Ritter cleared his throat. ‘It’s Mrs Archer.’
‘Oh,’ said Christopher, glancing down at the ring on my left hand. Did I see disappointment? ‘Of course. Apologies. Nice to meet you.’
He held out his hand; I took it. His grip was firm and assured, just as I remembered. ‘Actually, we—’
‘I’m Inspector Jones,’ he said, glancing quickly at Ritter and giving my hand a little squeeze, urging me to play along.
‘Jones,’ I said, coolly. ‘Nice to meet you.’
His dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. I couldn’t help having a good look at him; he’s taller than I remember, broader too. His wavy dark hair is short now and there’s a little crescent moon scar cutting through his left eyebrow where his piercing used to be. Mum would say he’s aged like fine wine. And I’d agree.
‘Your binder was really helpful,’ he said without sarcasm. He opened up his notebook and scanned the pages. ‘You wrote that Elodie wasn’t fond of her manager, Richard Morris. Do you know of a particular reason for this?’
‘No.’
He jotted something down.
‘Is he a suspect?’ I asked. ‘Because, if anyone’s responsible, it’s the creep that’s been stalking her. Jack’s been up close to him – if you speak to him again, he’ll be able to—’
‘Yes, Mrs Archer,’ said Ritter, cutting me off. ‘We’ve got that under control.’
‘Jack Westwood?’ asked Christopher.
I nodded.
Christopher only met Jack a couple of times. He broke up a fight between Jack and some guy who hit on you at Charlie’s nineteenth birthday party, but not before Jack broke the guy’s nose. But, of course, you won’t pay note to that, will you? Everything Jack does is seen by you through rose-tinted glasses. You colour his possessive behaviour as sweeping acts of friendship.
‘We’ll bring him in again,’ said Christopher.
Ritter gave him a look. ‘I don’t think—’
‘We’ll have him work with a sketch artist to create a composite drawing we can release to the public.’
‘Great,’ I said.
In the car park, Christopher called my name. When I looked across the forecourt, he was jogging towards me. ‘Got a second?’
‘Of course, Detective Jones.’
‘Sorry about that. I volunteered for the case and I …’ He scratched the back of his neck, head bent, a familiar gesture that made me feel seventeen again. ‘I thought it might be less complicated if my superiors didn’t know our history.’
‘Does this lie make you a bent copper?’
He smiled. I miss that smile. ‘I really want to help find Elodie.’
I could see in his face he meant it. ‘How long have you been in the police?’
‘A while. I didn’t go to university so …’ He winced, catching himself because university is our curse word. Most couples break up because one or both go away to study; we broke up because he retracted his application to Exeter. Christopher wanted to travel instead, work in a bar, work in a shop, but I wanted more from a future husband. You think I’m shallow, but you don’t remember the arguments and stress Mum and Dad had over money. You don’t remember them scrimping and saving for caravan holidays in Hunstanton. You don’t remember Mum taking on a second job to make ends meet for Christmas. I was thirteen years old when I stood outside the kitchen door, listening to Mum sob because Dad had been made redundant again and they didn’t know how they’d pay the mortgage next month. It was then I decided I’d never let myself struggle like they did. I’d have the big house, the expendable income, the luxurious holidays; being with someone who has no career prospects but a great tan from their time in Thailand wasn’t going to cut it.
I know what you’re thinking: I could’ve gone to university and into a career to earn the money for this lavish lifestyle myself, but let’s be honest, you’re the academic one. The smart one. The achiever. Not me. Everyone says so. So, I broke up with Christopher. Set him free. Even though I knew I’d done the right thing to get what I wanted, I was heartbroken. I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. Do you remember the night he left for Bali? You were only fourteen, and though you’d never experienced heartache of your own, you sat with me while I sobbed on my bedroom floor and later, with three bags of Maltesers between us, we watched Dirty Dancing.
‘I thought you’d moved to Cambridge?’ I asked.