His wife’s name is not Kai Janssen. She is Leigh Fletcher. Formally Kylie Gillingham. Daughter of Pamela Gillingham who does exist but does not live in the north of England and is not beleaguered with Alzheimer’s. She lives in Perth, Australia – moved back there two years ago – and is in hail health. Clements tells him, as gently as is possible, that rather than tending her mother Kai, Leigh, Kylie – whatever you want to call her – was living just a few miles away, for half the week, every week with her other husband, Mark Fletcher. Clements concludes, ‘But she is missing from that home too.’ And as she is revealing this information, Clements is carefully studying Daan Janssen as though he is a cell under a microscope. Because Clements wants to know, is this news to him? Or was he already aware of his wife’s treachery?
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t move or break eye contact, he doesn’t swear, punch a wall, or cry. Clements notes his remarkable self-control. When Clements stops speaking there is a silence that stretches for two or three minutes. He breaks it. ‘I see. Another coffee?’ Clements nods. Not because she wants another coffee but because she recognises his human need to do something, occupy himself. When his back is to her and he’s putting water into the machine he asks, ‘Are there any children?’
‘Two stepsons. She adopted them when she married Mark Fletcher as their birth mother is deceased.’
He turns to her. Excited? Relieved? ‘You see, that can’t be right. Kai has never wanted kids.’ Clements waits a beat. Doesn’t have to add, she didn’t want them with you. She didn’t want any more so as to avoid complicating things further. He is a clever enough guy to work it out. She watches his face as he takes just a fraction of a moment to reach the realisation.
‘You’re sure about all this you are telling me?’
‘After you showed me Kai’s photo last night, I went back to the station to do some digging. We’ve checked phone records, employment records, birth and marriage certificates, National Insurance numbers. There is no room for doubt. Kai and Leigh are one and the same woman.’
He nods, draws himself up a little taller. Other men might have collapsed, deflated. Daan grows.
‘Why do you think she did this?’ he asks.
Clements doesn’t know the answer. She doesn’t even think it’s the relevant question. ‘I’m more interested in where she is now.’
‘Well, isn’t it obvious?’ His mouth twitches in irritation. Clements gets the feeling this man thinks everyone is a little slow for him. His pride must be deeply wounded to know he has been the slow one, he will want to reassert himself. ‘She’s found the whole thing too stressful, so she’s thrown in the towel on us both. Most likely moved on to someone new altogether.’
Clements nods. ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘A probability,’ Daan Janssen asserts. He passes the DC her second coffee, which she sips hurriedly even though it is too hot and scalds her mouth. ‘I suppose, as the second husband I’m not a husband at all so this matter no longer concerns me.’
‘Well, it’s not as simple as all that.’ Clements remembers how Janssen presented himself on their first meeting, he was distraught. She doesn’t feel comfortable with his ability – real or feigned – to file this away so neatly and quickly.
‘I’ll consult a lawyer, but I imagine it is. I was with a woman, she has gone. A grown adult walking away from a duplicitous relationship can’t be a police matter.’
‘A crime has been committed.’
‘I have no interest in pressing charges. Anyway, how can we? She has vanished.’
‘Yes, she has.’
Daan Janssen picks up DC Clements’ cup, it is still half-full. He throws the coffee in the sink, rinses the cup, places it carefully upside down on the drainer. ‘I’ll walk you to the door.’
The police officer is not used to being ejected from buildings; it is usually her job to move people on. She tries to reassert herself as they wait at the lift. ‘You will contact us if you hear from her?’
‘Of course.’ The lift arrives, the doors swish open. Then Daan says, ‘And be sure to let me know if a body turns up.’
19
Kylie
Wednesday 18th March
I doze off and when I wake up – bleary-eyed, still woozy, scared – there is food and more water. The relief is prodigious even though this time the water is still, and the tray is laden with all the food I like least. Liver pâté, cucumber batons (I note they actually came in a pack with carrots, which I do like, but the carrots have been removed), cheese and onion crisps (which are the only crisps I don’t like to eat) and three cold, tinned hot dogs. I stare at the tray for a nanosecond, surprised by the petty cruelty. This meal has been selected to bring me the least possible comfort or pleasure. These are foods both men know I actively dislike. Which of my husbands would go to the effort of shopping for food that I hate? Then I wonder at myself for being surprised. Whichever it is, he has locked me up; clearly, we’re not friends.
I am starving. My best guess is that it’s Wednesday lunchtime but it’s hard to be sure. The room is really dark, some light comes from around the boarded window and from under the door. There are two small, recessed ceiling lights, but I can’t reach the switch. I last ate on Monday morning; I didn’t even finish the entire slice of cake then. I hungrily bite the hot dogs. There is no cutlery. I’m not sure if I’m being denied cutlery because I might make a weapon of a fork,
