‘Look, that wasn’t just a quick one-night stand,’ he said, ‘Not for me, anyway.’
‘Not for me either,’ I lied.
Although it wasn’t a lie that I had feelings for him, which had not necessarily been quenched by our sexual activity.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Give me your phone number. I’ll call you, make a date to meet again.’
‘OK,’ he agreed, although he still looked disappointed. ‘Where’s your phone? You can put my number in it now and call me straightaway, then I’ll have yours.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m in a big hurry. Just write your number on this, it’ll be quicker.’
I delved into the top pocket of my jacket, where I’d already placed the receipt for the hotel room alongside the pen I always carry with me and handed both to him.
He did as I’d asked, then passed the sheet of paper back to me.
‘Don’t I get yours?’ he asked.
I scribbled a number on the bottom of the receipt, tore the piece off and handed it to him.
As I did so he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. I couldn’t let myself respond, not even a little. Our time together was over.
I pulled away.
‘We will do this again,’ I said.
‘I hope so,’ he replied quietly.
I was lying. I had no intention of seeing Tim again. Not then. The number I’d given him wasn’t mine, merely a random jumble of digits, and I wouldn’t be phoning him.
I would just have to find another Tim. I told myself it wouldn’t be difficult. Grindr was a smorgasbord. I’d probably been overreacting to the Stephen Port murders. Thousands of men used Grindr and encountering another lunatic like Port would probably be less likely than being struck by lightning. I wouldn’t go to a sex party again, though. That was a step too far.
I was aware of Tim’s eyes on me as I headed for the door, but I didn’t look back. And, thankfully, he didn’t say anything more.
I put on the baseball cap I always carried with me and hurried through reception with my head down, although there was just one disinterested man on night duty behind the desk, and a cleaner mopping the floor who did not look up from his duties.
I felt how I always did after these adventures; even worse than before them.
I told myself I must stop. That I did not need another Tim. That I could even do without the titillation of Grindr browsing. And I must stop now, because the risks were too great.
I told myself I could do it. I could end all this now. I told myself I could make it stop. That it was over. That I would make it be over.
But I was, of course, lying to myself.
Six
Daisy Wilkins lived on one of those hills at the back of Bath, from which you get spectacular views.
Her home was a small, but rather exceptional, one-bedroomed apartment in a modern block. Virtually the whole of the front wall of the sitting room was glass, with ceiling-to-floor windows and big, double, glass doors leading onto a narrow balcony overlooking the famous Georgian spa town.
Daisy was a small slim woman with good skin and regular features, pleasantly pretty, but Vogel thought she was considerably older than he expected Fisher’s mistress to be. Indeed, rather than the young floozy that the DI had been automatically expecting — a term Vogel would never use in public, but one which his mother had favoured and lurked resolutely inside his head in circumstances such as this — Daisy was a mature, modest-looking woman, who was probably ten or even twelve years older than Fisher.
Her fair hair, only lightly streaked with grey, was neatly styled. Her clothes: pale blue jeans with a crease in them, a pink, silky looking T-shirt and a cardigan just a touch darker pink, were also neat. As was her immaculately-presented and tastefully-furnished home.
Vogel thought about Fisher’s wife and the well-cared-for home they shared. Although not noticeably careful about his personal appearance, Fisher was clearly a man who liked his surroundings and his women to be neat and tidy.
Daisy Wilkins’s voice suggested she was well-educated and, once she’d recovered from the shock of two police officers arriving unexpectedly at her front door, she showed herself to be well-mannered and hospitable. She invited Vogel and Saslow into her sitting room and offered them tea or coffee.
Her expression registered alarm, along with more than a hint of embarrassment, when Vogel told her that they were there to speak to her about Jim Fisher. Her blushing response instantly indicated the respectable sort of woman she was, the DI thought.
‘Is Jim all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Has something happened to him?’
Vogel assured her that nothing had happened to Fisher.
‘We need to check on his whereabouts over the last twenty-four hours, that’s all,’ he said. ‘He told us he was with you last night. Is that true?’
‘Why are you checking on his whereabouts?’ the woman responded, a sudden sharpness in her voice. ‘I need to know why.’
‘Could you please just answer the question?’ repeated Vogel quietly.
He already did not think Daisy Wilkins was the sort of woman who would give a man a false alibi and certainly not in a murder inquiry, but Vogel believed in acquiring as much information as possible from interviewees, before giving them any at all.
Daisy Wilkins looked, for just a fleeting moment, as if she might protest further, then she gave a small sigh of resignation.
‘Clearly you know about our…’
She hesitated again.
‘Our relationship,’ she continued, both her manner and her voice suggesting that she might not think it was much of one.
‘Yes, Jim was with me last night. He’s been staying over quite often on Thursday nights over the last few months. He’s working away, so I suppose I’m a stopover on the way home. We don’t talk about that side of things and I have no idea how he arranges it. To tell the truth, I don’t want to know. He’s been doing it for years. The whole thing has been going on for years. Too many years, not much doubt about that…’
Her voice tailed off and she sighed again, rather more heavily.
‘Was Mr Fisher with you all night?’ Vogel asked
‘Yes, but he left suddenly, quite early. I think he checked his phone when he went to the bathroom. I know he does that. He said he had to go and he would explain later. I was still half asleep. Anyway, I’m used to sudden comings and goings. That’s how it is if you have a married man in your life.’
Daisy Wilkins paused, switching her gaze from Vogel to Saslow and back again.
‘Does that have something to do with your visit?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s happened? Please?’
‘We have to ask you some more questions first, I’m afraid, Miss Wilkins,’ said Vogel.
Dawn Saslow chipped in then.
‘We need to know the time Mr Fisher arrived last night and the time he left this morning, as exactly as you can, Miss Wilkins,’ she said.
‘He got here just after ten. Then we had some late supper. So we didn’t go to bed until after one. I think it was probably about seven when he actually left the flat.’
If that was so Vogel thought, Fisher would have had quite a lot of time to kill before he turned up at his home at 9 a.m. It was only forty-five minutes or so drive away. Presumably, even after learning that his stepdaughter was missing, the man had been protecting his cover story, trying to prevent his wife discovering that he had a mistress.
‘Like I said, I was still half asleep,’ Daisy Wilkins continued. ‘We didn’t get to bed until so late, and…’
She didn’t finish the sentence. Vogel was grateful. He preferred not to contemplate what he suspected she had been about to say. After all, married men did not usually visit their mistresses in order to get a good night’s sleep.