bed between them.
I turn the page, looking for an outcome. There isn’t one.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tyler was never charged. Insufficient evidence.’
‘What about fingerprints, fibres, anything?’
‘Nope.’
‘This says he made threatening phone calls.’
‘Untraceable.’
No wonder the Chambers were so paranoid when we visited.
I look at the date of the police report. Helen Tyler and Chloe were still alive when Tyler allegedly harassed her family. He must have been looking for them.
‘What do we know about the separation?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Nothing except for the email that Helen sent to her friends. She must have run away from Tyler… and he wasn’t happy about it.’
‘You think he’s good for this.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why would he want to kill his wife’s friends?’
‘To punish her.’
‘But she’s dead!’
‘It might not matter. He’s angry. He feels cheated. Helen took away his daughter. She hid from him. Now he wants to lash out and punish anyone close to her.’
I look again at the police report. Detectives interviewed Gideon Tyler. He must have had an alibi. According to Maureen, he was stationed in Germany. When did he come back to Britain?
‘Is there an address for him?’ I ask.
‘I got a last known and the name of his solicitor. You want to pay him a visit?’
I shake my head. ‘The police should handle this one. I’ll talk to Veronica Cray.’
41
The window has four panes, dividing the bedroom into quarters. She is naked, fresh from the shower, with her hair wrapped in a pink turban and cheeks flushed.
Nice legs, nice tits, nice body- the full package with all the accessories. Man could have a lot of fun playing with a woman like that.
Unwrapping the towel, she bends forward, letting her dark hair drape over her face and her breasts swing. She dries the damp locks and tosses her head back.
Next she raises each foot in turn, drying between her toes. Then comes moisturiser, massaged into her skin, starting at her ankles and moving up. This is better than porn. Come on, baby, a little higher… show me what you got…
Something makes her turn towards the window. Her eyes are staring directly into mine, but she cannot see me. Instead she studies her reflection, turning one way and then the other, running her hands over her stomach, her buttocks and her thighs, looking for stretch marks or signs of age.
Sitting at a mirrored vanity with her back to me, she uses a hairdryer and some contraption to straighten her hair. I can see her reflection. She pulls faces and studies every line and crease on her face, stretching, plucking and poking. More creams and serums are applied.
Watching a woman dress is far sexier than seeing her undress. It’s a dance without the music; a bedroom ballet, with every movement so practised and easy. This isn’t some poxy whore stripping in a seedy bar or sex club. She’s a real woman with a real figure. A pair of knickers slides up her legs, over her thighs. White. Maybe they’ve got a blue trim. I can’t tell from here. Her arms slide into the straps of a matching bra, lifting and separating her breasts. She adjusts the under-wire, making it comfortable.
What will she wear? She holds a dress against her body… a second… a third. It’s decided. She sits on the bed and rolls tights over her right foot and ankle and up her leg. She leans back on the bed and pulls the opaque black fabric over her thighs and her buttocks.
Standing again, she shimmies into the dress, letting the fabric fall to just below her knees. She’s almost ready. A turn to the left, checking out her reflection in the window, then a turn to the right.
Her watch is sitting on the windowsill. She picks it up and slips it onto her wrist, checking out the time. Then she glances out the window at the fading light. The first star is out. Make a wish, my angel. Don’t tell anyone what you wish for.
42
The restaurant is on the river. There is a view across the water to factories and warehouses, reclaimed and renovated into apartments. Julianne has ordered wine.
‘Do you want to taste?’ she asks, knowing I miss it. I take a sip from her glass. The sauvignon detonates sweetly on my palate, cold and sharp, making me yearn for more. I slide the glass back towards her, touching her fingers, and think of the last person to share a bottle of wine with her. Was it Dirk? I wonder if he loved the sound of her voice, which is capable of rendering so many languages beautiful.
Julianne raises her eyes sideways a moment to look at me.
‘Would you marry me again if you had your time over?’
‘Of course I would, I love you.’
She looks away, towards the river, which is painted the colours of navigation lights. I can see her face reflected in the glass.
‘Where did the question come from?’
‘Nowhere really,’ she replies. ‘I just I wondered if you regretted not waiting a little longer. You were only twenty-five.’
‘And you were twenty-two. It made no difference.’
She takes another sip of wine and becomes aware of my concern. Smiling, she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m just feeling old, that’s all. Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish I was younger. Then I feel guilty because I have so much more to be thankful for.’
‘You’re not old. You’re beautiful.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s true.’
She shakes her head helplessly. ‘I know I shouldn’t be so vain and self-obsessed. You’re the one who has every right to be self-conscious and feel resentful.’
‘I don’t resent anything. I have you. I have the girls. That’s enough.’
She looks at me knowingly. ‘If it’s enough why did you throw yourself into this murder investigation?’
‘I was asked.’
‘You could have said no.’
‘I saw a chance to help.’
‘Oh, come on, Joe, you wanted a challenge. You were bored. You didn’t like being at home with Emma. At least be honest about it.’
I reach for my glass of water. My hand trembles.
Julianne’s voice softens. ‘I know what you’re like, Joe. You’re trying to save Darcy’s mother all over again but that’s not possible. She’s gone.’
