‘No,’ he said. ‘What was it that you wanted to tell me?’
The train rolled slowly past and I looked out towards the tracks. I felt dizzy, as though I were having an out-of-body experience, as though I were looking out at myself.
‘You said in your email that you wanted to tell me something about Megan.’ The pitch of his voice raised a little.
I took a deep breath. I felt awful. I was acutely aware that what I was about to say was going to make everything worse, was going to hurt him.
‘I saw her with someone,’ I said. I just blurted it out, blunt and loud with no build-up, no context.
He stared at me. ‘When? You saw her on Saturday night? Have you told the police?’
‘No, it was Friday morning,’ I said, and his shoulders slumped.
‘But … she was fine on Friday. Why is that important?’ That pulse in his jaw went again, he was becoming angry. ‘You saw her with … you saw her with who? With a man?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘What did he look like?’ He got to his feet, his body blocking the light. ‘Have you told the police?’ he asked again.
‘I did, but I’m not sure they took me very seriously,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘I just … I don’t know … I thought you should know.’
He leaned forward, his hands on the table, clenched into fists.
‘What are you saying? You saw her where? What was she doing?’
Another deep breath. ‘She was … out on your lawn,’ I said. ‘Just there.’ I pointed out to the garden. ‘She … I saw her from the train.’ The look of incredulity on his face was unmistakeable. ‘I take the train into London from Ashbury every day. I go right past here. I saw her, she was with someone. And it … it wasn’t you.’
‘How do you know? … Friday morning? Friday – the day before she went missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wasn’t here,’ he said. ‘I was away. I was at a conference in Birmingham, I got back on Friday evening.’ Spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, his scepticism giving way to something else. ‘So you saw her, on the lawn, with someone? And …’
‘She kissed him,’ I said. I had to get it out eventually. I had to tell him. ‘They were kissing.’
He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists, hanging at his sides. The spots of colour on his cheeks grew darker, angrier.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. I know this is a terrible thing to hear …’
He held up his hand, waved me away. Contemptuous. He wasn’t interested in my sympathy.
I know how that feels. Sitting there, I remembered with almost perfect clarity how it felt when I sat in my own kitchen, five doors down, while Lara, my former best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddler squirming on her lap. I remember her telling me how sorry she was that my marriage was over, I remember losing my temper at her platitudes. She knew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off and she told me not to speak like that in front of her child. I haven’t seen her since.
‘What did he look like, this man you saw her with?’ Scott asked. He was standing with his back to me, looking out on to the lawn.
‘He was tall – taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. I think he might have been Asian. Indian – something like that.’
‘And they were kissing, out here in the garden?’
‘Yes.’
He gave a long sigh. ‘Jesus, I need a drink.’ He turned to face me. ‘Would you like a beer?’
I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. I watched as he fetched himself a bottle from the fridge, opened it, took a long slug. I could almost feel the cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watched him; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scott leaned against the counter, his head bent almost to his chest.
I felt wretched then. I wasn’t helping, I had just made him feel worse, increased his pain. I was intruding on his grief, it was wrong. I should never have gone to see him. I should never have lied. Obviously, I should never have lied.
I was just getting to my feet when he spoke. ‘It could … I don’t know. It might be a good thing, mightn’t it? It could mean that she’s all right. She’s just …’ He gave a hollow little laugh. ‘She’s just run off with someone.’ He brushed a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand and my heart screwed up into a tight little ball. ‘But the thing is, I can’t believe she wouldn’t call.’ He looked at me as though I held the answers, as though I would know. ‘Surely she would call me, wouldn’t she? She would know how panicked … how desperate I would be. She’s not vindictive like that, is she?’
He was talking to me like someone he could trust – like Megan’s friend – and I knew that it was wrong, but it felt good. He took another swig of his beer and turned towards the garden. I followed his gaze to a little pile of stones against the fence, a rockery long since started and never finished. He raised the bottle halfway to his lips again, and then he stopped. He turned to face me.
‘You saw Megan from the train?’ he asked. ‘So you were … just looking out of the window and there she was, a woman you happen to know?’ The atmosphere in the room had changed. He wasn’t sure any more, whether I was an ally, whether I was to be trusted. Doubt passed over his face like a shadow.
‘Yes, I … I know where she lives,’ I said, and I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. ‘Where you live, I mean. I’ve been here before. A long time ago. So sometimes I’d look out for her when I went past.’ He was staring at me; I could feel the heat rising to my face. ‘She was often out there.’
He placed his empty bottle down on the counter, took a couple of steps towards me and sat down in the seat nearest to me, at the table.
‘So you knew Megan well then? I mean, well enough to come round to the house?’
I could feel the blood pulsing in my neck, sweat at the base of my spine, the sickening rush of adrenaline. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have complicated the lie.
‘It was just one time, but I … I know where the house is because I used to live nearby.’ He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Down the road. Number twenty-three.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Watson,’ he said. ‘So you’re, what, Tom’s ex-wife?’