“The only change to his routine was on the Thursday.” He points to the date on the page. “He left home at his usual time, but instead of going to the office, he drove out of London, north along the M1 to Luton. I thought maybe he had a meeting, but he didn’t visit an office. He found a parking space in Bury Park Road, about a mile to the west of Luton town center. He bought himself a coffee, a bottle of water and he just waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“I don’t know. He was parked outside a company that provides private mailboxes and offers a private mail forwarding service. People either collect post personally or have it forwarded in a plain brown envelope to an address they nominate. They might have a hobby they don’t want their wives or girlfriends finding out about-know what I’m saying?”
Elizabeth doesn’t. The private detective tries again. “Some people have got a thing for latex, or ladies’ underwear, or bondage gear, or sex toys, and they don’t want this stuff delivered to their homes. So they take out a private mailbox, which guarantees them a degree of privacy. Then again, it could be a company that doesn’t have a registered office address so uses a private one.”
Hackett looks back at his notes.
“At 1518 hours a Pakistani kid arrived and picked up a package from a postbox. Your husband followed him on foot for about a quarter of a mile until the kid went into a charity shop near the big Central Mosque.
“Mr. North waited outside the shop for about twenty minutes and then went back to his car. He drove back to London. I got details of the mileage if you want them.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. Hackett turns the page.
“On Friday your husband went to work at the normal time, but came home again at 1046 hours.”
This is news to Elizabeth. She and Rowan had already left for the Lake District. Why would North have come home mid-morning? Perhaps he forgot something.
“He stayed at the house until 1430 hours,” says Hackett, “and then caught a cab to an address in Mount Street, just off Park Lane. The house is leased to a private company called May First Limited. A woman answered the door. In her fifties. Well preserved. Hardly the mistress type. Your husband seemed agitated. She wouldn’t let him inside.
“He kept ringing the doorbell until she gave him a piece of paper. Maybe it was an address. He left and caught a cab to a restaurant in Maida Vale: The Warrington. Gordon Ramsay’s pub.”
The detective slides several photographs across his desk. Time coded. Shot from a distance. Grainy. Three men are sitting at an outside table beneath the plane trees. North is the clearest figure. A second man is sitting beside him, his face partially obscured by North’s body. A third man is seated opposite. Overweight with a heavy beard, he looks Mediterranean or perhaps Middle-Eastern.
Elizabeth studies the photographs. She wants them to be clearer. She wants to see North’s eyes.
“They talked for about twenty minutes,” says Hackett. “I recorded some of their conversation with a directional microphone, which is illegal, of course, and cannot be used in any court of law. It doesn’t make a great deal of sense because of the gaps and background noise, but I have provided you with a copy.
“Your husband left the restaurant and I followed him to a phone box in Clifton Gardens. He made a two-minute phone call.”
Hackett shows her another photograph. The old-fashioned red phone box has clear glass panels decorated with escort agency flyers and the business cards of sex workers. North is just visible through the door, resting his head against the metal casing of the phone as though exhausted or upset.
Elizabeth wants to reach into the photograph and comfort him at the same time as she’s asking herself questions. What is he doing? Why use a public phone box and not a mobile? Who were those men at the restaurant?
The private detective has paused. He has reached a point where the message is harder to deliver. He places another photograph in front of Elizabeth.
“Your husband then caught a cab to Kensington High Street. He went to a basement bar called The Chess Club.”
Although poorly lit, the photograph shows North sitting with a woman. Young, attractive, well groomed, she looks barely old enough to be drinking legally.
The next image is clearer. They’re outside on the street, getting into a cab. A third photograph shows the cab arriving at the house in Barnes. The woman is wearing North’s leather jacket around her shoulders.
Something soft breaks inside Elizabeth, a single thread no thicker than a spider’s web that has been holding her self-respect and her dignity in place.
“How long did she stay?”
“It’s in the report.”
“How long?”
Hackett takes a deep breath. “I left at two a.m. She was still there.”
Elizabeth is willing herself not to cry. Forbidding it.
“I’m sorry to be giving you this news, Mrs. North. In my experience a wife’s intuition is her most valuable instinct. You considered something untoward was happening, which is why you hired me. Your instincts proved correct.”
Elizabeth is barely listening.
“Mrs. North?”
She whispers. “I need to know who she is.”
The private detective scratches his jaw and grimaces. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please?”
Hackett pushes the manila envelope across his desk. “It’s all in the report, Mrs. North.”
“But I want you to find him.”
“Did you bin-bag him?”
“Sorry?”
“Kick him out. You suspected he had a girlfriend and you told him to leave.”
“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know about the girl until now.”
“But you suspected.”
“Maybe if you find her, you’ll find my husband.”
Colin Hackett sighs. “Listen, Mrs. North, take the file home. Read it or burn it. Have a good night’s sleep. If you still think this guy is worth finding, give me a call.”
“I don’t need to sleep on it. I’m having a baby any day now. I want you to find him.”
Hackett nods. He wants to tell her not to waste her money and warn her that some rocks should never be turned over, but he can see a steely resolve in her gaze.
Elizabeth’s feet manage to take her outside, where she sits at a cafe next to Rowan. An ice-cream seller is pushing a barrow along the pavement. Elizabeth searches for spare change. A tear springs from her right eye and runs down her cheek. The ice-cream seller gives her an extra napkin so she can blow her nose.
A small explosion has detonated within her. She is no longer solid, no longer pristine. Everything that she knows about her life now carries a question mark. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to people like her. Her husband doesn’t have affairs or sleep with prostitutes or keep secrets from her. Her entire life has been one of money, privilege and being envied rather than pitied. All that has changed in the click of a camera shutter.
“Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“I’m just having a sad day.”
“Because of Daddy.”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming home?”
“I hope so.”
Colin Hackett waits until Elizabeth North has gone before he emerges from his office. He tells Janice to print off an invoice and post it immediately. Sometimes they change their mind about paying when you give them bad news.
Hackett set up his agency ten years ago when his own marriage had disappeared in front of his eyes. He was angry at his wife’s infidelity, but later came to blame himself because he saw how many husbands had emotionally left their wives years before they bothered to clear their sock drawers.
For the most part, detective work had proven to be depressing and dull rather than glamorous or dangerous. Missing children, lost cats, dodgy tradesmen, background checks, insurance claims, paternity tests, proving or disproving fidelity… he had seen almost the full range of human failings and tribulations.