“What is?”
She hesitates before answering. “Your husband didn’t withdraw the money or close the account.”
She has my full attention now. “Then who did?”
There is another long pause.
“Well, according to our records, Mrs. Sinclair, it was you.”
Three
“Mrs. Sinclair?” The bank’s call center sounds very far away now, even farther than before, and I can’t answer. I’ve come undone. Time seems like something I can no longer tell, and it feels as if I’m tumbling down a hill too fast with nothing to break my fall.
I think I’d remember if I went to the bank and closed our account.
I hang up as soon as I hear the knock at the door and run to answer it, practically tripping over my feet. I’m certain that Ben and a logical explanation will be waiting behind it.
I’m wrong.
A middle-aged man and a young girl, wearing cheap suits, are standing on my doorstep. He looks like a guy with friends in low places, and she looks like lamb dressed as mutton.
“Mrs. Sinclair?” she says, coating my name in her Scottish accent.
“Yes?” I wonder if they might be selling something door-to-door, like double glazing or God, or, even worse, whether they might be journalists.
“I’m Detective Inspector Alex Croft and this is Detective Sergeant Wakely. You called about your husband,” she says.
Detective? She looks like she should still be in school.
“Yes, I did, please come in,” I reply, already forgetting their names and ranks. It’s very loud inside my head right now, and my mind is unable to process the additional information.
“Thank you. Is there somewhere we could all sit down?” she asks, and I lead them into the lounge.
Her petite body is folded into a nondescript black trouser suit, with a white shirt tucked underneath. The ensemble is not unlike a school uniform. Her face is plain but pretty, and without a smudge of makeup. Her shoulder-length mousy hair is so straight it looks as though she might have ironed it at the same time as her shirt. Everything about her is neat and uncommonly tidy. I think she must be new at this, perhaps he is training her. I wasn’t expecting detectives to appear on my doorstep; a uniformed officer perhaps, but not this. I wonder why I’m receiving special treatment and shrink away from the potential answers lining up inside my head.
“So, your husband is missing,” she prompts as I sit down opposite them both.
“Yes.”
She stares, as though waiting for me to say more. I look at him, then back at her, but he doesn’t seem to be much of a talker, and her expression remains unchanged.
“Sorry, I’m not really sure how this works.” I already feel flustered.
“How about you start by telling us when you last saw your husband?”
“Well…” I pause to think for a moment.
I remember the screaming argument, his hands around my throat. I remember what he said and what he did. I see them share a look and some unspoken opinions, then remember I need to answer the question.
“Sorry. I’ve not slept. I saw him the night before last. And there’s something else I should tell you…”
She leans forward in her chair.
“Someone has emptied our joint account.”
“Your husband?” she asks.
“No, someone … else.”
She frowns, overworked folds appearing on her previously smooth forehead. “Was it a lot of money?”
“About ten thousand pounds.”
She raises a neatly plucked eyebrow. “I’d say that was a lot.”
“I also think you should know that I had a stalker a couple of years ago. It’s why we moved to this house. You’ll have a record of it, we reported it to the police at the time.”
“Seems unlikely that this and that are related, but we’ll certainly look into it.” It seems odd to me that she is being so dismissive of something that might be important. She leans back in her chair again, frown still firmly in place, fast becoming a permanent feature. “When you called last night, you told the officer you spoke to that all your husband’s personal belongings are still here, is that right? His phone, keys, and wallet, even his shoes?” I nod. “Mind if we take a look around?”
“Of course, whatever you need.”
I follow them through the house, not sure whether I’m supposed to or not. They don’t talk, at least not with words, but I pick up on the silent dialogue they exchange between glances, as they search every room. Each one is filled with memories of Ben, some of which I would rather forget.
When I try to pinpoint the exact moment we started to unfold, I realize it was long before I got my first film role and went to L.A. I’d been away filming in Liverpool for a few days, a small part in a BBC drama, nothing special. I was so tired when I got back, but Ben insisted on going out for dinner, pulled his warning face when I said I’d rather not. I dropped my earring getting ready, and the back of it disappeared beneath our bed. That tiny sliver of silver was the butterfly effect that changed the course of our marriage. I never found it. I found something else instead: a red lipstick that did not belong to me and the knowledge that my husband didn’t either. I suppose I wasn’t completely surprised; Ben is a good-looking man, and I’ve seen how other women look at him.
I never mentioned what I found that day. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t dare.
The female detective spends a long time looking around our bedroom, and I feel as though my privacy is being unpicked as well as invaded. I was taught as a child not to trust the police and I still don’t.
“So, remind me again of the exact time you last saw your husband,” she says.
When he lost his temper and turned into someone I no longer recognized.
“We were having a meal at the Indian restaurant on the high street.… I left a bit earlier than him.… I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You didn’t see him when he got home?”
Yes.
“No, I had an early start the next day. I’d gone to bed by the time he got back.” I know she knows I’m lying. I’m not even sure why I am, a mixture of shame and regret perhaps, but lies don’t come with gift receipts; you can’t take them back.
“You don’t share a bedroom?” she asks.
I’m not sure how or why this is relevant. “Not always, we both have quite hectic work schedules, he’s a journalist and I’m—”
“But you did hear him come home that night.”
Heard him. Smelt him. Felt him.
“Yes.”
She notices something behind the door and takes a pair of blue latex gloves from her pocket. “And this is the bedroom you sleep in?”
“It’s where we both sleep most of the time, just not that night.”
“Do you ever sleep in the spare room, Wakely?” she asks her silent companion.
“Used to, if we’d had a fight, when we still had enough time and energy to argue. But none of our bedrooms are spare anymore, they’re all full of hormonal teenagers.”
It speaks.
“Any reason why you have a bolt on the inside of your bedroom door, Mrs. Sinclair?” she asks.