I reached for the door handle. "The same way you did," I said lightly. "Closed my eyes to what a bastard you'd been and pretended none of it had ever happened."
He agonized over my indifference while we waited for the curry, almost as if I'd thrown doubt on his manhood by refusing to take his infidelity seriously. For myself, I was wondering when he was going to realize that the bone of contention was Annie, not Libby, and how he would explain that when he did. We took seats in a corner and he muttered away in an undertone, afraid of being overheard, although my refusal to lighten his burden with sympathetic comments meant his tone became increasingly-and to my ears sweetly-strident.
He didn't want me to get the wrong impression ... It wasn't true that he'd tried to pretend nothing had happened ... more that he'd been terrified of losing me ... Of course he'd have admitted to it if I'd asked but it seemed more sensible to let sleeping dogs lie ... He knew I probably wouldn't believe him, but he was drunk the night Libby seduced him and the whole thing did turn into a total nightmare ... It was absolutely correct to describe Libby as a predator ... She was one of those women who thought the grass was always greener on the other side ... He remembered how shocked he'd been when he realized how jealous she was of me and how determined she was to bring me down to her size...
"When I told her I wanted to end it, she said she was going to tell you what a rat you'd married," he said grimly. "I know it's not much of an excuse but I honestly think I'd have killed her if she'd actually done it. I loathed her so much by then I couldn't be in the same room with her without wanting to strangle her."
I believed him, not just because I wanted to but because he'd never been able to mention Libby's name without prefacing it with "that bitch Jock married." There was a brief period when I wondered if he said it out of regret because he, too, had been rejected but I soon realized that the antipathy was real and that Libby was as irrelevant to him as the women he'd slept with before we married. That's not to say I wouldn't have clawed his eyes out if I'd known about the affair at the time-objectivity needs time and distance to develop-but to come across it when the ashes were cold was a reason for private grief only, and not for a fanning of the embers.
"You don't need to do this," I said, glancing toward a nearby customer who had one ear cocked to everything he was saying. "Not unless you insist on washing your dirty linen in public. Libby's a dead issue as far as I'm concerned." I lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "I've always assumed that if you'd loved her you'd still be with her."
He brooded for a moment in offended silence, his gaze fixing abstractedly on the eavesdropper. "Then why tell Jock about it? Why get everyone worked up if it's all so unimportant to you?"
"Not all of it, Sam. Just Libby. I couldn't give a shit what you did to her ... but I do give a shit what you did to Annie. You left her to die in the gutter then labeled her a drunk in case anyone accused you of neglect. That's the issue. And, as usual, you're busting a gut to avoid it." I paused. "I know you saw her there-and not just because Jock confirmed it this afternoon-but because you always get so angry every time her name's mentioned."
He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I thought she was drunk."
"What if she was? It was freezing cold and pouring with rain and she needed help, whatever state she was in."
"I wasn't the only one," he muttered. "Jock and that woman ignored her, too."
It was hardly an answer but I let it go. "They never got as close as you did," I said. "I was watching them."
"How do you know how close I got?"
"Jock said you told him Annie was reeking of drink, but I didn't smell anything until I stooped down to rock her shoulder." I watched him curiously for a moment. "And it wasn't drink I smelled either, it was urine, and I don't understand how you could mistake that for alcohol."
"I didn't. All I told Jock was that she reeked to high heaven. He assumed it was alcohol."
"Did you recognize it as urine?"
"Yes."
"Oh, my God!" I slammed my palms on to the table. "Do you know that every time I told Drury to question why her coat was reeking of piss he told me her neighbors said it was normal ... that she was filthy and disgusting and always stank."
Abruptly he dropped his head into his hands. "I thought it was funny," he said wretchedly. "Your good cause for the year ... Mad bloody Annie ... wetting herself on your doorstep because she was too drunk to control her bladder. I went into the house and spent the next ten minutes laughing about it until I realized you were the most likely person to find her. Then I knew you'd bring her inside and clean her up and I thought, this is the day my marriage goes down the drain."
"Why?"
He breathed hard through his nose. "She knew about Libby-I think she must have seen us together at some point because she kept sneaking up behind me in the road and calling me 'dirty man.' " He forced out the words as if his life depended on it. '"Have you been fucking the tart today, dirty man.' 'Is that the tart I can smell on you, dirty man?' 'What do you want with trash, dirty man, when you've got a pretty lady at home?' I loathed her for it because I knew she was right and when I smelled her in the gutter"-he faltered painfully-"when I smelled her in the gutter, I kicked her and said, 'Who's dirty now?' "
I watched a tear drip through his fingers onto the table.
"And I've been in hell ever since because I so much wanted to take it back, and I've never been able to."
I watched a waiter come out of the kitchen and hold up a shopping bag to signal that our curry was ready, and I remember thinking that fate was all about timing. If I hadn't been at a parents' evening that night ... if Jock had abandoned the pub at 8:30 when Sharon didn't show ... if food didn't arrive at inopportune moments...
"Let's go home," I said.
Two days later, Maureen Slater phoned. She was angry and suspicious because Alan had told her I'd taken photographs of his house, and she demanded to know what my side of the trade was going to be. I repeated what I'd told her on Monday, that if she wasn't prepared to tell me what she knew, I would pass the Chiswick jeweler's affidavit to Richmond Police ... and, for good measure, the shots of the Mexican artifacts in Alan's sitting room. "No one would doubt they were thieves," I said. The only question would be, were they murderers, too? She told me some of what I wanted to know, but rather more interesting was what she chose to leave out.
Letter to Sergeant James Drury-dated 1999
LEAVENHAM FARM, LEAVENHAM, NR
DORCHESTER, DORSET DT2 XXY
4:30 a.m.-Friday, August 13, 1999
Dear Mr. Drury,
One of the downsides of finding Annie dying was that my sleep patterns were shot to pieces, and I count myself lucky now if I manage a four-hour stretch without waking. I've always hoped that an uneasy conscience has kept you similarly awake over the years, but I suspect it's misplaced optimism. To have a conscience at all means a man must question himself occasionally, and even in my wildest dreams I've never been able to picture you doing that.
I already know you will be absent when I leave this letter and enclosures at the Sailor's Rest, but it seems only fair you should have time to consider your response to the outstanding issue between us. I have, after all, had twenty years to consider mine.
Yours sincerely,
M. Ranelagh
*20*
Drury was watching for me when I came through the door of the Sailor's Rest at half past ten that evening. Being a Friday night in summer, the pub was crowded with holidaymakers and yachtsmen from the boats in the marina, and I felt a small satisfaction when I saw the flicker of apprehension in his eyes as I approached.