Thames Ditton Island glistens as evening falls, and despite the reason for our visit, it’s hard not to feel a little festive when faced with the constellation of Christmas lights flickering red, green and white among the dense canopy of trees, illuminating the river and the spectacle of Hampton Court Palace just beyond.
“God, it’s so pretty,” I say as we walk across the narrow footbridge. Parnell treads tentatively, as if he doesn’t quite trust it.
“It’s an insurer’s wet dream. Look how high the water levels are! Must cost an arm and a leg in premiums.”
When we reach the Lapaine house (small, white, timber-clad in the style of a Swiss chalet and to Parnell’s relief, mounted on stilts), we find we’re not the only visitors. The SOCOs have landed, and boy, they’re not happy. Unlike Parnell, the island seems to have inspired in me a homespun dream of sharing my breakfast with a kingfisher before heading out for a mid-morning sail, but even I have to admit that it’s an inconvenient way to live. Certainly not ideal for forensic work, with the poor sods having to lug Alice Lapaine’s personal effects—her laptop, diaries, address books, bank statements—from the house, across the river to the mainland, and all against the backdrop of a skin-cracking December chill.
In the midst of this, Thomas Lapaine stands in an open-plan living room looking out onto the water, bereft and confused, a stranger in his own home. A home that hasn’t been decorated since the seventies if the swirly carpets and woodchip walls are anything to go by.
The man himself strikes a stark contrast to the time-warp house. Slick and urbane with a top-dollar haircut, he looks like the lead in a time-traveler romcom. As Parnell taps the living-room door softly, he turns his head. Red-rimmed eyes bore into ours, begging us to say something that will make him feel just one percent better.
Parnell begins. “Mr. Lapaine, I’m Detective Sergeant Luigi Parnell and this is my colleague Detective Constable Cat Kinsella. On behalf of the Metropolitan Police Service, may I offer you our sincerest condolences.” In the absence of any other appropriate response, Lapaine nods. “Following the formal ID you made earlier today, I can now confirm that we’re treating Alice’s death as murder.”
He blinks twice, quickly. “Thank you for letting me know.” There’s a rich, formal tone to his voice. Accentless.
“Mr. Lapaine, can you think of anyone who would want to harm your wife?”
“Can I think of anyone who would harm my wife?” he whispers, quietly exasperated by the question, shaking his head at a fixed point on the floor. “No one. No one at all. She was so kind, so . . . harmless. I don’t understand how this has happened.”
I’m about to attempt a consoling response when he has a better idea. “God, I need a drink.” He walks toward the kitchen. “Would you like a drink? If your friends haven’t emptied the cupboards, of course.”
I’d gladly sell a kidney for some wine right now—250 ml of pure anesthesia. Parnell shakes his head so I grudgingly mouth the words, “Not for me, either.” Thomas Lapaine shrugs, grabs a bottle of scotch and a glass and invites us to sit down.
“We’re sorry about the intrusion, Mr. Lapaine,” says Parnell. “However, your wife’s personal effects are crucial to our investigation. You mentioned to DC Akwa, the officer you met this morning, that you hadn’t seen your wife for nearly four weeks, but that this wasn’t a cause for concern. Can you tell us when you last had any sort of contact with her?”
“December 5th. Two weeks ago. It was my birthday.” He takes a sip of scotch—not the kind of slug I’d be taking in his position—then drops to the armchair opposite Parnell. “Although, strictly speaking, I didn’t have contact with her. She left a message to say ‘happy birthday’ on our home phone.”
“You weren’t in?” I say gently.
“No,” he says, barely a whisper. “I always have dinner with my mother on my birthday. Claridge’s. It’s become something of a tradition.”
“Didn’t she try your mobile?” asks Parnell.
“I’m guessing she wanted to get away with leaving a message. She knew I’d be out, you see.” He answers before we can ask. “Look, Alice was quite complex. Sometimes she just wanted to be alone and I respected that. We respected each other.”
Parnell nods. “You told DC Akwa that Alice had a history of disappearing for short periods.”
“I’m not sure I put it exactly like that. Alice liked her own space, that’s all. There’s a little cottage in Hove she liked to rent sometimes. I told the detective that.”
“An officer took a statement from the landlady just half an hour ago and she says that Alice hadn’t booked the cottage in well over a year.”
He shrugs. “There’s a place near Paignton too. She just liked a week by the sea occasionally, I can’t always get away because of work and . . .”
Parnell narrows his eyes. “So you weren’t concerned that she was gone for longer than a week this time?”
“No. I knew to let her get things out of her system.”
“What things?” asks Parnell, verging on testy.
Lapaine picks up the bottle again and swills the liquid around, momentarily mesmerized. He could be formulating his lie or he could be locked in his own private hell, contemplating how the dice might have rolled if he’d been home when Alice had called, but when he looks up again, he looks sharper. Hardened.
“Life, Sergeant. Don’t you ever want to run away and be by yourself? Step out of the daily grind once in a while?”
“Absolutely.” Parnell nods emphatically. “Where do I sign? But I’d tell my wife where I was going, when I’d be back and how often she could expect to hear from me.”
He gives Parnell a sardonic look. “Well, that rather defeats the object of going it alone, wouldn’t you say? If your every move can be monitored?”
Parnell stands up and walks across to the window, throwing me a look of “I can’t get a handle on this one.” In fairness, Parnell isn’t exactly known for his lack of empathy—he’s the kind of guy who always tries to find common ground, whether it’s discussing the “pop charts” with Ben or short skirts with a suspected rapist, anything to get the other person talking. But I can see he’s struggling with Thomas Lapaine and this curiously modern marriage. Maggie Parnell classes her monthly cut and blow dry as precious time away.
I put my notepad down, take over. “Mr. Lapaine, believe me, I understand the need to go it alone sometimes but four weeks is a long time. Didn’t you once think about calling her?”
“I did a couple of times, she didn’t answer, I didn’t leave a message . . .” He shakes his head, his own inadequacy dawning on him. “I should have been firmer, shouldn’t I? I should have kept calling her and insisting she come home but . . .” His voice cracks and the tears come. Not exactly a flood but the trickle seems genuine.
I leave it a respectful few seconds before jumping back a few beats. “How did she sound on the answering machine, the evening she called? Normal?”
He pushes his hands into his eyes. “I suppose so, yes.”
“We’ll want to listen to that message,” says Parnell, sitting back down.
“You can’t. I wiped it.”
Parnell’s knee jigs. “Sounds a tiny bit callous, if you don’t mind me saying? Your wife leaves a message, the first time you’ve heard her voice in two weeks, and you wipe it?”
“I was angry.” He realizes what he’s said, removes the edge from his voice. “I was annoyed that she hadn’t tried my mobile.”
“But you said you respected her need for personal space?”
Lightning quick. “Respected, yes. I didn’t say I liked it.”
Parnell concedes the point and moves on. “Mr. Lapaine, obviously we’ll be going through your wife’s personal effects, her online activity etc., but it would save a lot of time if you could give us the names of all the people your wife knew in London, who she might have visited or stayed with. In particular, anyone in the Wandsworth area.”
“There’s no one. No one at all.” There’s something about his face, not so much flummoxed as dumbfounded, that makes me inclined to believe him—inclined to believe there’s no one he knows about anyway. “I just don’t understand it. I assumed she’d gone to the coast like before. She loved being by the sea, whereas she hated London. Absolutely hated it.”
“A city full of rats and chancers,” Mum used to call it. She couldn’t flee London quick enough for the bourgeois mystique of Radlett.
“Seriously, Alice never went to London. Ever. I booked a dinner for our anniversary once, at the Landau—she loved the chef, Michel Roux, you see. We used to watch him on that show. God, what’s it called?”
“Masterchef,” offers Parnell. I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he replies, animated, eager to open up for the first time. “I had it all planned out. Cocktails in the bar, dinner in the restaurant, a suite at the Langham.” He pauses, screwing his face up in fresh confusion. “But she just wouldn’t go. Refused point-blank. Said it was a waste of money, she didn’t like the crowds, or the tube, or fancy restaurants for that matter, which was news to me, as we’d eaten in plenty when we lived overseas. And the waste of money comment, well, that was just nonsense. God knows how much she spent on food every week, buying rare ingredients for recipes she’d seen on the TV.” He lets out a brittle laugh. “Do you know what she said in the end? ‘Buy Roux’s cookbook instead and I’ll make dinner at home.’ Can you believe that?”
Keen to keep him in full-flow, I say, “Mr. Lapaine, how did you and Alice meet?”
“Please, call me Thomas, Tom even. We met in Brighton, late 2001. Alice lived there and I was on a Stop-the-War march. I think she liked that I was principled.” A shy smile. “I just fancied her rotten.”
I scan the room for a wedding photo but there’s none. None of them at all, in fact. Just one small photo on the windowsill of an older couple sagging in the heat standing next to two camels.
“And when did you marry?”
“In 2003,” he says, twisting his wedding ring. “Young by today’s standards, I suppose.”
Parnell interjects. “You mentioned earlier that you lived overseas?”
He nods. “Yes, we lived in Brighton for a while after we married, but then I got a job offer in Sydney and after that, Perth. Then Hong Kong for quite a while. Cape Town, for nine months.” Parnell opens his mouth but Lapaine second-guesses the question. “I know a lot about boats.”
“When did you come back to the UK?” I ask.
He slumps back in his chair, exhausted. “In 2010. My parents were getting older. My father was struggling with the business and he was keen for me to take over. It just felt like time to come home. Alice wasn’t keen at first, but we wanted to start a family and she understood that it would be nice to have grandparents close by—Alice’s mother died when she was a teenager and she never knew her father—so we agreed to move near to my parents. I said she could choose the house, that was the deal. She chose here.”
He sweeps a hand toward the shimmering river, presenting it like Alice’s own personal masterpiece.
“The location obviously made it rather expensive so we haven’t done much to the house, but it’s quiet and it’s by water and that’s all she wanted.” He thinks on this, briefly. “Sums Alice up really—‘quiet and always by water.’”
Parnell tackles a tricky observation. “So, er, you didn’t end up starting a family?”
There’s a silence for a few seconds while Thomas Lapaine pushes his sleeves up and leans forward. Legs spread wide, forearms on thighs. It’s a staunchly masculine pose that tells me everything before he even says it. “We tried for a few years but it didn’t happen. We had all sorts of tests and then we started IVF. Several rounds of IVF. It was tough. We’d actually just decided to give—” He stops suddenly, pulled up sharp by a memory he’s not sure whether to share.
I keep my voice gentle. “Tom?”
He stares at me, slightly baffled. “Well, it’s just, I’m so sorry—I’ve been telling you how she never went to London but—how could I have forgotten—we did go to London, once, a few months ago. But it really was the only time. It was to see another consultant, someone who’d been recommended to my mother. The price was sky-high, about fifteen thousand pounds per go plus extra for blood tests and all the other indignities you have to go through, but he claimed to have a sixty-five percent success rate. Alice found that hard to resist, even if it meant going into London.”
I nod, not sure what this tells us. “You must have been excited?”
That brittle laugh again. “I was. But shortly afterward Alice said she wanted to give up, just like that. She said she’d come to the conclusion that it wasn’t meant to be.” He scratches at his wrist, frowning. “She seemed quite philosophical about it really.”
“When was this?” says Parnell.
He thinks for a minute. “We saw the consultant around the end of October. I’m sure you’ll find the exact date when your colleagues rifle through my wife’s things.”
“What exact date did Alice leave?” I ask.
“Thursday 19th November. I came home from work and she was gone. She’d left me a note. A note and some home-cooked meals in the freezer.”
“Do you have the note?”
A deep slug of scotch. “No.”
Parnell resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Can you tell us what it said then?”
“Just that she needed some time alone and that she’d call soon.” His voice wavers. “And that she loved me, very deeply.”
And that she was heading into space with Elvis on a solar-powered unicorn. That’s how much credence we can give this note.
I throw him a bone just to see how eagerly he takes it. “Do you think she needed time away to come to terms with the IVF decision?”
“Perhaps,” he says, sadly. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe.”
“Had you come to terms with the decision, Tom?” Parnell, fierce-proud father of four and unashamedly gooey when it comes to all things babies, softens his voice a little, surprising both Lapaine and me.
“I was disappointed, I can’t deny it.”
“Did you row about it?” I ask, before Parnell does.
“We didn’t row.”
“Oh, come on, Tom,” Parnell cajoles. “Everyone rows.”
He gets up, tosses the now-empty bottle of scotch in the trash bin. “I’m aware of that, Sergeant. I’m not averse to a row myself with business associates, or my parents from time to time. But Alice wasn’t like that. You couldn’t row with her. She was too sweet a creature.”
The martyrdom of the dead is the bane of a Murder detective’s life. It’s hard to pinpoint the truth when people are too busy polishing the halo.
“OK,” says Parnell evenly, “you didn’t row, but you must have enquired about the sudden change of heart?”
He sits down. Hurt flashes across his face, still raw. “She said it was the money. Basically, where would it end? We’d been through so many rounds already and in the cold light of day, she felt even a sixty-five percent success rate seemed too big a risk for such a large amount. We’re not exactly churchmice, Detectives, but look around, we’re not rolling in cash either. We’d had to make sacrifices to fund the IVF. We’d spent savings, taken out loans, borrowed from my parents.”
“How much?” asks Parnell. “In total?”
He puffs out his cheeks. “Around fifty thousand, I’d say. Still, I told Alice it didn’t matter, it was only money, but she’d made her mind up. She said we’d forced it enough and the disappointment was killing us. I had no choice but to accept it. Even though she was so sweet-natured, when she dug her heels in about something you had to let her be. Same with our anniversary trip to London . . .”
“That was about wasting money too? Well, partly,” I add, before he corrects me. “Did you and Alice have differing views about your finances?”
“Not especially.”
I check my notes. “You told my colleague this morning that Alice worked for a few hours each day at a pub in the village.”
“That’s right.”
“Why only a few hours?”
He shrugs but there’s a wariness in his eyes. “That’s all they could offer, I believe.”
“OK, but there must have been other jobs Alice could have done?”
“I’m not following, Detective.” I’m not sure Parnell is either.
“Well, it’s just that if Alice was conscious about money, and if money was tight, I don’t understand why a fit, able woman wouldn’t find a more lucrative job.” Lapaine stays silent, uncomfortable with the line of questioning if his pursed lips are anything to go by. “Hey, look, it’s not a judgment, Tom. I’m just trying to understand as much as I can about Alice—her values, her . . .”
“I was against her working full-time, OK.” So it’s not just the house that’s stuck in a time warp. “And yes I know how that sounds, but you have to understand that working full-time in hospitality means regular evening work, weekend work, and I didn’t want that for our marriage. Alice agreed.”
Controlling, or kind of understandable? Is wanting to be at home at the same time as your partner really so primitive or simply pragmatic? Necessary for the health of any long-term relationship?
I decide that I can’t decide. Murder skews your view of how the normal world operates.
Parnell picks up the baton. “We’ll obviously be looking at your wife’s bank records—any activity helps us to build up an idea of her movements. Did Alice have her own account or is it a joint one?”
“Joint. Her salary wasn’t much but it covered a couple of monthly loan payments. She did have her own credit card, although she hardly used it. The limit was only a few hundred pounds.” He looks to me, the perceived softer option. “Our joint account won’t tell you much though so I wouldn’t waste your time. She mainly withdrew cash from the ATM. She always preferred cash.”
I smile apologetically. “All the same, we’ll need to take a look.”
His answer isn’t quite instant. “If you must.”
Parnell keeps his tone steady. “How did you feel about her withdrawing the money?”
Lapaine shrugs. “I didn’t expect her to live on thin air.”
Parnell nods. “Well, no, but she says IVF is a waste of money and then weeks later she’s swanning around taking money out of your joint account. I think I’d be annoyed.”
A blanket of near-silence. Just the sound of the river rushing outside.
“I did not kill my wife, Sergeant.”
Fair play. It’s exactly what I’d do. Expose the elephant in the room and you control it.
Parnell doesn’t flinch but the admission switches him back into formal mode—no more “Tom” for a start. “I’m afraid we have to ask these questions, Mr. Lapaine, and while I regret any discomfort this causes, it’s crucial we eliminate you as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”
Lapaine says nothing. Parnell carries on. “You’ll also understand that I need to ask where you were last night and the early hours of this morning.”
He stares at Parnell, dead-eyed—tiredness or loathing, I’m not sure. “I was home. From seven thirty p.m. until I left for my walk at about eightish this morning.”
“Ah yes, your walk. You’re committed, I’ll give you that. Pains me to walk to the car when it’s this cold.”
“It’s not a labor of love, I assure you. I hurt my back earlier in the year and walking and swimming are the only ways I can keep active, and I find swimming so monotonous. The back and forth repetition of it.”
“Did anyone see you this morning?” I ask.
“I don’t recall meeting anyone. There’s occasionally a few people following the same route in the opposite direction, but as you say, it was cold. Fairweather walkers.”
“Can anyone verify your alibi for last night?” says Parnell. “It’s an entirely routine question, I assure you.”
“I’m not in the habit of spending evenings with anyone but my wife, I’m afraid.”
“Did you make or receive any calls then, send any texts?”
“No, I don’t believe I did.” He grips the arm of the chair to steady himself but his shaky voice betrays him. “You can’t honestly think that I hurt my wife?”
I could quote the statistics now. I could lay it on the line just how hard he’s going to have to work to convince us that he’s not just another depressing tick in an all-too-familiar box.
I could reduce his marriage to yet another arbitrary percentage.
You had a sixty-five percent chance of fathering a child with your wife.
There’s a sixty-three percent chance that you killed her.
But like a good little note-taking, nodding DC, I say nothing.