Janssen gives one quick little nod, his long blond hair falling over his eyes. It irritates Mark. Leigh always swore she didn’t fancy blond men. Bitch. Liar. The spiteful words slice through his consciousness. He is startled by them. He thought he was feeling calmer. He barely feels responsible for the spite. He is not responsible, is he, if it is in his subconscious? The fury has not gone, it’s in flux. Mark should not be surprised. Deep wounds take a long time to heal and some scars never fade.
‘Where do you live?’ Janssen asks.
‘Balham.’
‘A Victorian terrace?’
‘Yes.’
Janssen nods again, no doubt quickly able to visualise where his wife spent half her life. People know what terrace houses in South London look like. Imagining her life here had been harder. Mark doesn’t know where to start. He clings to small details, unable to supply a broad picture. ‘I walk past a supermarket trolley every day, a different one. Sometimes Oli and Seb push them back to the supermarket, to collect the pound. Oli does that less now. A quid isn’t worth the walk and effort once you’re sixteen.’
‘Oli and Seb? Those are your boys?’
‘Yes, our boys – my boys. Oliver and Sebastian.’ Mark colours. He hadn’t meant to talk about them. He doesn’t want them in this place. He realises he can’t do this. He can’t talk about his home to this man. He owes him nothing. It’s better to focus on getting answers, rather than providing them. He decides to change the subject. ‘Did you think you were going to get old and die with her?’
‘I don’t think about getting old,’ replies Janssen. ‘You?’
‘No one knows when they are going to die,’ Mark comments. Janssen raises his eyebrows. ‘My first wife died of cancer. I’ve never taken long life for granted.’
‘I see.’
‘You know the police will be looking at one or the other of us right now, and thinking we are responsible for her disappearance?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I didn’t hurt her,’ Mark says.
‘You are bound to say that,’ points out Janssen.
‘You haven’t said it,’ counters Mark. The men meet one another’s gaze and try to read the rules of the game they are playing. Mark notices Janssen is sweating; there are dark patches under his arms. It looks like he slept in that T-shirt. Seeing the man dishevelled, chaotic and vulnerable is a relief. Mark has been imagining that he’d still be crisp, confident, in control; most likely continuing to wear pristine white shirts and sharp dark suits. It helps to think they are levelled; equally disturbed, distraught, desperate. ‘What I can’t work out is why she stayed with me, considering all this luxury.’ Mark gestures around. ‘Coming here must have been quite the holiday from her real life.’
Janssen’s upper lip curls slightly, probably objecting to the implication that her life here, his life, isn’t real. ‘Are you implying she was with me just for my money?’ He laughs, the laugh is a little forced and goes on a little too long. It’s hard to believe it reflects any real mirth.
‘I’m just saying it would have been easier for her to divorce me and then to marry you, if she had wanted you.’ Mark knows Daan must have had this thought too. He must be furious. How furious?
‘And if she had wanted you, why did she even notice me?’ asks Janssen coolly. ‘You can’t point score. We are in the same boat.’
Mark sighs, nods. ‘Shit creek without a paddle.’
Janssen nods. ‘I know this expression. Exactly this. The English always have the exact phrase.’ He sighs, Mark doesn’t know him well enough to understand if it’s impatience, regret, sadness. ‘Anyway, I guess the wealth didn’t mean all that much to her, in the end, because she was able to leave it. Walk away.’
‘If she left,’ Mark challenges.
‘Of course she left.’
‘You believe she walked away from you. From all this?’ ‘What other explanation?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘I don’t imagine her leaving the boys.’
‘Face it, we weren’t enough for her. All four of us combined, not enough. She was a very greedy woman.’
It’s a sad condemnation. Janssen doesn’t trust in Kai’s love the way Mark trusts in Leigh’s. Is it easier for Mark because he knows Leigh would not have left through choice? He feels grimly smug. He loves her more. Of course he does. His actions prove that. ‘If you think she walked away, where do you think she went?’ he challenges.
Janssen shrugs stiffly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
‘You are very cold.’
‘I am very hurt.’
‘Did you kill her?’ Mark wants to see how Janssen responds to the question, asked straight out. What might the DC see if she asks the same thing of him?
Janssen meets Mark’s eyes. ‘No. Did you?’
‘No.’ They stare at one another both aware that either of them might be lying.
39
Fiona
Fiona didn’t want the kiss to stop. His lips were warm and soft and urgent. Yes, urgent. He wanted her. Needed her, that might be better still, more reliable, more enduring. Even so, the cool air from the window breathed on to her cheek, the non-descript pop music needled, the blanket no longer felt soft and comforting, but instead started to scratch. She pulled
