“Yes. That’s right.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“She isn’t dead?”
“She’s dead but she didn’t die of cancer. She fell down the stairs. She had cancer. She might have died of that eventually or she might have recovered.” Paula says the word with a hint of breathy hope. Then, more staunchly, she adds, “We will never know. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.”
“But Mark Fletcher said it was cancer.”
“He always says that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask him that. She was very weak. She was undergoing chemo treatment. Apparently, she had tried to get to the bathroom on her own and just wasn’t strong enough. Mark was downstairs making a cup of tea.”
Clements wonders whether her investigative powers are a little off—was it an error to have accepted the first wife’s cause of death at face value? She wonders: Does she need a holiday? A change of diet? Or was questioning the cause of the first wife’s death out of her remit? Should receiving this information now be seen as a win, rather than a few days’ old mistake? She doesn’t know. Sometimes it is hard to know and easy to doubt herself. She is determined to be thorough now, though.
“Who else was at home with them when this happened?”
“They were alone together. I was looking after the boys.”
“Why are you ringing me to tell me this?”
“I don’t know. I hate myself for doing so—I’m not trying to cause trouble for Mark. I really don’t think he is involved in Leigh’s disappearance, but I think you have to know the facts. Oli is messed up. Really not himself at all. So angry. I’m worried about him.”
Of course the boy is messed up—his bigamist stepmother is missing—but Clements asks, “In what way particularly do you think he’s messed up?”
“He told me he knew that his mother was having an affair.”
“He knew?”
“Yes, he’d spotted her with the other man about six months ago. The poor kid has lived with the weight of that secret for all this time. I was just wondering, if a child could discover her secret, maybe one of the husbands could have. Maybe she wasn’t being as clever and careful as she thought she was.” Clements can hear contempt and concern in Paula’s voice.
“What are you saying? Do you think Mark Fletcher is capable of violence?”
“No, no not really. He’s a really good bloke. I don’t know what I’m saying. I shouldn’t have called.” She hangs up abruptly. It doesn’t matter, a statement as such isn’t needed, the lead is enough. Clements updates Tanner and tells him to call up the coroner’s report on Frances Fletcher’s death.
“Thing is, you always wonder, don’t you? Slipped or pushed. You know the pressure of caring for a terminally ill family member is immense,” Tanner says. He is practically rubbing his hands together with undisguised glee.
“Well, even if you are right about that, which I’m not saying you are for a minute, there’s hardly a pattern, is there.”
“Two dead wives.”
Perturbed, Clements says, “We don’t know Kylie is dead.”
“We don’t know she’s alive.”
“There’s no body, no one pushed her down the stairs. Stop it, Tanner, it sounds like wild speculation to me.”
“I’m not speculating. I’m theorizing.”
“Stick with the facts, Tanner.” But even as she delivers her rebuke, Clements tries to recall how big Oli Fletcher is? Is he man or boy? The net—far from drawing in—is widening.
And the clock is ticking.
35
Kylie
Last night I was freezing, today I feel I am suffocating. The weather is glorious. I can see the blue sky through the window of the next room and even feel the heat of the sun scorching through the boarding that covers the window in this room. It’s only March, how can it be so hot? How long have I been here? Weeks, months? I know this isn’t true, it can’t be. But maybe it is. I am confused. I don’t know what is true anymore.
Maybe I never did.
I long for water, food, a flushing toilet. I lie on the floor, put my head through the hole in the wall I have created and feel the luxury of the breeze from the window. I ache with the effort of crashing my chain against the radiator. No one has come. I need to rest from the repetitive action, just for a while.
I need water.
I’m so tired.
I fall to sleep. I don’t fight it. I sink into it, gratefully.
When I am asleep, I dream I am making a list of what it means to be married to Mark. I present the list to the Father Christmas in the Harrods grotto. We used to take the boys there when they were younger. A wondrous place where sweets and treats are handed out freely, and by some magical process Santa knows the names of the children. Something to do with the elf in the queue having a headset and chatting to the children, repeating the info so Santa is prepped. Mark and I were fooled for a moment. We laughed, delighted to be enticed into the make-believe. It’s charming. I miss it as a Christmas ritual. Why did we abandon it? Oh, I remember. When Oli was about ten, he insisted on telling all the children queuing that Santa wasn’t the real deal, that he was a different bloke every year. “Just tug his beard.”
Not the real deal. Not the real deal.
It’s hard to pull the wool over Oli’s eyes.
The list, the list. As I hand it to Santa, I think it might save me. But he looks at it, frowns, shakes his head, tells me I am on the naughty list. I am not nice.
I wake up, or at least I think I do; I’m bleary, dreary. It’s hard to stay conscious in this hot room, with so little sustenance and the pain from the assault pulsing through my body. The list swirls around in my head. What is it like being married to Mark? What does it really mean? I close my eyes again, but I can still see the list, it’s tattooed onto the inside of my lids. Or maybe I can hear it. Who is reading the list to me? Mark? Oli? Santa?
A home that feels like a big smile every time I open the door. Everyone else adoring my man, endorsing my choice because of his deep all-year-round tan and his big biceps. Help with putting on bedsheets. Lots of jars of spicy chutney and cheese in the fridge. Wet towels on the bathroom floor. A constant supply of Merlot on the rack. The sound of football matches blaring through the TV. Being bought Baileys year after year for birthdays, Mother’s Day, Christmas and Easter because I once mentioned it was a guilty pleasure. Giving away those bottles of Baileys to neighbors and the school tombola; my tastes have changed—I don’t like Baileys anymore; I can’t find a way to tell him. He hasn’t noticed. The alarm going off before the boys need to be up so we can have fifteen quiet minutes lying in one another’s arms. No leaky taps, flickering lightbulbs, wonky shelves ever, he is handy around the house. No one noticing my new underwear. Or my old underwear. Hanging baskets that are the envy of the entire street. Dad jokes. Someone who will listen to me retell a plot of a book but will not read that book. Drinking cans of cider in the back garden on hot summer nights. Being encouraged to plunge into a cold lake to swim. Liking the swim. Singing along to country-and-western music on long car journeys. Feeling safe.