‘It’s fine,’ said Fleet to Anne. He splayed his hand and examined his wedding ring, then folded it away in his fist. ‘My wife and I … it turned out we were less compatible than we thought, that’s all.’
Anne waited for him to go on.
‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t honest, with myself as much as with her.’
He sensed Anne shift slightly.
‘I don’t mean … What I mean is, Holly had different … expectations. Of what our marriage would lead to. And I guess for a long time I was guilty of letting her live with the misconception.’
‘I’m not sure I’m following,’ Anne said.
Fleet looked her in the eye. ‘She wanted – wants – a child. I don’t. Can’t, won’t, however you want to put it.’
Anne raised her chin slightly. There was a gleam of understanding in her eye. She’d clearly heard more details about Fleet’s past than she’d let on.
‘So really, it’s all one open wound,’ Fleet said, smiling but feeling no humour. ‘My past, I mean. My marriage. It wouldn’t take Sigmund Freud to join the dots.’
He finished his brandy in a swallow and, taking his time, set his glass down on the windowsill next to Anne’s.
They sat in silence for a moment, before Anne rose and left the room. She returned with the bottle of brandy, and poured them each another measure.
She clinked her glass against Fleet’s, still in its place on the sill, then folded herself back into the armchair.
‘It’s none of my business,’ she said, testing the silence. ‘But did you try … talking to someone?’
‘A therapist, you mean?’ said Fleet. He nodded. ‘Holly insisted, so we went to a couples counsellor.’
‘And what did they say?’
Fleet reached for his drink. ‘He said it sounded like there was more than one thing going on. That there was clearly a lot we needed to work out.’ He shook his head. ‘All very insightful, I’m sure, and Holly was keen to go back, but as far as I was concerned, no amount of talking was going to alter the simple facts. And not having children … it was tearing Holly apart.’
Anne nodded. ‘I get that,’ she said. ‘I really do.’
Fleet looked across at her, even as she dropped her gaze. He wondered about those car-wreck relationships she’d mentioned, about what choices – what sacrifices – she’d had to make in her past. And whether, given the life she had now, she considered them worth it.
They finished their drinks. After a while, Anne stood up. She looked out at the rain for a minute, and Fleet watched her reflection in the glass.
‘Well,’ she said, when she turned. ‘I think I’ll go up to bed.’
She met Fleet’s gaze, and allowed her hand to rest on his shoulder. There was a pause.
‘Thank you,’ said Fleet. ‘For the company. If it’s OK with you I might sit here for a while. This case, you know? It’s hard to switch off.’
Anne smiled at him. She withdrew her hand.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Don’t sit up too late.’ And she left Fleet looking at himself in the darkened window.
Day Eight
DI Robin Fleet
‘Something wrong with your neck, boss?’
Fleet was later into the station than he’d intended. Nicky was already at her desk, in the area of the open-plan office that had been cleared to accommodate Fleet and his team. About half of the officers under Fleet’s command had been seconded here, just like Fleet himself. The rest were locals, more accustomed to working pub brawls than murder enquiries, but diligent enough, from what Fleet had seen so far. Of them all, Fleet knew only Nicky well. His speciality in finding missing persons meant Fleet himself was something of a stray (a ‘bloodhound without a leash’, Holly had quipped once), but officially he and Nicky belonged to the same branch of CID. He requested her presence on his assignments often, because he knew her work and he trusted her judgement. Plus, unlike him, she was a people person, and she had a knack for smoothing potentially fraught relationships with the locals, who sometimes resented outsiders stepping on their size twelves.
Fleet had a hand cupped around his neck as he walked in, though it was in fact a headache that was bothering him more. Inwardly he’d blamed the brandy, but he was at a stage where it was hard to tell what was down to the alcohol and what was a symptom of his lack of sleep.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said in response to Nicky’s question. ‘Fell asleep in an awkward position, that’s all.’ He decided not to mention the armchair, or the fact that Anne had found him there at half past six this morning, his head back, his mouth open, and his brandy glass still balanced on his lap. ‘At this rate I should probably give you a discount on your room fee,’ she’d joked. ‘It doesn’t feel right charging you summer rates when you barely ever seem to use the bed.’ And then, to Fleet’s everlasting gratitude, she’d swapped his empty brandy glass for a pint of cold water.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Fleet said to Nicky. ‘Breakfast with the super. And, it turned out, the Crown Prosecution Service.’
‘The CPS?’ said Nicky. ‘I thought lawyers only ate brunch.’
‘It seems they’re happy to get up in time for breakfast if someone else is paying,’ answered Fleet. ‘Though
