The house is quiet. Strains of classical music drift along the hall. The dining table has been pushed back against the wall. A lone chair remains in the centre of the room.
Darcy is dressed in trackies rolled low onto her hips and a green midriff top which shows the paleness of her shoulders and stomach. Her chestnut hair is pinned tightly into a bun.
She balances one leg on the back of a chair with her toes pointed and leans forward until her forehead touches her knee. The outlines of her shoulder blades are like stunted wings beneath her skin.
She holds the pose for a minute and rises again, drawing her arm above her head as if painting the air. Every movement has an economy of effort, the dip of a shoulder or extension of a hand. Nothing is forced or wasted. She is barely a woman, yet she moves with such grace and confidence.
Sitting on the floor, she stretches her legs wide apart and leans forward until her chin touches the floor. Her teenage body, extremely stretched and open, looks athletic and beautiful rather than vulgar.
Her eyes open.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘How often do you practise?’
‘I should do it twice a day.’
‘You’re very good.’
She laughs. ‘Do you know anything about ballet?’
‘No.’
‘They say I have a dancer’s body,’ she says. ‘Long legs and a short torso.’ She stands and turns side-on. ‘Even when my legs are straight the knee is bent slightly backwards, you see that? It creates a better line when I’m on pointe.’ She rises onto her toes. ‘I can also flex my feet forward to be vertical from knee to toe. Can you see?’
‘Yes. You’re very graceful.’
She laughs. ‘I’m bow-legged and duck-footed.’
‘I used to have a patient who was a ballerina.’
‘Why were you seeing her?’
‘She was anorexic.’
Darcy nods sadly. ‘Some girls have to starve themselves. I didn’t have a period until I was fifteen. I also have curvature of the spine, partially dislocated vertebrae and stress fractures in my neck.’
‘Why do you do it?’
She shakes her head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
She turns her toes outward.
‘This is a pas de chat. I leap off my left leg starting from a plie and raise my right leg into a retire. In mid-air I raise my left leg into a retire as well so that my legs form a diamond shape in the air. You see? That’s what the four cygnets do when they dance in Swan Lake. Their arms are interlaced and they do sixteen pas de chats.’
An abiding sense of lightness makes her float through each jump.
‘Can you help me practise my pas de deux?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come here. I’ll show you.’
She takes my hands and puts them on her waist. I feel as though my fingertips could reach right around her and touch in the small of her back.
‘A little lower,’ she says. ‘That’s it.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody watches the man in a pas de deux. They’re too busy watching the ballerina.’
‘What do I do?’
‘Hold me as I jump.’
Effortlessly, she takes off. If anything it feels as though I’m holding her down rather than up. Her bare skin slides beneath my fingers.
She does it half a dozen times. ‘You can let go of me now,’ she says, giving me a teasing smile.
‘Perhaps you don’t like ballet. I can do other dances.’ Reaching up, she unpins her hair and lets it tumble over her eyes. Then she grinds her hips in a long slow circle, squatting with her knees apart, running her hands along her thighs and over her crotch.
It is shamelessly provocative. I force myself to look away.
‘You shouldn’t dance like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not something you should do in front of a stranger.’
‘But you’re not a stranger.’
She’s making fun of me now. Adolescent girls are the most complicated life forms in the known universe. It astonishes me how they manage to be so discomfiting. With little more than a glance or a flash of skin or a dismissive smirk, they can make a man feel ancient, meddlesome and vaguely lecherous.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Your mother.’
‘I thought you’d asked me everything already.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can I keep stretching?’
‘Of course.’
She sits on the floor again, pushing her legs wide apart.
‘Did you talk to anyone about your mother- in the past month? Was there someone who asked questions about her or about you?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t remember. What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘There’s been another death. The police are going to want to interview you again.’
Darcy stops stretching and her eyes meet mine. They’re no longer bright with energy or amusement.
‘Who?’
‘Sylvia Furness. I’m sorry.’
A slight noise catches in Darcy’s throat. She holds her hands to her mouth as if trying to stop the sound from escaping.
‘Did you ever meet Alice?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know her well?’
She shakes her head.
I don’t have enough information to explain to Darcy what happened today or ten days ago. Her mother and Sylvia Furness were in business together but what else did they share? The man who killed them knew things about them. He chose them for a reason.
This is a search that must go backwards rather than forwards. Address books. Diaries. Wallets. Emails. Letters. Telephone messages. The movements of both victims have to be traced- where they went, who they spoke to, what shops they visited, where they had their hair done. What friends do they have in common? Were they members of the same gym? Did they share a doctor or a drycleaner or a palm reader? And this is important: where did they buy their shoes?
A key rattles in the lock. Julianne, Charlie and Emma come bustling into the hallway with polished paper shopping bags and red cheeks from the cold. Charlie is in her school uniform. Emma is wearing new boots that look too big for her but she’ll grow into them before winter is over.
Julianne looks at Darcy. ‘Are you dressed for dancing or double pneumonia?’
‘I’ve been practicing.’
She turns to me. ‘And what have you been doing?’
‘He’s been helping me,’ says Darcy.
Julianne gives me one of her impenetrable looks; the same look that makes our children confess immediately to wrongdoing and sends unwelcome Seventh Day Adventists jostling for the front gate.
I sit Emma on the table and unzip her boots.
‘Where did you go this morning?’ asks Julianne.
‘I had a call from the police.’
There is something in my tone that makes her turn and fix her gaze on mine. No words are spoken, but she knows there has been another death. Darcy tickles Emma under the arms. Julianne glances at her and then back to me. Again, no words are exchanged.
Perhaps this is what happens when two people have been married for sixteen years: it gets so that they know what the other is thinking. It’s also what happens when you’re married to someone as intuitive and perceptive as Julianne. I have made a career out of studying human behaviour but like most in my profession I’m lousy at psychoanalysing myself. I have a wife for that. She’s good. Better than any therapist. Scarier.
‘Can you take me into town?’ Darcy asks me. ‘I need a few things.’
‘You should have asked me to get them,’ answers Julianne.
‘I didn’t think.’
A sudden tight smile covers Julianne’s annoyance. Darcy goes upstairs to change.
Julianne begins unpacking groceries. ‘She can’t stay here indefinitely, Joe.’
‘I called her aunt in Spain today and left a message for her. I’m also talking to her headmistress.’
Julianne nods, only partially satisfied. ‘Well, tomorrow I’m interviewing more nannies. If I find someone we’ll need the spare room. Darcy has to go.’
She opens the fridge door and arranges eggs in a tray.
‘Tell me what happened this morning.’
‘Another woman is dead.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Christine Wheeler’s business partner.’
Julianne is speechless. Stunned. She stares at the grapefruit in her hand, trying to decide if she was putting it in the fridge or taking it out. She doesn’t want to hear any more. Details matter to me but not to her. She closes the fridge and steps around me, taking her silent verdict upstairs.
I wish I could make her understand that I didn’t choose to get involved in this. I didn’t choose to watch Christine Wheeler jump to her death or have her daughter turn up on my doorstep. Julianne used to love my sense of fairness and compassion and my hatred of hypocrisy. Now she treats me like I have no other role to play except to raise my children, perform a handful of lectures and wait for Mr Parkinson to steal what he hasn’t already taken.
Even when Ruiz came to dinner last night she took a long while to relax.
‘I’m surprised at you, Vincent,’ she told him. ‘I thought you would have talked Joe out of this.’
‘Out of what?’
‘This nonsense.’ She looked at him over her wine glass. ‘I thought you retired. Why aren’t you playing golf?’
‘I have actually hired a hitman to bump me off if I ever leave the house wearing tartan trousers.’
‘Not a golfer.’
‘No.’
‘What about bowling or driving a caravan around the country?’
Ruiz laughed nervously and looked at me as though he no longer envied my life.
‘I hope you never retire, Professor.’
From upstairs there are raised voices. Julianne is shouting at Darcy.
‘What are you doing? Get away from my things.’
‘Ow! You’re hurting me.’
I take the stairs two at a time and find them in our bedroom.
Julianne is gripping Darcy’s forearm, squeezing it hard to stop her getting away. The teenager is bent over, cupping something against her stomach as if hiding it.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I caught her going through my things,’ says Julianne. I look at the dresser. The drawers are open.
‘No, I wasn’t,’ says Darcy.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ I say. ‘What were you looking for?’
She blushes. I haven’t seen her blush before.
She straightens and moves her arms. A small dark crimson stain is visible in the crotch of her track pants.
‘My period started. I looked in the bathroom, but I couldn’t find any pads.’
Julianne looks mortified. She lets go of Darcy and tries to apologise.
‘I am so sorry. You should have said something. You could have asked me.’
Ignoring my inertia, she takes Darcy by the hand and leads her to the en-suite. As the door closes, Julianne’s eyes connect with mine. Normally so poised and unflappable, she has become a different person around Darcy and she blames me.