The Adulterer's Handbook

by Sam Anthony

  “ … yes, Richard, I said exactly the same thing to Harry over there a couple of hours ago …”

  “It’s certainly filling up in here now. The place was empty when I arrived …”

  I stay until last orders, moderating my alcohol consumption because I want to keep my wits about me, before finally driving the short distance home, as cautiously as possible.

  I’m in bed, feigning sleep, by the time Tamsin arrives and slips under the covers silently beside me, blissfully unaware that she’s sleeping with a murderer.

  ◆◆◆

  As I lie in bed, unable to sleep, I think back, over and over again, to the moment of the accident. Yes, I’m calling it an accident now. What actually happened is unclear. I have two opposing memories that contradict each other in a few details. I can picture both vividly in my mind’s eye. In one, Sophia provokes me and I push her gently backwards, she trips and falls into the canal. In the other, I merely take a step towards her and she moves backwards voluntarily, trips and falls in. They can’t both have happened. I know what really took place, but perhaps, if I focus on the second one and try to forget the first, then, in time, I’ll come to accept the false memory as reality, and I won’t have to feel so guilty about my role in Sophia’s inadvertent death.

  At some point before dawn, it occurs to me that it might be a good idea to destroy the clothes and shoes I’d been wearing yesterday evening. It wouldn’t look good if a police investigation found Sophia’s hair or DNA on my clothing, or if the souls of my shoes could be matched to footprints found at the scene of the crime/accident/suicide. I really don’t believe it will come to that, but, ever the careful planner, it makes sense to err on the side of caution. Goodbye, favourite shirt.

  ◆◆◆

  “Tam, I’m off to the tip,” I shout up the stairs.

  She ambles down and joins me in the kitchen.

  “How come?”

  “I’ve been having a clear-out in the garage. There’s loads of stuff I need to get rid of.”

  “About time too.” She looks at me curiously. “Are you okay, Lee? You look washed out.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine thanks. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “Anything on your mind?”

  “Not particularly. Work stuff. Nothing important.” I shrug.

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  She jogs back upstairs and I head out to my car.

  I load it up with all sorts of old junk I should have thrown out years ago. Amongst it, I conceal a tied-up plastic bag, which contains another tied-up plastic bag, which contains all the clothes I was wearing last night, including my shoes.

  Through the light Saturday morning traffic, I drive to the waste recycling centre and dump the whole lot into a huge, partially filled skip. I stand and observe as other people throw their unwanted detritus on top of mine until it’s no longer visible, and then thoroughly buried. No doubt, the bags and their contents will soon make their way to a landfill site, where they will rot slowly over the course of the next few thousand years.

  I take a detour on the way home to get my car cleaned and valeted, in the hope of eliminating the last lingering traces of Sophia from my life.

  ◆◆◆

  I spend part of Saturday afternoon researching what happens to a body after it drowns. Reluctant to undertake any suspicious searches on my phone or home computer, I visit the public library for the first time in many years. After a fruitless ninety minutes of browsing through medical textbooks and periodicals, I abandon the old-school approach and instead use one of the public access computers. Fortunately, I don’t have to provide any personal details to use this system. Thirty seconds later, I have all the information I require.

  Practically without exception, a dead body lying on the bottom of a canal will come to the surface again. As the corpse starts to decay, bacteria within the body cause gas to develop within the tissues. When there’s enough gas for the body to become lighter than water, it will rise to the surface. The length of time before this happens depends on two variables: the amount of fat contained in the tissues and the temperature of the water. If the water is warm, the body may rise to the surface in one or two days. If the water is cold, it may take several weeks.

  So it looks highly likely that Sophia’s body will be discoverable, possibly as soon as one or two days from now, when it inevitably rises to the surface of the canal. I need to prepare myself to answer questions about her disappearance, but other than that, there’s nothing more I can do. It’s out of my hands. From now on, I must wait and see what happens and react accordingly.

  ◆◆◆

  On Monday morning at work, it’s apparent that something is afoot when all the staff at the office are summoned to the big conference room for a meeting with the boss.

  When everyone has arrived, she closes the doors and waits for silence.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here this morning. I’ve already heard rumours it’s about staff redundancies, and let me reassure you, it’s definitely not that.”

  An audible sigh of relief emanates from several people. Someone makes a sotto voce joke near the back of the room and the resulting laughter breaks the tension somewhat.

  “I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “The police have been on the phone to me this morning concerning our colleague Sophia Miller. Apparently, she didn’t go home on Friday night, and no one has seen or heard from her since she left work on Friday afternoon. She hasn’t made an appearance here yet either and, as you probably know, Sophia is usually one of the first people to arrive in the morning. Her husband believes she returned home at some point on Friday evening, and then went out again before he got home at nine-thirty.”

  She pauses, and the whispering begins. I listen to the people around me.

  “That’s weird.”

  “Oh my God! I hope she’s okay.”

  “Sounds to me like she’s left her husband.”

  “Alien abduction, I bet.”

  The boss continues. “Has anyone here had any contact at all with Sophia since last Friday afternoon?”

  Everyone looks around the room, but there’s no response from any quarter. I may be imagining it, but it feels as if quite a few people are looking in my direction. Is paranoia setting in? Can people tell I’m a murderer simply by looking at me?

  “Okay. Well, the police have given me a contact number. They made it clear they’re not overly concerned at this stage, but they’d like to be informed if anyone here has any information relating to Sophia’s current whereabouts. If you know anything that might be relevant, please come to my office during the day and my secretary will let you have the contact number for the police.”

  She pauses and looks directly at me.

  “Right, let’s get back to work.”

  ◆◆◆

  The rumours begin immediately:

  Sophia’s husband was beating her, and she’s hiding at a women’s refuge.

  A body has been found in a shallow grave in the woods near her house.

  She’s embezzled a million pounds from the company and fled the country.

  Someone was seen being bundled into a white van in town.

  She’s run off with her lesbian lover.

  Several people approach me and ask if I know anything more. Apparently, it’s common knowledge that Sophia and I were ‘quite close’. I pretend I’m as much in the dark as they are. I try to match the mood and level of concern of my colleagues, but I can’t help feeling that I’ve got guilt written all over my face.

  ◆◆◆

  Shortly after lunch my cell phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Lee. It’s Joe Miller here. Sophia Miller’s husband.”

  Shit!

  What should I say? ‘I’m so sorry to hear your wife’s been murdered’?

  “Hi, Joe. Is there any news?”

  “None, I’m afraid. I’ve been go
ing through all Sophia’s contacts and ringing everyone, in the hope she’s been in touch with somebody, but I’ve had no luck so far. I’m worried sick to be honest. This isn’t like her at all.”

  “I wish I could help, mate, but I haven’t had any communication with Sophia since Friday,” I say, remembering the last word she ever spoke: ‘Lee …’

  “Has she said or done anything unusual lately? She talks about you a lot. I was hoping she might have mentioned something to you that might explain her absence.”

  “No. Only the usual work stuff.”

  “Okay. Sorry to bother you, Lee.”

  “No problem. Listen, I’m sure she’ll turn up soon, safe and sound. Just hang in there.”

  “Cheers. I’d better go. I’ve got lots more calls to make.”

  “All right. Bye, then.”

  “Bye.”

  Well, that was awkward.

  ◆◆◆

  There are no further developments on Monday afternoon and I spend the evening worrying about the inevitable discovery of Sophia’s body. I’m on edge all the time, expecting, at any moment, the police to smash down my front door, fill the house with tear gas and drag me away kicking and screaming in front of my bewildered family. I’ve decided not to mention to Tamsin anything about Sophia’s disappearance for as long as possible. Presumably, the news will appear in the local papers at some point, but so far all is quiet. As far as I’m concerned, no news is good news.

  ◆◆◆

  On Tuesday morning, for obvious reasons, there’s still no sign of Sophia, and some of my colleagues are increasingly concerned. I can’t stop glancing towards her office, expecting to see her there, working away at her desk, and occasionally raising her head to smile at me; but it remains empty and defunct.

  The police were here for a couple of hours, talking to the boss and a few other people, but they haven’t released any new information. There’s a subdued atmosphere in the office, with many people fearing the worst, but what is the worst?

  Sophia somehow became locked in a derelict building and slowly starved to death?

  She was decapitated in a car crash and her severed body is lying undiscovered in a ditch?

  She was kidnapped, beaten, raped and murdered?

  She was burnt to death after being struck by lightning?

  She drowned after her lover pushed her into a filthy stinking canal?

  The rumours get worse as time goes by.

  I aim to stay out of these conversations as much as possible, striving to maintain a low profile and an appropriately anxious demeanour.

  ◆◆◆

  At 12:35 p.m. my cell phone rings once more.

  I don’t recognise the number, but I answer straight away.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Mr Lee Bolton?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  I really hope it’s a cold caller, trying to sell me something.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant Brian Khan. I’m investigating the disappearance of your colleague Sophia Miller.”

  “Hello, Detective.” I’m desperately trying to seem nonchalant, but my voice sounds unusually high. “How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if you could possibly come down to the police station. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” He pauses for a response, but I’m temporarily tongue-tied. “It’s possible you can help us with our enquiries.”

  “I’m not sure what I can tell you, Sergeant. Can’t you just ask me over the phone?”

  “It’s Detective Sergeant. No, I’m afraid not. A face-to-face chat would be much better, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you want to help us locate Mrs Miller.”

  “Yes. Of course. But I’m really not sure how I can help.”

  “I can explain that when you get here. Shall we say two o’clock?”

  “Is this a voluntary interview? Would it be under caution?” I say.

  “Yes. Just a voluntary interview at this stage, sir. You seem very familiar with the procedure.”

  “Not really. I just watch a lot of police shows on TV.” And I’ve done a lot of research.

  “I see. Then you’ll be aware that you’re under no obligation to help us if you don’t want to, and you’ll be free to leave at any time. However, we’d appreciate your input, as a colleague of Mrs Miller.”

  I can’t see a way out of this. If I decline, won’t that be highly suspicious?

  “It’s no problem at all, Detective Sergeant. I’ll see you at two o’clock.”

  “Thank you, sir. Just report to reception and ask for DS Khan.”

  He hangs up before I can say goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Interview

  I ask one of my colleagues to inform the powers that be that I’m not feeling well and I’ll be taking the afternoon off work, then I drive to the police station and park nearby. Reporting to the reception desk, I ask for DS Khan and I’m told to take a seat in a waiting area. It looks grimy and there’s a strong smell of disinfectant. Two other people are waiting to be seen: an emaciated young lady sporting a black eye and bruises on her wrists, and a restless teenager who keeps getting out of his seat and prowling around the room like a caged animal. High up, in the corner of the room, there’s a CCTV camera with a blinking red light. Am I being spied on already? I try to assume the posture of an innocent man who’s concerned about his missing colleague, but it’s impossible to relax.

  ◆◆◆

  After approximately forty-five minutes, I’m about to approach the receptionist and ask if they’ve forgotten about me, when a buzzer sounds and an Asian man in his early thirties enters through a door marked ‘No Entry’. He looks around the room.

  “Mr Bolton?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  He comes over and firmly shakes my hand.

  “I’m DS Khan. We spoke on the phone earlier. Thanks for coming in. Please follow me.”

  He uses a security card to open the door which buzzes again, and walks purposefully along a corridor with me in pursuit.

  He stops at a door designated Interview Room 2, opens it and stands aside so I can enter first.

  “Please have a seat,” DS Khan says, pointing to a chair on one side of a large wooden table, opposite a woman who looks far too young to be wearing a police uniform.

  “This is my colleague DC Colleen McBride.”

  She shakes my hand and nods, but doesn’t speak. I sit on my allocated chair and try to find a posture that says ‘concerned and happy to assist, but definitely not guilty’.

  “Now, Mr Bolton ...”

  “Please, call me Lee.” I want to appear friendly and likeable, after all, I am friendly and likeable.

  “Thanks, Lee. Now, we’ll be recording this interview, as is our normal procedure.” He presses a red button on the desk and leans back in his chair, which I can’t help noticing looks more comfortable than mine. “So, firstly, I’d like to do some introductions for the tape. In the room are Lee Bolton, DS Brian Khan and DC Colleen McBride. This is a voluntary interview. You’re not under arrest and you’re free to leave at any time. I’d just like you to take a moment to read this card which explains the rights, entitlements and safeguards that will apply to you during the interview.”

  He hands me a card and I pretend to read it, without taking in a single word. How did I come to be in a police station, being interviewed about the disappearance of a woman I murdered?

  “Yes. That all seems fine.” I hand back the card. “So, I’m definitely not under arrest?” I ask, trying to force a chuckle.

  “No, Lee. If I arrested you, I’d have to tell you about the nature of the offence I thought you’d committed, when and where you’d committed the offence, and I’d have to read you your rights. As far as we’re aware at this stage, no crime has been committed. We’re just a bit concerned about Mrs Miller’s whereabouts. Apparently, it’s quite out of character for her to disappear like this, without getting in touch with anyone. We really apprecia
te you helping us with our enquiries.”

  “No problem. Before we go on, if you were to read me my rights, what would they be?”

  “Good question. I’d read you the police caution: You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  At this point, DC McBride joins in the conversation, sounding almost as nervous as me. “Would you like a solicitor, Lee? You’re entitled to one if you’d like.” I think I can see DS Khan frowning at her out the corner of my eye, but when I turn in his direction, his face is neutral. “It’s free,” she continues.

  “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful. I do like free stuff in general, but in this case, as I haven’t done anything wrong and I’m not under arrest, I don’t think it’s really necessary. I just want to help.” I expect this to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t seem to.

  “Okay. Let’s get started.” DS Khan sits forward on his chair and DC McBride picks up her pen and a notepad.

  “So, Lee, at the moment we’re investigating a rather mysterious missing persons case, as you know. Mrs Sophia Miller has not been seen since last Friday evening, and her family and friends are becoming increasingly concerned. First, can I ask you about the nature of your relationship with Mrs Miller?”

  “We’re just colleagues. Sophia joined the company three or four years ago, and we’ve had a professional relationship since that time.”

  “I see. So, you’d describe yourselves as colleagues rather than friends?”

  “Yes. I think so. We’ve always got on well, but we don’t socialise with each other.”

  “Have you ever had any contact outside of work?”

  “Not really. It’s possible she’s sent work-related emails outside of office hours and I might have responded to them, but that’s all.”