They don’t answer directly but they obviously do have news, why else would they be here at this late hour? Besides, Fiona notices that there is an energy about them, they seem almost excited. What does that mean?
“What is your wife’s full name?” asks the female officer.
“Leigh Anne Fletcher. I told you before.”
“She never goes by any other name?”
Mark shakes his head. He looks mystified.
The male officer clarifies, “No nicknames? No—”
“Well, actually her real name is Kylie. Or it was,” Fiona interjects helpfully. Mark and the police officers quickly turn to her. Fiona doesn’t know what to do by way of introduction. She’s never had any dealings with the police. She throws out a small, slightly pathetic wave and almost instantly regrets it. She doesn’t want to look silly, frivolous, since the situation is obviously anything other. She quickly pulls her hand to her side. “I’m Fiona Phillipson, Leigh’s best friend. We’ve been best friends for over twenty years.”
Fiona has known Leigh longer than Mark has. She doesn’t explicitly add that, she doesn’t have to, she knows that the policewoman will understands her claim, her loyalty. Fiona’s love came first. The policewoman will get it. Men don’t get female friendship. Not really. The exquisite depth of a nonsexual relationship is too much for them to comprehend.
“Kylie?” Mark says, unable to hide his shock. Another hit to his body, his ego. Fiona nods and smiles at him apologetically. She wouldn’t like anyone to get her wrong, she thinks Mark is a brilliant guy, a great husband but—well, Fiona is the best friend. She knows Leigh best. Fact. As she has just proven.
The two women have shared flats and been there for one another as they scrambled up career ladders, slid down snakes. Here they are twenty-plus years later—Leigh a respected senior management consultant at an enormous global company and Fiona working for a highly prestigious interior design company that counts among its clients many people who appear in HELLO! magazine.
“Yeah. She was Kylie, she didn’t like it at all. There were too many occasions when we were young and we’d be out, and some random—usually a bloke thinking he was clever and more original than was the case—on hearing her name, would burst into a chorus of ‘I Should Be So Lucky.’” Fiona sings the song, in case they need reminding. But then she stops singing abruptly, aware that nobody needs reminding of a Kylie song, ever, and this obviously isn’t the place or the time to be singing. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Stress, I guess.” Everyone nods. They understand. Fiona continues, “Her mum’s Australian and it’s a pretty popular name out there but not here. It just bothered Leigh to be noticed that way. She’s quite a shy person, when it comes down to it. She had it changed by deed poll. About a year before she met you, Mark. Hasn’t she ever mentioned that?”
“No, no she hasn’t.” Mark sinks back into their comfy sofa. He is a strong-looking guy—usually—but tonight he looks reduced. The sofa swallows him up. He looks dazed. Confused.
“It did take a bit of getting used to at the time,” Fiona admits, throwing him a sympathetic glance. “I kept calling her Kylie for ages, but it really irritated her, so I had to get used to Leigh. I’ve come to think she suits Leigh and it rolls off the tongue naturally. I never slip up and call her anything else now.” It is awkward. Who would have thought Leigh would have kept that from him? His embarrassment feels solid in the air.
“I’d like you to take a look at this photo, please.”
The police officer hands Mark a printed sheet. He can’t stop himself smiling. Fiona peeks over his shoulder to see what brought the joy to his harried, blushing face.
She looks so pretty!
But then Mark’s mercurial face collapses again—he just can’t keep a check on his emotions—they are relentlessly assaulting him. He looks up, puzzled. “Where was this taken?” he asks.
“I’m not certain. Somewhere in London,” replies the police officer.
“When?”
“Sometime around Christmas.”
“I don’t—I don’t recognize the dress,” he stutters.
“No?”
“Or the venue.”
“It was this woman’s anniversary.”
“This woman? What do you mean? This is a picture of Leigh.”
The officer moves her head a fraction. Not quite a shake but certainly not a nod of agreement. Fiona thinks there is a level of sympathy in her expression. Mark is the sort of man women feel sympathetic toward; she has long been aware of that. When Leigh first met him, she was always saying, “I just feel so sorry for him. I want to make things better for him.” As though he was a wounded stray, which in a way he was, as he was a widower with two boys. “This is a picture of Kai Janssen,” says the police officer carefully. “Does that name mean anything to either of you?”
“Is she a relation of Leigh’s?” Fiona asks. “The similarity is striking. A cousin, perhaps?” The officer gives a small shake of her head. She keeps her eyes fixed on Mark.
“I don’t understand. What sort of anniversary? A work anniversary?” asks Mark.
“No. Her wedding anniversary. I’m sorry to be the one who has to inform you, Mr. Fletcher, but there is strong evidence to suggest your wife is a bigamist.”
“What are you talking about?” Fiona demands hotly. Mark says nothing. His mouth is gaping open and closed, open and closed. He looks like a fish on a riverbank gasping for breath. Or maybe waiting for the hammer to bash his head. Stop everything.
“I’ve just come from her other home. The home she has shared with Mr. Janssen for over three years. I’m really sorry.”
The officer says the words really sorry but she does not appear sorry. She is studying Mark carefully. Working out what he’s thinking. Whether he knew this. Fiona wonders: Did he? He drops his head into his hands, so no one can look him in the eye. Fiona feels sick, her mind is working overtime. “I don’t understand. Are you saying Leigh is there at this other home with this Mr. Janssen?” she asks.
“No, unfortunately she’s missing from there too.”
Fiona offers to make tea. She really wants a glass of something stronger. Vodka, ideally. She thinks of the countless times she and Leigh have had a vodka here in Leigh’s home—Leigh prefers it with orange, Fiona likes cranberry. She’d take it straight right now. Although, honestly, she feels dizzy enough. A cup of tea is far more sensible, considering everything. The young male police officer follows her into the kitchen, leaving Mark and the policewoman alone. Mark still has his head in his hands. His shoulders are shaking. It looks a lot like he’s crying but Fiona can’t see his face to know for sure. He could, she supposes, be shaking with shock. Or anger. Fiona looks at the policeboy; her guess is that he’s in his midtwenties. Even so, he is assured, purposeful. She’s glad he followed her into the kitchen. She’s unsure whether she can manage making the tea, he’ll have to do it. She plonks herself on a breakfast bar stool.
“I’m just trying to process what your colleague has just claimed.”