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I head into the bathroom. Tom follows me, clearly not finished with the subject.
‘Look,’ I say, picking up my toothbrush. ‘The kind of people who got screwed by Copper Beech are mostly sweet old pensioners. Do you seriously think one of them went round to his house, picked up a kitchen knife, stabbed him through the heart, got rid of the body and cleaned up the crime scene without anyone being any the wiser?’ I squeeze out a pea of Colgate. ‘Come on. This isn’t one of those kitchen island dramas, and I’m not Suranne Jones.’
‘I like Suranne Jones,’ Tom says.
‘Excellent. She can play me when they make the TV series of our lives.’
He puts his arms around me and unfastens the belt of my dressing-gown as I lean over the basin to spit out my toothpaste. ‘Well, the Glass Houseisvery photogenic,’ he says. ‘It deserves a wider audience.’
‘I have to get to work,’ I say.
‘This won’t take long,’ Tom murmurs.
He kisses the back of my neck, and I put down my toothbrush as I feel the answering beat between my thighs.
He’s right: it doesn’ttake long.
We’ve always been very good at sex. After twenty years together we’re both skilled at intuiting what the other wants or needs. This morning is no exception: we both feel the erotic charge in the air. Tom doesn’t want me despite what he thinks I’ve done: he wants mebecauseof it.
‘I knew there had to be some benefit to working from home,’ Tom smirks as we lie hot and sweaty on the bed afterwards.
‘Youwork from home,’ I correct. I sit up, and pull on my dressing-gown again. ‘I have to get to the hospital. I need to check on my patients, including Harper,’ I add, catching the suggestive wouldn’t-mind-another-round glint in Tom’s eye.
Shutting the bathroom door to quell any ideas he might have of following me into the shower, I turn the temperature dial all the way to cold before stepping into a blast of icy water.
I need to think.
It’s only a matter of time before the police start asking questions about Felix’s absence, if they haven’t already: both Stacey and Tom are right about that. Harper’s accident will accelerate things: first she pokes a hornet’s nest by publicly declaring war on Felix Porter, and then days later she ends up fighting for her life after an anonymous hit-and-run. Despite what I said to Tom, I don’t believe in coincidence. I doubt the police do, either.
I need to talk to Stacey. Whatever – whoever – the cause of Harper’s accident, she and I should have a conversation. We need to get on the same page.
My skin is tingling when I step out of the shower five minutes later, refreshed and energised. Tom knocks on the bathroom door as I’m towelling myself dry. ‘Millie?’ he calls. ‘The police are here to see you.’
Damn. I forgot to email them my statement about Harper’s accident.
I wrap my wet hair in asecond towel and knot it on top of my head. ‘Tell them I’ll be down in a minute—’
He cuts me off. ‘Millie,’ he says, and his voice is as serious as I’ve ever heard it, ‘I think you’d better come now.’
chapter 43
tom
We wait in our little-used formal drawing room in silence for Millie to get dressed and come downstairs. Both detectives have refused my offer of tea or coffee, although one of them, DS Mehdi, requested a glass of water which he hasn’t touched.
‘She won’t be long,’ I say, for the third or fourth time.
‘We’re not in any rush,’ the younger – senior – detective says. DCI Hollander. He’s got one of those everyman faces that always looks somehow familiar even when you’ve never met them before. Dirty-blond hair, short but not too short, nondescript eyes. Nice suit, though.
‘Don’t mind if I look around, do you?’ DS Mehdi asks.
‘Be my guest.’
He wanders over to the bookcase beside the fireplace, turning his head sideways so that he can read the spines. I’m not sure what clues he expects to find in the complete works of Arthur C. Clarke and George R. R. Martin. My literary choices, obviously: Millie’s not much of a reader.
‘Can I ask why you want to talk to my wife?’ I say.
‘It’s just routine,’ DCI Hollander says.
