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‘Good, because—’
‘Do you still love me?’
He blinks, surprised by the swerve, unsettled by how intensely she’s watching him. ‘Why would you ask that?’
‘Because it just came into my head. I practically had to drag you to bed tonight. You never seem interested in that. And we never really talk, not like we once did. We’re more like housemates, these days, than husband and wife. Not even good housemates, particularly.’
Joseph doesn’t respond. He’s worried that anything he does say might lead Erin in directions he hasn’t anticipated.
‘And yet,’ she continues, ‘despite your apparent lack ofinterest in me, you’ve started wearing aftershave, started taking an interest in fashion, started being careful about what you eat. I’m not the only one to have noticed. Everyone was commenting at the party, complimenting you. Gemma Robinson seemed a particular fan, based on what I recall.’
Joseph opens and closes his mouth. Can she possibly think he’s beingunfaithful? There’s an explanation for every point Erin just listed. But he can’t tell her he’s started wearing cologne to mask the smell of the dead man; that his clothes purchases were simply the pretext for buying a SIM card to research burial depths; that apart from his gluttonous display at Meghan’s, he hasn’t been eating and has mainly been puking because his son has taken two lives in the last week.
‘What do you think has happened to Drew?’ Erin asks.
Joseph shakes his head, as if a wasp just flew into his ear. His wife’s question, following so closely behind her observations of his behaviour, is very bad news indeed. ‘I think Tilly’s theory is the most likely – that she’s with this new guy and they just went somewhere, spur of the moment.’
Erin watches him, unblinking. ‘What prompted you to go over to the bungalow, yesterday?’
His stomach dives. Because her train of thought is still rattling along the same track, and his attempts to divert it aren’t working. ‘I told you. I thought I’d go through all the furniture – decide what to sell and what to keep. If we declutter it a bit we might generate more interest. The council tax isn’t huge but it’s starting to add up. I just want to get shot of the place.’
Erin considers that, head tilted. ‘You know what? You’re right. That placeistaking far too long to sell. And actually, it’s a good while since I last saw it. I think I’ll make some time tomorrow, go over and take a look around. Maybe I’ll spot something you’ve missed.’
She holds his gaze until he nods. Then she unfolds herlegs and rises from the bed. From her drawer she retrieves pyjama shorts and a vest and slips them on. Flicking off the light, she slides under the covers.
Joseph waits a while, standing there in the darkness. Then he shuffles to his side of the bed and climbs in. Erin turns on to her side, away from him. The silence between them is heavier than it’s ever been.
He thinks of Thornecroft, the huge house on Hocombe Hill. He thinks of Enoch’s miserable two-bed terrace and Drew’s sad little room. He thinks of his mother’s bungalow, and the isolated spot on Black Down where he buried the dead man. They’re dots on a map, blinking away like beacons, waiting for someone to join them up.
He can’t let his wife find out from someone else. Nor can he see a future, any longer, where he manages to keep all this quiet.
‘Erin?’ he whispers, in the darkness.
She deserves the truth. If he can’t protect her from it he must, at least, prepare her.
‘Erin,’ he whispers again.
His wife doesn’t answer – and Joseph realizes that while he’s been thinking her breathing has slowed in slumber. Perhaps that’s just as well. Because if she’d answered just then, he might have told her everything.
It’s a moment of weakness he can’t afford. Because Max is his North Star. There’s no one he won’t sacrifice for his boy. Putting his back to his wife, just like she did to him, he reaches out for sleep.
Tomorrow will be difficult. Likely the worst day yet. For a few hours, the sleep into which Joseph sinks is so black and luxurious it’s almost indistinguishable from death.
THIRTY-TWO
Miah Desjardins is prettier in person than she sounded on the phone. She arrives in a purple Fiat 500 emblazoned with the logo of her employer.
As Gabriel Roth climbs out of his hire car, he wonders if Miah’s plaid miniskirt, silk blouse and heavy make-up are a lure for prospective buyers. If so, he hopes she’ll find him immune. He just spent a cleansing twenty minutes listening to ‘Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute’ and ‘High Mountains and Flowing Water’.
Unfortunately, meditation and classical Chinese music aren’t offering the safe harbours they once did. These last few days, as the world has darkened around him, brief bursts of violence have become the only release valve for his pain. Hard to know why, after so many years of celibacy, his sexual urges have similarly begun to overwhelm him. He cannot let that continue.
In his readings of Confucius, he’s learned to consider the consequences of rage. Now, more than ever, he needs to hold those teachings close. Because when he finds those responsible for Angus’s disappearance, he intends to apply another tenet of Confucianist thought: repaying evil not with mindless wrath but cold justice.
‘Mr Anderson,’ she says. Her lips don’t lose their plumpness when she smiles. Her teeth are as white as coconut meat.
Gabriel turns his attention to the bungalow. ‘Two bedrooms, you said.’
Miah nods, leading him up the drive. ‘It’s a lot more spacious inside than it looks. So many people are choosing single-storey properties these days. It’s a lifestyle choice, don’t you think?’ She unlocks the door and swings it open. ‘Shall we?’