It was Ivo Carew. “Look, lovey, I’ve got a confession to make. I told the cops about you skiving off our luncheon. I more or less had to. They asked me.”
How they could have when he hadn’t even mentioned Ivo’s existence to them, Jims couldn’t imagine. “Have you seen the papers?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“What am I going to do?”
“Well, my old love, in your place I’d pretend I didn’t know. I mean, about the husband still being the husband.”
“I didn’t know.”
Ivo plainly didn’t believe him. “I’d simply maintain my innocence. Stoutly maintain it. A bridegroom”-he sniggered nastily at the word-“can’t be expected to scrutinize his bride’s divorce papers. She said she was divorced and you accepted it.”
Jims said nothing.
“Why on earth did you marry her?”
“I don’t know,” said Jims. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”
“Shall I come over, lovey?”
Get into bed with him, no doubt, and further complicate things, not to mention old Vincey, downstairs but with her ears on stalks. “Better not. I’m going home.”
Showered and dressed, Jims felt slightly better, though in no fit state to eat the plateful of fried eggs, bread, bacon, and potatoes swimming in fat, unaccountably prepared for him. He drank a cup of Nescafé and reconstituted milk. Were things quite so bad as he’d thought at first? As a politician, Jims believed that there were few situations in public life that couldn’t be remedied with the right strategy, few errors that couldn’t be made good by (apparent) frankness, sincere apology, and an earnest air of innocence. And he was innocent. What more likely than that two people like Zillah and Jerry Leach, feckless and sloppy, had shacked up together and had two kids without ever marrying? Of course he’d believed her. He could say something about her first marriage being too painful for her to wish it commemorated in any document. That would do. Well, no, it wouldn’t do, but it would help.
Probably the best line to take would be that he hadn’t known. Zillah believed herself divorced and, now that Jeffrey Leach was dead, he-Jims-would make everything good by immediately remarrying the widow. Did he really want to do this? Of course not. He’d rather never see her again. But he didn’t have a choice. Needs must when the devil drives, and the devil had never driven harder and faster than this. They could always get divorced when the fuss died down. Perhaps he should issue a statement. Call Malina Daz now and get her to help him word it. It would still be too late for the Evening Standard. Best go home first, work out the statement in his head on the way, and talk to that unspeakable little bitch Zillah he wished he’d never set eyes on in the first place. He’d call Malina on his car phone and then he’d call Leonardo.
But perhaps he did have a choice. Perhaps there were other options. He picked up the phone and dialed Ivo’s mobile. When all was said and done, Zillah wasn’t very bright.
Michelle didn’t much care about her and Matthew being suspected of murdering Jeffrey Leach, as she’d had to learn to call him. That was an exaggeration. Of course she would care if they really suspected them, if all that questioning hadn’t been just routine. They had to ask questions, it was their job. She and Matthew were still treating it as a joke. They’d even given jokey names to the principal police officers, calling the woman Miss Demeanor and the man Violent Crimes. But even if they’d truly put Mr. and Mrs. Jarvey of Holmdale Road, West Hampstead, on their list of suspects and had real suspicions about them, that would be nothing to Fiona’s betrayal.
When they’d called yesterday morning, and wanted to know where she and Matthew had been a week ago on the day Jeff was killed, when they’d said she understood they’d disliked Jeffrey Leach and made it plain they did, she’d asked them how they knew that. Of course, they wouldn’t tell her; they’d said they weren’t able to divulge that information. But Michelle knew and the knowledge lacerated her. Only Fiona could have told the police for no one else had heard of their dislike. She and Matthew were barely acquainted with anyone else, apart from her sister and his brother, whom they hardly ever saw and would never have confided in. Fiona knew the Jarveys didn’t like her fiancé-she and Michelle had discussed it-and, when asked if Jeff had any enemies, named the people next door. Her friends. The woman who loved her as a mother might and who thought herself loved in daughterly fashion in return. It was monstrous. Didn’t Matthew think it was, asked Michelle in tears.
“You can’t be sure, darling. They may only have assumed we disliked him because it seems that most people did except these poor women he strung along.”
“No. Fiona told them. How would they know no one liked him? They don’t know anyone he knew. His past life is a blank, Fiona said. She’s betrayed me and I hate to say this, but I can never feel the same about her again, never.”
“Don’t cry, darling. I can’t bear to see you cry.”
Miss Demeanor and her twin-it was two women this time-wanted something Michelle had always believed wasn’t a real requirement but only a feature of detective stories and television sitcoms. They asked her and Matthew to provide an alibi. At first this shocked her. Living in a sheltered world where honesty was taken for granted, she believed the senior of the two women would take her word.
“My husband and I were out shopping together. First we went to Waitrose at Swiss Cottage and then, because it was such a lovely day, I drove us up to the Heath.”
“Hampstead Heath?” Miss Demeanor asked this as if there were dozens of open spaces in London known familiarly as the Heath. Michelle nodded. “You parked and sat in the car? Where exactly was that?”
Everyone must surely know how difficult it was to park anywhere in the vicinity. You could no longer go where you chose, as was the case when she and Matthew first came to Holmdale Road, but had to settle for wherever you could find a space.
“It was by the Vale of Health pond.”
“What time would that have been, Mrs. Jarvey?”
She couldn’t remember. All she could say was that they’d left and gone home soon after half past four because Miss Harrington was coming in to have a drink with them at five-thirty.
Matthew said, “We went out shopping at half past two and were at the Vale of Health by a quarter to four. We stayed there for three-quarters of an hour.”
Surely they must have been impressed by his beautiful voice. Was that the voice of a thug who went about murdering people with knives? Michelle hadn’t expected the next question.
“Did anyone see you? Would anyone remember you at Waitrose?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Matthew looked faintly amused, his lips twitching. “Hundreds of people were in there.” And we don’t look as funny as we used to, Michelle thought. I’m still fat and he’s still thin, but the contrast isn’t so great. Lots of couples look like us. “I can’t remember seeing anyone at the Vale of Health. People don’t go out for walks anymore, do they?”
No one answered him. It was then that Michelle had asked how they knew she and Matthew had disliked Jeff and the two officers said they were unable to divulge that information. Matthew said he couldn’t understand this insistence on an alibi. They alibied each other, they’d been together all the time. Miss Demeanor’s colleague smiled pityingly. Ah, yes, but they were married. The inference was that each would readily lie to save the other. That was absurd when you remembered how many husbands and wives were at loggerheads.
Michelle reverted to the subject next morning. Sleep had been slow in coming to her last night and when at last it did she dreamed of her unborn children, those children that would now never be born. There were three of them, all girls, all clones of Fiona, each one turning their back on her and walking away, saying they’d never loved her because her heart was full of hatred.