‘Yes. I moved out a couple of years ago.’
‘But you still visited Megan’s gallery?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And when you saw her, what did you … Did she talk about personal things, about me?’ His voice was husky. ‘About anyone else?’
I shook my head. ‘No, no. It was usually just … passing the time, you know.’ There was a long silence. The heat in the room seemed to build suddenly, the smell of antiseptic rising from every surface. I felt faint. To my right there was a side table adorned with photographs in frames. Megan smiled out at me, cheerfully accusing.
‘I should go now,’ I said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ I started to get up, but he reached an arm out and placed his hand on my wrist, his eyes never leaving my face.
‘Don’t go just yet,’ he said softly. I didn’t stand up, but I withdrew my hand from beneath his; it felt uncomfortably as though I were being restrained. ‘This man,’ he said. ‘This man you saw her with – do you think you’d recognize him again? If you saw him?’
I couldn’t say that I already had identified the man to the police. My whole rationale for approaching him had been that the police hadn’t taken my story seriously. If I admitted the truth, the trust would be gone. So I lied again.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘But I think I might.’ I waited a moment, and then I went on. ‘In the newspapers, there was a quote from a friend of Megan’s. His name was Rajesh. I was wondering if—’
Scott was already shaking his head. ‘Rajesh Gujral? I can’t see it. He’s one of the artists who used to exhibit at the gallery. He’s a nice enough guy, but … He’s married, he’s got kids.’ As if that meant something. ‘Wait a second,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I think there might be a picture of him somewhere.’
He disappeared upstairs. I felt my shoulders drop and realized that I’d been sitting rigid with tension since I arrived. I looked over at the photographs again: Megan in a sundress on a beach; a closeup of her face, her eyes a startling blue. Just Megan. No pictures of the two of them together.
Scott reappeared, holding a pamphlet which he presented to me. It was a leaflet, advertising a show at the gallery. He turned it over. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that’s Rajesh.’
The man was standing next to a colourful abstract painting: he was older, bearded, short, stocky. It wasn’t the man I had seen, the man I had identified to the police. ‘It’s not him,’ I said. Scott stood at my side, staring down at the pamphlet, before abruptly turning and marching out of the room and up the stairs again. A few moments later, he came back with a laptop and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘I think …’ he said, opening the machine and turning it on, ‘I think I might …’ He fell silent and I watched him, his face a picture of concentration, the muscle in his jaw locked. ‘Megan was seeing a therapist,’ he told me. ‘His name is … Abdic. Kamal Abdic. He’s not Asian, he’s from Serbia, or Bosnia, somewhere like that. He’s dark-skinned though. He could pass for Indian from a distance.’ He tapped away at the computer. ‘There’s a website, I think. I’m sure there is. I think there’s a picture …’
He spun the laptop round so that I could see the screen. I leaned forward to get a closer look. ‘That’s him,’ I said. ‘That’s definitely him.’
Scott snapped the laptop shut. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He sat with his elbows on the table, his forehead resting on his fingertips, his arms trembling.
‘She was having anxiety attacks,’ he said at last. ‘Trouble sleeping, things like that. It started last year some time. I don’t remember when exactly.’ He talked without looking at me, as though he were talking to himself, as though he’d forgotten I was there at all. ‘I was the one who suggested she talk to someone. I was the one who encouraged her to go, because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.’ His voice cracked a little then. ‘I couldn’t help her. And she told me that she’d had similar problems in the past and that eventually they’d go away, but I made her … I persuaded her to go to the doctor. That guy was recommended to her.’ He gave a little cough to clear his throat. ‘The therapy seemed to be helping. She was happier.’ He gave a short, sad laugh. ‘Now I know why.’
I reached out my hand to give him a pat on the arm, a gesture of comfort. Abruptly, he drew away and got to his feet. ‘You should go,’ he said brusquely. ‘My mother will be here soon – she won’t leave me alone for more than an hour or two.’ At the door, just as I was leaving, he caught hold of my arm.
‘Have I seen you somewhere before?’ he asked.
For a moment, I thought about saying, You might have done. You might have seen me at the police station, or here on the street. I was here on Saturday night. I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
I walked away towards the train station as quickly as I could. About halfway along the street, I turned to look back. He was still standing there in the doorway, watching me.
Evening
I’ve been checking my email obsessively, but I’ve heard nothing from Tom. How much better life must have been for jealous drunks before emails and texts and mobile phones, before all this electronica and the traces it leaves.
There was almost nothing in the papers about Megan today. They’re moving on already, the front pages devoted to the political crisis in Turkey, the four-year-old girl mauled by dogs in Wigan, the England football team’s humiliating loss to Montenegro. Megan is being forgotten, and she’s only been gone a week.
Cathy invited me out to lunch. She was at a loose end because Damien has gone to visit his mother in Birmingham. She wasn’t invited. They’ve been seeing each other for almost two years now, and she still hasn’t met his mother. We went to Giraffe on the High Street, a place I loathe. Seated in the centre of a room heaving with shrieking under-fives, Cathy quizzed me about what I’d been up to. She was curious about where I was last night.
‘Have you met someone?’ she asked me, her eyes alight with hope. It was quite touching really.
I almost said yes, because it was the truth, but lying was easier. I told her I’d been to an AA meeting in Witney.
‘Oh,’ she said, embarrassed, dipping her eyes to her limp Greek salad. ‘I thought you’d maybe had a little slip. On Friday.’