Maeve. But she couldn’t just walk away from her now.
“Let me make tea,” she said firmly, “and we’ll talk about what we can do to stop the gossip.”
And then, as she went to put the kettle on, she messaged Aidan.
Slight crisis here with Maeve. Would you mind if we made it half an hour later? I’m really sorry. Not a normal situation. Will explain. xx
She was tipping milk into the tea by the time Aidan replied.
I’m positive this is just a ruse to make me wait, but I’ll do it. You’re worth it. xx PS don’t talk yourself dry. I want to hear everything about everything to do with you.
Zoe smiled, more out of relief than anything else, and went to force-feed Maeve tea.
* * *
—
SHE WAS STILL a few minutes late, even for the later meet time. She’d wanted to look spectacular, but not the same kind of spectacular as at the wedding, so she’d got a black dress and a slouchy sweater that had turned out to have a mark on it that needed scrubbing. The eye makeup she’d decided on was a blend of ice white and hot pink, and wasn’t the easiest to apply.
She’d eventually rushed out of the house five minutes before she was supposed to be at Brown’s, with a twelve-minute cycle ahead of her. On her way out the door, she’d waved to Maeve, who was curled on the sofa watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s and looking considerably less distraught. Zoe hauled her bike out from the side passage and pedaled like the wind, turning her lights on as she went.
Aidan was seated at a table near the bar, his eyes on the menu, when she rushed in. He was easy to spot in profile, with his dark curls falling onto his forehead and his sculptured lips set into what looked like slight amusement. God, he was beautiful. Just beautiful. She felt a squeeze of nerves.
He glanced up at her and smiled warmly. Dangerously. “Definitely worth it,” he said, and rose to kiss her, a brief touch of his lips on hers that cut through the nerves and seemed to hit a point right in the middle of her abdomen.
“I ordered us gin,” he said as he drew away. “Unfortunately I’ve picked somewhere that doesn’t seem to do Jäger Bombs.”
Zoe grinned and unhooked her bag from her shoulder so she could sit down. “You fail. But I’m sure we can move on somewhere else later.”
“This sounds like one of those evenings where I’m mysteriously ill the next day, and miss classes,” he said.
“Classes?” she asked, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Are you a mature student?”
Aidan shook his head. “Worse. I’m an immature lecturer.”
Zoe gave a little laugh of shock. “Oh no! That’s, like…worse than being a politician. You’re one of them.”
“Right,” he said, snatching up her gin and tonic with one of those wicked grins, “I’m having that back.”
“No, don’t! I need it!” She held out her hand, laughing, but he moved the glass away.
“I’m not buying drinks for people who compare me to politicians,” he said.
“All right, all right,” Zoe said. “You’re not as bad as a politician. Unless you’re a lecturer in politics, in which case…”
“Not quite,” he said, shaking his head. “Economics. Am I allowed?”
“Ooh, proper clever, like,” she said, and then grinned. “Yeah, you’re allowed.”
With her drink returned to her, she asked him a little more seriously, “But you don’t mind? You know, dating a student?”
“I’m not teaching you, am I?” he asked with a shrug. “And it’s not like you’re some fresh-faced eighteen-year-old. You’re…twenty-six, you said, right? You’re practically elderly.”
“Right. I’m not talking to you,” she said.
&n
bsp; “Yes, you are,” he replied. “At length. You promised.”
By the time they were seated at their table, he’d already got the full story of Maeve out of Zoe, and an expanded version of Victor’s strange attitude. And she couldn’t help liking the way he listened thoughtfully and asked further questions, then made gentle suggestions. He made her feel like all of this was his problem now, too.
After that, she ended up telling him about her dad, and the alcoholism he was hiding from her mother, and all the times she’d ended up having to go to his rescue.
“Isn’t it unfair that he leans on you?” Aidan asked gently in the end. “You’re supposed to be the daughter. I can’t help feeling he should be looking after you.”
Zoe shrugged, giving him a small, embarrassed smile. “I don’t need looking after.”
There was something delicious in the way Aidan nodded slowly, and said, “We’ll see about that.”
She eventually grilled him on his own life, and the mother for whom nothing had ever been quite good enough; the girlfriends he’d chosen because they reminded him of her; his mother’s death and his complex grief over it.
“Do you think I’m like her?” Zoe asked.
“No,” Aidan said with a bright-eyed grin. “You’re nothing like her. And I think I might finally have got past all the trauma and chosen someone who is actually good for me.”
It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. It made her feel warm and a little dizzy.
It seemed inevitable that they should go from the restaurant to Aidan’s hotel room. That they should unwrap each other slowly, and then move into each other.
In the moments afterward, he murmured, “God, you’re wonderful,” and for some reason there were tears standing in his eyes and hers.