front. Maybe stopped for a drink at the Rose and Crown, sat out on the front and watched the boats bob in the low tide, the sun go down.
Enjoying life. Enjoying one another in each other’s lives. Living.
Irritation rose with him. Strong irritation. That was what he saw himself doing when he moved to Wivenhoe. That’s what he should have been doing. With Marina and Josephina. Relaxing, having fun. Enjoying each other’s company. As a family.
Instead Marina was living an almost separate life from him, like she was in a hermetically sealed glass box. He could see her and even hear her but not reach her, touch her. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it had been someone else doing it. Someone who didn’t mean as much to him as she did. Didn’t mean everything to him. But it was her. She was excluding him from something – from her life – and it hurt. Badly.
He drained the bottle of beer, went into the kitchen to get another one. Stopped himself. No, he thought. This isn’t the answer.
Instead he turned, made his way upstairs. Slowly, so as not to wake them.
Marina had done the same thing the night before. Been asleep when he came in. Or claimed to be asleep. He was sure she was faking, lying as still as possible until he put the light out, fell asleep himself.
He wished he knew why.
He opened the bedroom door. Again, slowly, carefully. Looked in, expecting to see Josephina, with her tiny, perfect face, lying in her cot, Marina next to her.
But saw nothing.
He opened the door all the way, not bothering about making a noise now.
The cot was empty, as was the bed.
He checked the other rooms, called for her. No reply.
Downstairs, in all the rooms. No reply.
She must have taken Josephina for a walk, he thought, an angry envy working its way into his brain. Taking her for the kind of walk he wanted them to take as a family.
He checked for the baby buggy. Gone.
Then back into the living room, looking round again. And he saw the book on the table, the paperback Marina had been reading. Noticed there was something sticking out from underneath it. He crossed the room, picked the book up. Underneath was a folded piece of paper with his name written on it. He unfolded it, saw the first word.
Read the rest.
And sank into the chair.
‘Oh no… oh God, no…’
They were gone. Marina, Josephina. His family.
Gone.
29
‘Sure?’ Rose Martin looked carefully at Mark Turner. ‘Sure there’s no one here?’
He shrugged. ‘My girlfriend. New girlfriend. Having a… a lie in.’ His voice trailed away.
Rose stifled a smile. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So, back to Suzanne. You were together for…’ She checked Anni’s notes.
‘Two years.’
‘Happy?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. Mostly. You know. Ups and downs.’
‘D’you miss her?’
He didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he glanced towards the stairs. ‘It… had run its course.’
Rose nodded. As he spoke, Mark Turner sat back, settled into the chair. He seemed to relax, become less bookish, more socialised. Growing in confidence as he dealt with questions he knew the answers to. Everything seemed fine, she thought. Couple more questions then she could go home. She checked the notes.
‘What about Anthony Howe? Where does he come into this?’
Turner’s mood changed instantly. He became tense, sat upright. ‘He… ask Suzanne.’ His lip curled. The words sounded unpleasant in his mouth. ‘Ask her.’
The way he said
Mark Turner’s fingers became agitated, restless, like a jonesing drummer denied his kit. ‘That’s…’ His breathing became heavier. It looked like he was fighting to stop himself from saying what he really wanted to. He sat back. ‘No. There’s lying and lying. Ask her.’
Rose knew that was all she would be getting from him on the subject. ‘Where were you last night, Mr Turner?’
‘Here.’ He frowned. ‘When last night?’
Rose tried not to smile. ‘Wrong order.’
‘What?’
‘You’re supposed to ask what time I’m talking about before you say where you were.’
His features tightened. His eyes became lit by a cruel, angry light. Again, he seemed to be stopping himself from saying what he wanted to. ‘I didn’t break into her flat. I didn’t beat her up, or whatever. I was here. All night.’
‘Alone?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
‘With…’
‘My girlfriend.’
‘Who would be…?’
‘She doesn’t need to be involved. I don’t want her… not with Suzanne. Please.’
‘She does if she’s your alibi. Is that her upstairs?’
He nodded. ‘She’s… asleep. I don’t want to bother her.’
‘Noisy sleeper.’
‘Yes,’ he said weakly, ‘she is.’
‘Right. And you and her were here all night. What did you do?’
‘I… I don’t know.’ He cast a look towards the stairs as if willing her to answer the questions for him, beckoning her with the power of his mind.
‘Read? Watch TV? A DVD?’
Turner looked from Rose to the stairs and back again. ‘We… I…’
His phone rang. They both jumped.
He looked at Rose apologetically, pulled it from his pocket, answered it. After the initial greeting he turned away from Rose. He didn’t say much, just nodded his head, made a few affirmative noises. He rang off, turned back to her. There was a new kind of light in his eyes. Shining, more confident.
‘We were working,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night. We were working. Late. Here.’ He made the statement sound like scientific fact.
Whoever had been on the phone had given Mark Turner strength. Sitting there erect, he seemed to have grown taller, his eyes bright, alert. A small smile danced at the corners of his mouth. There was a kind of cruel triumph in the smile – like an habitual victim suddenly being gifted the power of the bully.
‘And I… I think, I think it’s time for you to leave now, Detective, Detective Sergeant Martin.’ His voice became clearer, stronger as the sentence went on. He stood up at the end to emphasise his words.
