Molly went through it again, every action or word she remembered, every nuance and tone until she was sick of the sound of her own voice going over and over the details of such a short period of her life.
Short but devastating.
Finally, when she wanted to scream that there was nothing more, Fanshawe told her she could go.
His words were sudden and unexpected, and she looked at him in confusion, wondering if this were some kind of trap for the unwary. It wasn’t until he and Carstairs stood and Fanshawe said they’d be in touch that she realised her ordeal was over.
It was a few seconds before she got to her feet, knees trembling, head swimming. She kept her hands flat on the table for support, unable to move. But when she felt tears well, she knew she had to get out of there. Following the exit signs, she was soon on Savile Row, stepping out onto the street with a feeling of relief. The rain had stopped, but ominous grey clouds reflecting her mood, drew her eyes upward and made her shiver.
She didn’t want to go home yet. Instead, she wandered down Regent and Oxford Street, swept along with crowds of shoppers and groups of tourists, trailing along aimlessly with them, wandering, backtracking, uncaring as to where she went, trying to exhaust herself so that she wouldn’t have to think.
Her legs were aching by the time she decided to go home. It was after six, Jack would be waiting. Going into automatic mode, she didn’t remember the journey home, catching the tube without much thought.
It was six thirty before she opened her front door and stepped into the hallway. She listened. It was an old house; if there was someone home, floorboards would creak, water would gurgle in the pipes. But the silence was telling. If Jack had come, he’d gone again without waiting to see what the police had wanted with his beloved wife. Bitterness twisted her mouth for a moment. She should be glad, shouldn’t she? It was sleep she needed, not an argument; a confrontation that would be difficult, painful and undoubtedly nasty. She knew it would come eventually; wounding words that would slice through what little self-esteem and pride she had left, but she didn’t want it now. Her heart wasn’t in a state to fight back.
What a price she was paying for those foolish moments. She checked her mobile, saw nothing from him and dashed off quick messages to Remi and Freya, making a joke about misplacing her phone and having to use one of their rejects.
Her feet feeling like lead, she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom where she undressed and climbed under the duvet. From outside, she heard a car’s engine start, another passing by with a swoosh of tyres on the rain-wet road, the high-pitched laughter of a child – everyday sounds, a reassuring lullaby to remind her that not everything had changed. She lay exhausted, willing herself to fall asleep, for temporary release from the mess she’d made.
In her dreams, turquoise eyes gleamed with malice and brought her to the edge of wakefulness each time. Finally, after tossing and turning for what felt like hours, but what a glance at her watch told her was less than one, she gave up and went downstairs. She curled up on the sofa, switched on the TV and found a romcom she knew would be candyfloss for her brain and might, if she were lucky, help her to relax.
Tucking her feet under, she tried to concentrate on the movie, but her mind had already drifted when the house phone rang, startling her. It rarely rang, their friends and acquaintances usually called their mobiles. A cold caller, she guessed, staring at it, willing it to stop.
When it did, her eyes flicked back to the movie which she had to admit was excruciatingly bad. Reaching for the remote, she channel-surfed for a few minutes, settling on the rerun of a property programme she’d watched before.
Then the phone rang again.
She stared at it, eyes wide, her heart beating a little faster, a little louder. Even when the ringing stopped, she continued to stare at it until, with a frustrated shake of her head, she reached to take the handset off the hook. Her hand was on it when it rang for the third time. Maybe it wasn’t a cold caller. They weren’t normally this persistent.
She held it to her ear. Unable to hear anything, she muttered, ‘Hello.’
‘Thank goodness.’
It was a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but she struggled to remember. Shifting in her seat, sliding her feet to the ground, as if the position gave her more authority, she spoke firmly. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Stuart. Stuart Mercer. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ He sounded relieved.
Shutting her eyes in disbelief, she was tempted to hang up without another word. Instead, she gripped the handset. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not interested in meeting you.’ She heard a quick indrawn breath on the line before he spoke. This time his voice was sharp, irritated.
‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get your home number,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried your mobile, but I must have the wrong number–’
‘I blocked you,’ she interrupted him without compunction. ‘I think you might have misunderstood my friendliness at the party and assumed it was something more. So, let me make this quite clear… I do not want to meet you.’ There was silence for so long that Molly thought he’d hung up, but then she heard the slight rasp of his breath. She was about to repeat herself when he spoke.
‘I think it’s you that have misunderstood,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure why I’m bothering except you always seemed like a nice woman, and there’s something I thought you should know.’
Know?
‘I’m taking a big risk contacting you,’ he continued. ‘I’d be in trouble if it came out. Listen, forget I rang.’
‘No wait,’ Molly said quickly. ‘You can’t ring up, tell me there’s something I need to know, then bugger off. What is it you want to tell me?’
‘I can’t do this over the phone. Meet me. Tomorrow at one, in the coffee shop on the corner of Ebury Street and Lower Belgrave Street. You know it? Casper’s?’
It was ten minutes’ walk from Jack’s office; she had been in it a couple of times in their early months together when they couldn’t bear not to see each other for a whole day. How long ago that seemed. How long ago it was. She couldn’t believe the café was still there. ‘Casper’s. Yes, I know it. Okay, tomorrow at one. Here’s my new mobile number, just in case.’ She reeled off the number and dropped the handset back on the stand.
Maybe Stuart would be able to tell her what was bothering Jack. It would be one worry off her mind.