I am not surprised. I don’t disapprove. Who am I to judge? Had I asked for honesty? No. The truth is an overrated quality. Lies make a dull world more interesting. They take things in unexpected directions. They add complications and layers of texture.
Victoria tugs the collar of her coat more tightly around her.
“How did you and Drury meet?” I ask.
She is silent for a long time. “I did a psychiatric report for a defendant and gave evidence at the trial. It was Stephen’s case. He won. He took me for a drink afterwards. One thing led to another.”
Another silence, longer this time.
“Are you in love with him?”
“No.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“He says he is.”
“And now you feel trapped.”
She looks up at me and back at the river. “Pretty much.”
The wind is buffeting her, pushing her coat against her body and shaking her hair. We’ve reached a turn in the path. There is a pub ahead with closed shutters and Christmas lights blinking around the door. I push against her and kiss her clumsily, my hand slipping inside her coat to find her breast.
Her mouth tastes of smoke and something yeasty and exciting. It’s the sort of kiss I would have taken for granted a few years ago—deep and unhurried—but now it feels like a rare gift. Pushing me away gently, Victoria looks past my shoulder and I have a sensation that she can see someone behind me, watching us from the shadows. It’s that same impression that I often get with her; that she’s dreamily preoccupied or looking for something other than me.
“We had sex,” she says. “It wasn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“There was always a conflict of interest. You are evaluating one of my patients. It could be misconstrued…”
“The sex?”
“Yes.”
“I know it wasn’t earth-moving. Nobody is going to write poetry about it or paint a mural, but I’d be happy to do it again.”
She laughs. “You’re a wonderful man, Joe. Far better than you give yourself credit for.”
“And?”
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
I feel like saying, I’m the one with the disease.
We each exhale, our breath condensing and combining in a single cloud.
Behind her, I notice a deserted bus stop and I remember Natasha and Piper. They were supposed to meet Emily that Sunday morning, but disappeared somewhere between Natasha’s house and Radley Station, a distance of half a mile, mostly along the edge of fields and on footpaths.
I try to picture the scene again, but I can’t get a fix on the girls. I have been to their houses, I have learned about their personalities, but I cannot picture them making that journey.
Almost in the same breath, I taste something different in my mouth.
“They were never there,” I say out loud.
“What?”
“The girls were never there.”
“Are you all right?”
“No. There’s someone I need to see.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.”
We walk quickly back to the car. Reversing and doing a U-turn, I head towards Abingdon, following the white lines, floating over humps. The hedgerows turn to tarnished silver in the headlights and the countryside rushes to meet us. Twenty minutes later we pull up outside the familiar pebble-creted house. There are three police cars parked on the street. The doors are open. Lights flashing. Two detectives escort Hayden McBain from the house. He is handcuffed and smiling, his teeth bleached white by the spotlights.
Alice McBain is yelling at them. “Get your hands off my boy! He’s done nothing wrong!” Her eyes are smeared and splintery with tears.
Drury steps in front of her. “Bag his clothes. Search the house.”
Elsewhere in the street, porch lights have blinked on and curtains are twitching.
DS Casey is standing at the open car door. He pushes at the top of Hayden’s head. The door closes. Locks.
Crossing the lawn, emerging through a gap in the hedge, I feel as though I’m stepping onto a brightly lit stage. Mrs. McBain doesn’t recognize me at first. She tries to step around me.
“Did you see the girls that morning?” I ask her. It sounds like an accusation.
Alice flashes me a look and goes back to worrying about Hayden, who is being driven away.
I try again. “You said you talked to Piper and Natasha on that Sunday morning. You knocked on Natasha’s door and told them to get out of bed.”
“So what?”
“Did you see them?”
“Of course I did,” she says, less sure this time.
“Did you open the bedroom door?”
Alice frowns, trying to remember.