‘Drink?’ Cam asked even though he could see that she had an almost full glass of Coke.
Stacey looked up at him and shook her head. Her face, caught in the full glare of the ceiling spotlight, showed what the hair and body didn’t. Stacey was at least Cam’s age, possibly older and she wore no make-up to hide the years.
‘Got one, thanks. Can’t stay long.’ The sentences were clipped as though she wanted to ration her words and not give too much away even in small talk.
Cam glanced at the bar, thought about ordering a pint and then decided against it. They might as well get this over with. ‘Have you got the information?’ he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting next to the investigator.
Stacey slid a cardboard folder out of her bag and put it on the table. ‘It’s all here. Dates, times, photographs.’
‘What about your report?’
‘In the file.’
Cam flipped it open and quickly scanned the few sheets of paper. Each held an account of his wife’s movements on a particular day, none held any opinion of Chrissie’s actions. He got to the photographs. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. There she was; his beautiful Chrissie. Having coffee with Laura, laughing with another friend, buying a book at the independent shop in town. Nothing unusual or worrying.
‘Is this it?’
Stacey nodded. ‘I only had a couple of weeks. You didn’t pay me to check up on her every day. In fact, you’ve still not paid in full.’
There was something odd about the woman’s tone. Cam looked up to see her frowning at him, the hand that she’d rested on the table was clenched into a fist.
‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew an envelope which he handed to her. ‘It’s all there but I expect you’ll count it anyway.’
Stacey smiled and flicked through the bundle of notes, lips moving as she checked the amount.
‘I thought you’d at least wait until I’d gone,’ Cam said with a smile. He admired this woman’s caution and reserve even though he didn’t especially feel comfortable with her.
‘You’re right, I didn’t trust you,’ Stacey said, stuffing the envelope into her bag. ‘But now you’ve paid I need to give you the full report. I don’t know if it’ll help you; to be honest, I don’t know what it means but you’ve paid for these. I took them both in the week before your wife died.’
She gave him another folder containing only two sheets of paper. Each one was a printout of an image which looked like it had been discreetly shot on a mobile phone. One was in a café which looked like the one next to Maryport Dock where Chrissie often met friends, the other was gloomier and could have been a pub or a bar in town. In each shot, Chrissie was facing the camera. In the first one she seemed to be listening intently to her companion and, in the other, her head was thrown back in an unselfconscious laugh.
Cam studied them closely, reading every detail of Chrissie’s face, focusing on her lips, her eyes, her expression while desperately trying not to look at her companion. If he didn’t look, he didn’t know. And, if he didn’t know, it didn’t make him feel like his body had been turned inside out and everything about him was on display for the world to gawk at and laugh. What an idiot he’d been.
In both pictures, Chrissie was with a man. He had his back to the camera, but it was unmistakeably the same person in each shot. The dark hair, the broad shoulders, the confident posture.
‘Who is he?’ Cam managed to croak.
‘I have no idea,’ Stacey admitted. ‘I only saw them together twice. I followed her rather than him, as you instructed.’
Was she smiling? Was this woman glad that his wife had been cheating on him?
‘So, find him now. I’ll pay you.’
Stacey stood up. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘I need to find him.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Cam. What good will it do?’
‘I need to find him,’ Cam said again. ‘Because I’m going to kill him.’
18
Jess stood up to make room for Annie as she rushed over to Tom. He wanted to hug her, to stand up and put his arms round her and never let go, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get to his feet. He was feeling much better – the pain had subsided to a dull ache and the dizziness seemed to be passing, but he knew that he was still suffering from shock and he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up.
‘How’s he doing?’ Annie asked Jess as though Tom couldn’t speak for himself. He wasn’t sure whether this was a deliberate ploy to make him seem more incapacitated than he was, so he kept quiet, intending to follow Annie’s lead.
‘Not great,’ Jess said, loudly enough for the boss man – Larry – to hear her. ‘He’s still losing blood and he’s not talking. Thank God you’re back.’
Tom wasn’t glad. He’d hoped that Annie’s plan would have worked; that she’d have escaped and brought help, or at least got herself to safety. He’d been devastated when the door had opened and a masked man had brought her back – in his imagination she was already in the school reception, wrapped in a blanket, drinking hot tea and telling her story to a sympathetic police officer. Now, though, she was still here with the rest of them.
‘How’re you really doing?’ Annie whispered, crouching next to him, close enough for Tom to smell her shampoo. God, she smelt good. She even looked good – the pale winter light catching the lighter highlights in her dark red
