‘Yes. You’re very graceful.’
She laughs. ‘I’m bow-legged and duck-footed.’
‘I used to have a patient who was a ballerina.’
‘Why were you seeing her?’
‘She was anorexic.’
Darcy nods sadly. ‘Some girls have to starve themselves. I didn’t have a period until I was fifteen. I also have curvature of the spine, partially dislocated vertebrae and stress fractures in my neck.’
‘Why do you do it?’
She shakes her head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
She turns her toes outward.
‘This is a pas de chat. I leap off my left leg starting from a plie and raise my right leg into a retire. In mid-air I raise my left leg into a retire as well so that my legs form a diamond shape in the air. You see? That’s what the four cygnets do when they dance in Swan Lake. Their arms are interlaced and they do sixteen pas de chats.’
An abiding sense of lightness makes her float through each jump.
‘Can you help me practise my pas de deux?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come here. I’ll show you.’
She takes my hands and puts them on her waist. I feel as though my fingertips could reach right around her and touch in the small of her back.
‘A little lower,’ she says. ‘That’s it.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody watches the man in a pas de deux. They’re too busy watching the ballerina.’
‘What do I do?’
‘Hold me as I jump.’
Effortlessly, she takes off. If anything it feels as though I’m holding her down rather than up. Her bare skin slides beneath my fingers.
She does it half a dozen times. ‘You can let go of me now,’ she says, giving me a teasing smile.
‘Perhaps you don’t like ballet. I can do other dances.’ Reaching up, she unpins her hair and lets it tumble over her eyes. Then she grinds her hips in a long slow circle, squatting with her knees apart, running her hands along her thighs and over her crotch.
It is shamelessly provocative. I force myself to look away.
‘You shouldn’t dance like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not something you should do in front of a stranger.’
‘But you’re not a stranger.’
She’s making fun of me now. Adolescent girls are the most complicated life forms in the known universe. It astonishes me how they manage to be so discomfiting. With little more than a glance or a flash of skin or a dismissive smirk, they can make a man feel ancient, meddlesome and vaguely lecherous.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Your mother.’
‘I thought you’d asked me everything already.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can I keep stretching?’
‘Of course.’
She sits on the floor again, pushing her legs wide apart.
‘Did you talk to anyone about your mother- in the past month? Was there someone who asked questions about her or about you?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t remember. What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘There’s been another death. The police are going to want to interview you again.’
Darcy stops stretching and her eyes meet mine. They’re no longer bright with energy or amusement.
‘Who?’
‘Sylvia Furness. I’m sorry.’
A slight noise catches in Darcy’s throat. She holds her hands to her mouth as if trying to stop the sound from escaping.
‘Did you ever meet Alice?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know her well?’
She shakes her head.
I don’t have enough information to explain to Darcy what happened today or ten days ago. Her mother and Sylvia Furness were in business together but what else did they share? The man who killed them knew things about them. He chose them for a reason.
This is a search that must go backwards rather than forwards. Address books. Diaries. Wallets. Emails. Letters. Telephone messages. The movements of both victims have to be traced- where they went, who they spoke to, what shops they visited, where they had their hair done. What friends do they have in common? Were they members of the same gym? Did they share a doctor or a drycleaner or a palm reader? And this is important: where did they buy their shoes?
A key rattles in the lock. Julianne, Charlie and Emma come bustling into the hallway with polished paper shopping bags and red cheeks from the cold. Charlie is in her school uniform. Emma is wearing new boots that look too big for her but she’ll grow into them before winter is over.
Julianne looks at Darcy. ‘Are you dressed for dancing or double pneumonia?’
‘I’ve been practicing.’
She turns to me. ‘And what have you been doing?’
‘He’s been helping me,’ says Darcy.
Julianne gives me one of her impenetrable looks; the same look that makes our children confess immediately to wrongdoing and sends unwelcome Seventh Day Adventists jostling for the front gate.
I sit Emma on the table and unzip her boots.
‘Where did you go this morning?’ asks Julianne.
‘I had a call from the police.’
There is something in my tone that makes her turn and fix her gaze on mine. No words are spoken, but she knows there has been another death. Darcy tickles Emma under the arms. Julianne glances at her and then back to me. Again, no words are exchanged.
Perhaps this is what happens when two people have been married for sixteen years: it gets so that they know what the other is thinking. It’s also what happens when you’re married to someone as intuitive and perceptive as Julianne. I have made a career out of studying human behaviour but like most in my profession I’m lousy at psychoanalysing myself. I have a wife for that. She’s good. Better than any therapist. Scarier.
‘Can you take me into town?’ Darcy asks me. ‘I need a few things.’
‘You should have asked me to get them,’ answers Julianne.
‘I didn’t think.’
A sudden tight smile covers Julianne’s annoyance. Darcy goes upstairs to change.
Julianne begins unpacking groceries. ‘She can’t stay here indefinitely, Joe.’
‘I called her aunt in Spain today and left a message for her. I’m also talking to her headmistress.’
Julianne nods, only partially satisfied. ‘Well, tomorrow I’m interviewing more nannies. If I find someone we’ll need the spare room. Darcy has to go.’
She opens the fridge door and arranges eggs in a tray.
‘Tell me what happened this morning.’
‘Another woman is dead.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Christine Wheeler’s business partner.’
