pass any resemblance to Keith, I folded them back together. Why none of the people pictured in these photofits had ever come forward remained a mystery. Some speculated that it was because they were involved in Barney’s disappearance, others thought it was because they didn’t exist, because they were a figment, imagined out of thin air by eager witnesses desperate to offer something, anything that might help.
I’d just placed them in my coat pocket when Vicky’s front door opened. I scrunched down in the seat, my ears full of the whump-whump of blood being moved fast around my body. Had she seen me? Was she coming out to ask why I was spying on her?
My hand on the ignition, I was about to leave when someone appeared in the doorway. Too tall to be Vicky, the person was shrugging a coat up onto their shoulders and looking right and left, sizing up the neighbouring houses. They stepped out onto the drive and I realised it was a man.
Jason?
I watched as he stopped and turned back, apparently in response to someone still inside the house. Vicky appeared on the step. Her black hair loose around her shoulders, she was wrapped in a long white dressing-gown, the collar drawn up against the cold. The man retraced his steps and Vicky brought up her hands, drawing him in for a final kiss. To reach her mouth, the man had to bend down low. As he came back up to standing, he angled his face ever so slightly to the left and the street light caught on his profile. I gripped the compass hard.
The man kissing Vicky was Martin. DS Martin Gooder.
My first feeling was relief. It wasn’t my husband on the doorstep. This soon gave way to shock. Vicky and the detective were together. Or they had been last night. I wondered if Jason had any inkling there was something going on between them? If he had, then he’d never once mentioned it to me. As far as he was concerned, since their divorce, Vicky had remained single. Would he be jealous?
They finished their goodbyes and the detective lolloped off into the dark, the dangle and swing of his arms and legs making it look like they were only loosely attached to his torso.
He was on the other side of the street to where I was parked. Still I hunched as far down in my seat as I could; I came back up to sitting only once I was sure he’d gone.
The watery dawn light was just starting to show over the rooftops. I checked back on Vicky’s house. Every window was dark, her front door closed tight.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Back home, I went through every room, checking for signs of Jason. If he’d been here while I was out, he’d left no trace. My search complete, I slumped on the small chair in front of our dressing table. I needed to get ready for work, but first I decided to give Jason one more try.
Dialling his number, I used my other hand to feel in my bag for Lauren’s compass. As his phone began to ring, I rubbed my thumb against the disc’s serrated edge and was just warming the metal in my palm when his voicemail kicked in. I let myself listen to the recording for a few seconds and then I hung up and tried again. Maybe he hadn’t been able to make it to the phone in time. But once more he didn’t answer. I decided to leave a message.
‘Where are you? I’m worried.’ I softened my tone. ‘I’m sorry, Jay. I shouldn’t have gone through your things. At least let me know you’re OK.’
As I hung up, I caught sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. My eyes were swollen and the smattering of grey at the edge of my hairline seemed to have seeped from my scalp overnight. I looked all of my thirty-nine years and more. I grabbed a face-wipe and began to clean the tears from my cheeks. At least Jason hadn’t taken a bag. His things were still scattered amongst my perfume bottles and tubs of moisturiser. I looked at his tin of deodorant, tube of ChapStick and hairbrush, dense with old strands of blond hair. He’d have to come home soon, if only to get a change of clothes.
On compulsion, I scrolled through my phone again, hoping there might be some call or text message I’d missed the first time around. But of course,