It was, of course, imperative that the late Jeffrey Leach’s wife be told as soon as possible of his violent death. But it now appeared she was his wife no longer. She had remarried, and into a social class far above what the investigators had calculated was Jeffrey Leach’s.
Zillah had just got up on Saturday morning when the policeman rang the bell at Abbey Gardens Mansions. It was only half past eight, an early hour for her, but she’d been unable to lie in, for Eugenie’s prediction-that having slept most of the day she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night-proved true. The children were already up and watching cartoons on television. Zillah came out in her dressing gown and began making toast and pouring cornflakes into bowls. She caught sight of herself in a mirror and backed away from it, she looked so terrible, her hair in rats’ tails and dark smudges under her eyes. A spot, the likes of which she hadn’t had for fifteen years, was erupting in the middle of her chin.
“Who on earth’s that?” she asked when the bell rang.
“You’ll know if you open the door,” said Eugenie. “What a stupid question.”
“How dare you be so rude!”
Jordan, who was always upset by shouting, began to snivel. The doorbell rang again and Zillah went to answer it.
“Mrs. Melcombe-Smith?”
“That’s right.”
“May I come in? I have some distressing news for you.”
There was no one in the world not in the flat at that moment whom Zillah cared enough for to mind whether they were fit or injured, alive or dead. But she couldn’t hide her shocked response when the caller told her of the death of Jeffrey Leach. “I don’t believe it.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
“What did he die of? Some sort of accident?”
This may have given the man the impetus to come straight out with it. “He was murdered yesterday afternoon. I’m sorry.”
“Murdered? Who murdered him?”
There was no reply to that. The policeman wanted to know where she’d been between three and four-thirty and Zillah, still amazed at the news, said she’d been here.
“Alone?”
“Yes, quite alone. My children were out with their-er, nanny.”
“And Mr. Melcombe-Smith?”
Zillah couldn’t exactly say she didn’t know. It would look very odd in a bride of two months. “In his constituency. That’s South Wessex, you know. He’s been there since Thursday afternoon. I can’t believe Jerry’s been murdered. Are you sure it was Jerry?”
“Certainly it was Mr. Jeffrey Leach. Is this him?”
Zillah looked for the first time in nearly seven years on the photograph she herself had taken in those happier times-though she hadn’t thought them so then-of Jerry with the three-week-old Eugenie in his arms. “My God, yes. Where did you find it?”
“That’s not important. You identify it as Jeffrey Leach?”
She nodded. “I’m amazed he kept it.”
Then came the question of questions, the one that brought the blood to her face and made it recede again as rapidly: “When exactly were you divorced, Mrs. Melcombe-Smith?”
She knew it would be a mistake to lie but she had to. Still, she hesitated. “Er-it must have been last spring. About a year ago.”
“I see. And when did you last see Mr. Leach?”
It had been two weeks before, here, in this flat. She remembered how he’d called her a bigamist. The time before that had been six months ago, in October, in Long Fredington, when he’d come for the weekend. And driven away in the boneshaker, ten minutes before the express and the local train crashed. “October,” she said. “It was while I was living in Dorset with my children.” For the sake of verisimilitude, she felt the need to insert some circumstantial detail. “He drove down on Friday evening and stayed the weekend. The first weekend in October. He left again on Tuesday morning.”
He held something out to her. It was a Visa card. “Is this yours?”
“Yes, no, I don’t know.”
“The name on it is Z. H. Leach and those are not common initials.”
“Yes, it must be mine.”
It was the card Jims had arranged for her to have last December when she’d accepted his proposal. She saw that its starting date was December and expiration date November 2003. After she was married and Jims gave her two new cards in the name of Mrs. Z. H. Melcombe-Smith, she’d forgotten all about the existence of this one. How had Jerry got hold of it? That day in the flat he’d wandered about when he was supposed to be going to the loo, she’d heard his stealthy footsteps, thought she heard him go into her bedroom, but attached no importance to it. After all, she was used to visitors prying into her things, Malina Daz, Mrs. Peacock…
“Did you give it to Mr. Leach?”
“No, yes. I don’t know. He must have taken it. Stolen it.”
“That’s an interesting conclusion to come to, especially since this card wasn’t issued until December and the last time you saw Mr. Leach was in October. Are you sure you haven’t seen him since?”
Then Zillah uttered the time-honored phrase so often on the lips of old lags up in court yet again. “I may have done.”
The policeman nodded. He said that that would be all for now but he’d be in touch. When did she expect Mr. Melcombe-Smith’s return? Zillah didn’t but said Sunday evening. Eugenie came into the room, holding her brother’s hand, both fully dressed and looking clean and neat. The policeman said in the kind of voice childless men use when talking to children they’ve never met before, bluff, interrogatory, embarrassed, “Hello. How are you?”
“Extremely well, thank you. What have you been saying to my mummy?”
“It was just a routine inquiry.” The policeman suddenly realized the late Jeffrey Leach must have been their father. “I’ll see myself out,” he said to Zillah.
A famous Italian novelist and professor had just published a new book to great acclaim and Natalie Reckman was off to Rome to interview him. Her flight left from Heathrow in the late morning. She bought the novelist’s first book in paperback and three newspapers at an airport bookstall, but they told her only that a man had been murdered in a London cinema and this didn’t much interest her.
While in the aircraft she read her paperback. The Evening Standard was brought round but Natalie shook her head, she’d seen enough newspapers for one day. She thought she might stay in Rome till Monday, have a look at a new theater that was being built, maybe see what all this fuss was about someone desecrating the graves in the English Cemetery. With luck she’d get three stories for the price of one.
When it got to midday on Saturday and Jeff still hadn’t come back, Fiona feared he had left her. She searched the house for a note, looked under tables and behind cabinets in case it had fallen on the floor from where he’d left it. There was nothing. To go without a word was to add insult to injury, but gone he had.
Michelle helped with the search. She pointed out that if Jeff had really left, he’d taken nothing with him. All the clothes but those he’d gone out in were in the cupboard, including the black leather jacket he was so fond of. His four pairs of shoes, apart from those he was wearing, were in Fiona’s shoe rack, his underpants and socks in the drawer. Would he have gone without his electric shaver? Without his toothbrush?
“I’m afraid he must have met with some sort of accident,” Michelle said, her arm round Fiona. “Now, Fiona darling, was he carrying anything to identify him?”