22

After a reasonable amount of time, I went to make a condolence call at the home of Alfie Monroe, widower. At least I hoped I’d waited long enough. Ten days might have been more like it but I didn’t feel I had that long. I bought a gluten-free casserole from Waitrose and popped it in the oven, hoping it was something Alfie could eat. I could hardly show up with a tub of yogurt. When I saw his car pull in, I gave him ten minutes to pour himself a drink and then I went over with my offering. He had been to and fro a lot since Anna’s death, I guessed having things to do with winding up her estate. And talking to Sergeant Milo.

I hadn’t been in the Monroe townhouse since the last time Anna had hosted the book club. I’d forgotten how over the top it was: Imelda Marcos might have been the design consultant. Anna was big on brocade and satin, so at the book club sessions held in her parlor, as she called it, it was a challenge for the more inebriated participants not to slide off the sofa onto the floor. I had taken to wearing high heels whenever Anna was hostessing because they allowed me to brace myself against the rug the way a mountain climber might cling to a sheer rock face.

The fabric that predominated in the room, covering the chairs and sofa and windows, was a pale green textile she’d had imported from France. I’m sure the fact the color perfectly matched her eyes was the purest coincidence, right? But why not play up that striking coloring? I remembered her as she had sat on her usual chair, curled up like a cat with the firelight throwing shifting haloes and shadows at her back. She was so alive. Just as Will had said. I’d taken advantage of that relaxed setting when I made that video of her. Subliminally, it suggested that if you allowed Anna Monroe to broker your house deal, you would find yourself living in similar comfort and luxury.

Just then something nudged against my knee and I practically jumped out of my skin. It was Georgina, their dog. I forget what breed it was—the kind with Rastafarian hair. I reached down absentmindedly to stroke the top of its head. It occurred to me I might offer to walk her for Alfie.

I crossed the room to look at the collection of framed photos, Georgina trailing me. There was one of Jason as a rebellious teenager, looking pissed off and ready to bolt, taking his bad complexion with him. The photographer didn’t have to be a genius to capture the fact that Jason was wishing himself anywhere but at the studio, posed before a phony backdrop of the Roman coliseum. This surly Jason was lined up next to playful, happy Jason: Jason as a toddler, tightly—too tightly—hugging a long-ago family cat. There was also a photo of Anna that I’d seen many times, the backlit glam shot that appeared in all her realtor ads. She looked like an angel, but then again, that photo was at least ten years out of date. There were no family group photos and none of Alfie, not even of Alfie before disease had begun ravaging his frame. I suppose staring at photos of yourself as you used to be and never would be again was best avoided. He had only to look down at his arms and legs, which showed little sign of fat or muscle, the raw-looking, age-spotted skin stretched over tendon, to see the damage done.

I heard the sound of a door opening; Alfie had returned from depositing the casserole somewhere. God knew, he might have a dozen such meals crammed into the fridge or the rubbish bin by now, but it was the thought that counted. I couldn’t show up empty-handed, and there are times when a card just doesn’t cover it. It’s a missed opportunity but card manufacturers haven’t produced anything to moderate the mind-blowing loss of a loved one to murder.

For many reasons, I liked Alfie, as I’ve said. People did. He had kept his nickname despite its less-than-aristocratic associations, for one thing. Anyone with a shred of pretension might have insisted on Alfred. But Alfie suited him. Friendly and approachable. Put aside images you may have of Michael Caine in the role of the callous scoundrel who seduces his way across London. This Alfie’s defining characteristic was his humility, whether a legacy of his religious upbringing or some genetic marker—who can say. But what struck me most about him was his gratitude to Anna and to God, presumably, for Anna’s having married him. He truly worshipped her and could not seem to believe the good luck that had brought her to him. Or, presumably, the bad luck that had taken her away.

He wore small dark glasses that, along with his wizened physique, made him look like a blind beggar in some Dickensian drama. They—teams of white-coated specialists in tropical medicine—had never been able to sort out exactly what was wrong with him, but the bug he’d picked up in Africa made recurring appearances, rendering him periodically useless. Anna would complain and I couldn’t honestly blame her—the frustration of not knowing or being able to fix what was wrong must have been colossal. Alfie had this philosophical, “whatever God wills” sort of resignation to the situation; Anna, not so much. I think she felt she’d bought a cat in a bag, as the French would say. Because the National Health wasn’t well equipped to cope with long-term cases such as Alfie’s I’m sure the couple’s finances, substantial though they appeared to be, took a hit as well as their marriage. Vacations had often been planned when Alfie seemed to be on the mend, but more often than not had been cancelled last minute when he just could not manage the strain of air or train travel. What their sex lives were like (and on this subject, Anna did not share), I didn’t care to dwell on, but “sporadic” is probably the best way to describe it.

Alfie indicated that I should sit on one of the slippery chairs, so I did—tentatively, hoping it would keep me in its embrace.

“How’re you holding up?” I asked him, plumping a tasseled pillow behind me and planting my feet on the rug.

He just shook his head, his expression bleak. It is unfortunate but true that you can’t choose where you love, and he had loved Anna. It’s like there is a little department in the human brain, the Department of Bad Choices, and when it spots a likely target it says, “There’s a really selfish jackass, made just for you. Go for it.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I determined to keep this as brief and painless as I could. “Have the police been awful?”

“Apart from having decided, on the basis of nothing whatsoever, that I probably killed my wife? Because it’s always the husband, you know. They’ve come close to trying to nail me a few times, but having no, like, evidence, they’ve snapped shut their notebooks and gone the fuck away. For now.” He stopped, took a big gulp of air, and said, “Sorry. Sorry for the language. Just … sorry.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Say what you want and don’t edit for the likes of me. I just wish … you know.”

“You wish you could help. Yes. Half the neighborhood has been by to offer little pep talks about time healing all wounds. What is flaxseed, anyway? Heather came by with this brick made of it. I’m not sure if I’m meant to spread it with butter or wait for her to bring more over so I can cement the bricks together. Anyway, being the police’s main suspect is no joke. Correction, their only suspect. The only person they can be bothered to question. But at least the neighbors don’t seem to share their opinion.”

“I’ve spoken with Sergeant Milo. Honestly, he seems, well—he’s no Rhodes Scholar but he might be a bit less inclined to fall for clichés than most.”

“You think so? Really.” Alfie was not actually listening. He had brought out some water and glasses on a tray and busied himself trying to pour me a glass. I was surprised he didn’t offer me tea, that British solution to everything, including Zulu uprisings. But that’s how far standards had fallen at the Monroe house. He probably didn’t know how to boil water. I finally took the pitcher from him; his hands were shaking so hard with the effort it was a very good thing it was only lukewarm water.

Inspired, I asked, “Would you like me to make you some tea?”

“Oh!” he said, as if realizing for the first time it was the one thing he did want in the way of help. “Yes, please, would you? I’m afraid I’m hopeless. Anna always … She always made us tea right about now. When she was home.”

Which was practically never, but you could see how that little lie comforted him. Anna, domestic goddess, adoring wife and stepmother, putting aside her dreams of world conquest to make tea for her happy family.

The dog and I followed him out to the kitchen, with which I was only fleetingly acquainted from the nights when I dropped off my contribution to the book club. We drew lots for what to bring and somehow I most often drew the dessert card. Once I no longer had a day job I’d arrive laden with something I’d slaved over literally all day. The last meeting—the one where it went irretrievably to hell—I’d brought individual ramekins of chocolate panna cotta. The ramekins were still over at Macy’s house—I kept forgetting to ask for them back.

Alfie pointed out where the tea things were kept—his best guess, in some cases, including under the sink—and stood back while I filled the electric kettle before setting it back on its base and turning it on. I busied myself with tea cups and saucers before finally turning to him, asking, “Are you really their only suspect? That’s absurd.” And it was. There must have been a hundred people they could pin this on.

“I think so. And I agree that it’s absurd.” He ran one hand through hair that looked like it would soon be in need of a good wash. This time with shampoo. “But there was someone—” He dropped a spoon, interrupting himself.

“Someone?” I prompted.

There was a long, heavy pause at this. He put the spoon back on the saucer. I removed it, replacing it with a clean one.

“A witness, I guess. Because they kept asking me if I owned a blue jacket. I asked them if they knew anyone who didn’t own a blue jacket.”

“A blue jacket,” I repeated. “Nothing more? I mean, they didn’t say why they were asking?”

“They didn’t confide their strategy to me. No.”

I felt a twinge that there I was, pressing him. Then I reminded myself that this was a way I could help him—by pointing the police in the right direction and getting them off Alfie’s back.

The one person in the world they should probably be open with, I thought, and they were playing games with the guy. I knew Alfie didn’t do it; he couldn’t have done such a thing in a million years. They were just being dense. And lazy, wanting to wrap this up as soon as possible. But then, they didn’t know the man as I did. He loved Anna, as I’ve said, and not in a “if I can’t have her, no one can” sort of way. He just did.