Two dead wives, p.10
Two Dead Wives, page 10
Other times, he loathes the sight of her. Sees her, and for a fleeting insane moment imagines pushing her out the window, or bundling her up in a sack and throwing her away, in a river maybe. Insanity, obviously. He’d never actually do that. It’s not a conscious thought, just his subconscious messing with him. He’s under a lot of stress. On some days, her being a blatant reminder of everything to do with Leigh is just too cruelly painful.
He is divorcing Leigh. She’s missing, most probably dead, but to keep things tidy he’s divorcing a dead woman. A woman who was most probably murdered by her other husband. His lawyer has advised him it’s the cleanest thing to do, in the absence of a body and if he wants to move on. Which he does. It’s complicated and he resents this mess Leigh has brought to his door. It’s a good job he has Fiona to fall back on, because his Tinder profile would be ridiculous.
Marital status: currently divorcing my (assumed to be dead) wife who was murdered by her husband. Not me, I hasten to add. The other one! Because she was also a bigamist!
What’s the emoji that accompanies that? Smiley winking face? Laughing crying face?
As he’s thinking of what to say next to Seb, how to answer his question about looking for his mum, Oli throws down a spiky challenge. “You mean you want to spend your first day of freedom looking for Leigh’s body?”
Oli doesn’t call her Mum. Hasn’t for a while. A source of pain for Leigh in the last few months of her life. Or at least so she said at the time—she was always going on about it, rowing, grumbling, sometimes even crying—but now Mark wonders, who can believe a word that came out of her mouth? Either way, it turns out she only had herself to blame for Oli’s sudden distance toward her. The reason he stopped calling her Mum was that unbeknown to Mark, Oli had discovered his stepmother’s infidelity. Or at least some of it. He thought Leigh was having an affair with Daan Janssen. Apparently, last summer he’d spotted them on the street, strolling along hand in hand as though they didn’t have a care in the world. Of course the teen didn’t in his wildest dreams imagine that his stepmother was married to this other man. Who would?
Oli is a very angry young man. Very angry indeed. Mark was so relieved when the police started questioning Daan. He hadn’t seriously suspected his own son of hurting Leigh, but he hadn’t ruled it out either. Suspicion had billowed in every direction. Like a dust cloud, silent but tangible. It is a terrible thing to think of your own child, but apparently not impossible.
“Dad, tell him.” Seb looks close to tears. He often is. The wetness sits in his eyes like a film of mist. He used to be such a cheerful, happy-go-lucky boy. Bloody Leigh, she is to blame. She ruined things.
“Tell him what?”
“That Mum isn’t dead. That we should be looking for her. Not her body.”
It is as though a bolt of lightning has sparked through everyone around the breakfast table. Fiona, Mark and Oli jolt into rigid upright positions. Stiff, yet unsure. Seb also looks brittle, as well as challenging. Another wrong word and they all might shatter. Mark has explained to the boys that Daan Janssen is being charged with murder. At the time, Seb commented, “But they haven’t found her body, have they?”
“No,” Mark admitted. He didn’t mean to convey any hope. He was just stating a fact. Now he scrabbles around for the words that Seb needs to hear. He has to explain the bleak reality. The stark probability. Before he thinks of the right words, Seb adds, “You don’t think she’s dead, do you, Dad?”
Mark longs to give his son firm reassurances, but in all conscience, he can’t do that. Mark does think Leigh is dead. He wishes the police would simply knock on the door and announce that they’ve found her body, or at the very least that Daan has confessed to murdering her. It isn’t that he wants her dead; he simply doesn’t want the uncertainty to stretch on anymore. He can’t stand this limbo. It’s damaging, draining. But Seb seems to cling to hope, even as Mark drowns under a wave of despair. Seb speaks of Leigh every day. Several times. He often starts the day commenting quite cheerfully, “I think Mum might come home today,” and then ends it with a less confident but equally insistent rally at bedtime, “Well, maybe tomorrow.” He obviously believes there is a chance that she will simply stroll through the door; shamefaced, possibly, but somehow expecting a welcome. A welcome Seb would give, and one he believes Mark and Oli ought to as well. He is young for his age. Most twelve-year-olds would have clocked the reality by now. Leigh babied him. A mistake, especially since she hasn’t stuck around to see the job through.
The thought is unfair. Mark knows it but doesn’t give a fuck. He hasn’t got the emotional space to think about the things she did see through. The things that secured Seb’s loyalty and love.
She saw the boys through their first days at school. Oli went in with a grim, uncomfortable fortitude, an attitude that slowly but surely won him many friends, although he was never what you’d call an impressive student. Seb bounced in believing that he’d love it—after all, that was what his brother and Leigh had promised. As it happened, he didn’t really settle. Leigh spent hours with the teacher trying to ease the transition from home to school by volunteering as a class reader and helping out in assemblies so he’d see her face around. She let him trade his dinosaur lunchbox for a Captain America one, even though he’d insisted on the dinosaur one just weeks before. She spent ages helping both of them learn their alphabet, tie their shoelaces; Mark had to admit she had a lot of patience for that sort of thing.
She took them to swimming lessons and taught them how to ride their bikes. He remembers her running up the street, straining to hold the saddle as the bike wobbled precariously. She endlessly repeated words of encouragement as the boys took control of the pedals, the steering and learned to trust the road and themselves. “Yes, you can do it!” “That’s it!” and eventually “You’re doing it on your own! You’re riding your bike!” She also stuck on the Elastoplasts and administered the magic kisses that made it all better when, inevitably, they did tumble off. “The trick is getting straight back on again,” she whispered to the tearful, shocked boys as they sat at the kitchen table with bloody knees and bruised pride.
Another first was Disneyland. Her idea. Mark remembers dreading it. You are either into life-size puppets of mice, ducks and bears or you’re not. Leigh was. Mark wonders how many times she insisted they must enjoy life. How many times had she made that happen? Often. A lot. Thousands.
How could she have done this to them? Gone and got herself murdered because she married a bloody psycho when she was already married to him. Why hadn’t he been enough for her? Him and the boys. If only she had been grateful and happy with her lot, she’d still be alive, Oli wouldn’t be angry and dark, Seb wouldn’t be tearful and tortured, Mark himself wouldn’t be sleeping with Fiona, none of them would be in this total mess. It was all her fault.
This is the first time Seb has asked his father outright whether he believes Leigh to be alive. Perhaps his hope is beginning to eke away—edged out by the sun rising and setting repeatedly on her total absence—and he’s wanting his dad to bolster him. How is Mark supposed to answer? There isn’t a parenting self-help book that covers this topic. Most of them are about dealing with drugs, alcohol and sexual propriety. God, those problems seem positively attractive in comparison to the one he is facing. Before he can find the words, Oli explodes.
“If she’s not dead, where the hell is she?” he demands. He stands up, and his sudden and violent movement knocks over his chair. It clatters to the floor. He leaves the room without bothering to pick it up.
14
Daan
Daan quits the daily status meeting, and as the cool, pale faces of his lawyers vanish from the screen, he leans back in his chair, stretches his arms above his head. Takes up a lot of room. While I can. The thought hovers in his subconscious. He envies the lawyers. They can quit this madness. Following today’s thirty-six-minute consultation (they charge their time in six-minute blocks), they can move on to another client. Another mess, maybe, but always someone else’s mess. He can’t escape so easily. Can he escape at all?
He tries to recenter. He knows that his mother and father, possibly even his younger brother and sister, will all be in the kitchen endeavoring to pretend they are not listening in to his online meeting with his legal team. They will want to appear unconcerned, assured and positive. They are not. Like him, they are desperately worried. He must appear calm and collected. If he leads with that attitude, they might be convinced by his act and find the strength to follow. The fact is, the entire family are terrified he is going to be convicted. Their long, toned limbs, tanned bodies and glossy blondness aren’t quite proving to be the shield they usually are. Primarily, the concern is for him. What will happen to him if he is sent to prison, deprived of his liberty, stripped of his reputation, housed with dangerous, desperate men? His mother has nightmares about him being beaten by burly, brutal criminals. The other day she asked him what it meant to be made into someone’s bitch. Presumably she had been introduced to this phrase over a Zoom bridge party or at a socially distanced picnic in the garden hosted by her nosy, excitable friends. He hadn’t known how to explain it to her. His very silence told her everything.
“Oh my God. I see,” she gasped, and put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes had grown large, like dinner plates. She quickly tried to recover her poise, because the Van Janssens know the importance of composure. “Well, it won’t come to that. This case will be thrown out of court. I’m sure of it.” She’s lying to herself or him. Both. They can’t be sure of any such thing. It’s a strong case. It’s looking very bad for him.
His father is anxious too, yes about Daan but also about what effect the scandal will have on the share price of their business. The besmirched reputation of their family is of course a secondary concern, but it is a concern all the same. His younger siblings are scared for him too, and maybe—this breaks his heart—also a little scared of him. They don’t a hundred percent know he is innocent. Only he knows that. In the whole world, only he and the person who actually did abduct and murder Kai know for sure that he is innocent. It’s a lonely position to hold.
None of his family have asked him outright whether he did it. They wouldn’t want to cause offense by verbalizing any doubt. They have to appear to believe him and support him entirely, because that’s what has got them through PR crises in the past. A united front. A family standing together. Frankly, he wishes they would ask him, because it would clear the air. He’d like to say it out loud. He’d like to be believed. He did not kill his wife. He has tried to address the matter of his innocence with his father. He found it impossible to be direct; the words stuck in his throat like needles. If he blatantly insisted on declaring his innocence to his family, he could imagine his father muttering, “Thou dost protest too much, methinks.” His father is fond of old English quotes and idioms. It’s a habit Daan has picked up, possibly in an effort to impress his pop.
Instead, he skirted the matter by commenting, “I think my lead lawyer might do a better job if he knew I was innocent.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Daan, it doesn’t matter. He’s not Atticus Finch,” his father replied shortly. “Your extortionately expensive lawyer is the best of the best. What he can prove, disprove or even cast doubt upon is all that matters. What he believes is irrelevant.” Daan felt his father’s impatience.
He just wants to hear him say he believes in his innocence. For fuck’s sake. His own father.
He straightens his shoulders and decides what he must do next. He won’t go into the kitchen and make coffee and small talk with his family. He can’t take on their energy right this moment. Or rather their lack of it. He is sad that he’s brought his usually fearless, forward-propelling family to this state of apprehension and apathy, but he can’t risk his own already depleted resources being further sapped. He must focus. He must stay persuasive, charming and decisive if he’s going to be convincing.
He has admitted to the police that he screwed Fiona a couple of times even though he was married to Kai. Not his finest moment, but bloody hell, not a hanging offense last time he checked. At first he thought that was Fiona’s motivation for ruining his life, crucifying him. Just that, right there. Simply a case of a disgruntled woman deciding to take out the wife when she discovered her existence. Extreme, but not unheard-of. But they were best friends. As soon as he was told that, he knew he was in much deeper and murkier waters. Obviously he’d had no idea the two women were connected in any way when he shagged Fiona. He’s not an animal; he wouldn’t deliberately shit on his own doorstep.
Over these past few months, he’s spent some time wondering when Fiona worked out the truth: that he was not only married, but married to her best friend. A best friend she thought was happily married to Mark Fletcher. When this was revealed to her is important. Fiona must have hated Kai. She must have been convulsed with jealousy when she discovered Kai had two husbands. Fiona hasn’t even one. And after she punished Kai for having an excess, who better to hang the murder on than the husband? Suspicion always pools at the door of the spouse, right? People want it to be the spouse. How messed up is that? The real end to the fairy tale that people crave isn’t a happily-ever-after—at least not for others; they want a grisly end. The ultimate betrayal and unthinkable brutality. People are disappointing.
He doesn’t know who Fiona hated most—him or his late wife—but he knows she has screwed them both. The police have questioned him repeatedly, and during the questioning he has gleaned some idea as to what Kai was put through in her last few days. She was bound, beaten, perhaps even poisoned, certainly drugged, most probably starved. They worked this out from blood and stool samples found in the place she was held captive. He can’t think about it. It tears him in two. The thought of Kai enduring that is disgusting to him. He wants to vomit. Or punch a wall. Or Fiona. Yeah, as unmanly as that sounds, as brutal and basic, he wants to hurt Fiona. Kill her.
It is obvious to him that Fiona planted his personal possessions in her home near the sea, a place he hasn’t ever visited. Why would he? He isn’t the sort of man who has to drive four hours for an illicit shag. Clearly Fiona took a wineglass from his apartment, one with his fingerprints on, and then left it in the bungalow for the police to find. It looks bad for him that he said he’d never visited there, since they discovered his possessions on the property, but he could only tell the truth. Fiona had access to the protein bars that he bought and put in his own kitchen cupboard. She probably stole them when his back was turned and then fed them to Kai. He tried to explain all this to the police, but it didn’t go well. He can see that his explanations are convoluted. Hard to accept and easy to dismiss.
“And how do you explain the phones registered to Kai Janssen and Leigh Fletcher turning up in your wardrobe?” Constable Tanner demanded with excited aggression.
“Fiona no doubt hid them there last time she visited.” Daan’s tone was less agitated. He wanted to appear calm, but he wondered whether he simply sounded like a psychopath. He was a wealthy man; the slightly gauche younger cop would be dying to peg him as egocentric, incapable of loving, lacking in remorse and shame, a grandiose sense of self-worth... Very click-bait.
“And when was the last time Fiona Phillipson visited you at your apartment?” asked DC Clements.
“Saturday the twenty-first of March,” Daan admitted with a sigh. The DC twitched her mouth in a strange way; he tried to decode it. Disapproval? Disbelief? “I have an explanation for all the evidence,” he insisted. He heard his father’s voice in his head, quoting Agatha Christie: “To rush into explanations is always a sign of weakness.” He wished his dad’s voice would fuck off out of his head.
“You do. Long, elaborate explanations, but in my experience the simplest explanation is usually the correct one,” replied the DC with an exasperated sigh. It was clear she wanted him to confess. She wanted clarity, certainty and closure.
That was unfortunate.
Daan had initially held quite some confidence in DC Clements. She’d struck him as tenacious, bright. The sort who prided herself on being a truth-seeker. Now she seemed to simply want this off her plate. “Why would I have kept the phones in my home? I’m smarter than that.” He was aware that unfortunately when he was afraid or threatened, he had a tendency to sound like a tosser. It was his curse.
“Maybe you were planning to dispose of them but just didn’t have time,” said Tanner with a sneer.
“I’d have got rid of them straightaway, not left them lying around to incriminate me, obviously.”
Daan’s lawyer coughed at that point. Apparently stating that something is obvious is antagonistic. Detailing how you would manage a crime, risky. The lawyer later said to him, “You have to act as smart as you say you are.”
Daan didn’t like the comment but he saw the sense of it.
The problem is that the explanation of what must really have happened is elaborate, torturous even. This situation is so murky, so messy.
Fiona was Kai’s best friend. She had been for years. Years before he married Kai, years before Kai married the other man even. That sort of history is dangerous. Lethal. Now he has to consider that her approaching him in the first place was not a coincidence. She said she’d first seen him in the lobby of his apartment building when she was there pitching for an interior design job, and then she’d found him on a dating app with an extremely tight geographical location search. It seemed reasonable enough at the time. Plausible. Besides, she approached him when he was feeling horny; perhaps the convenience of instant gratification made him sloppy, less rigorous or suspicious than he should have been.
He had a working theory that Fiona was in love with Mark Fletcher and had been for several years. He thought Fiona was jealous of Kai (or rather Leigh), not because she wanted Daan, but because she wanted Mark (he tried not to let his pride smart under this blow). Fiona had discovered that her friend was betraying Mark; worse yet, that she was married to someone else, and she wanted to make her pay. Could it be that way around? Or—and this theory was only just beginning to form in his mind—maybe Fiona and Mark had been in it together all along. Maybe they’d been having an affair, and when they discovered Kai’s bigamy, they decided murder was easier than divorce. Or at least more profitable. It would certainly be more satisfying if they managed to hang the murder on Daan.
