‘I haven’t seen or spoken to her for years. The only contact I’ve had with her since late 2012 is … this is going to sound ridiculous—’
‘Wordle?’ I say.
He closes his eyes. ‘I’ve no idea how you can possibly know that. Yes. I can’t remember when it was – last year some time – but one day she sent me her Wordle score. After ten years of no contact. The little grid with the squares, you know? I think she must have thought I was bound to have discovered Wordle and got hooked on it. She was right.’
‘It must have been a shock to hear from her after so long. What did you do?’
Olly’s face contorts. ‘Nothing at first. But then … I sent her my Wordle grid the next day.’
I bet you did. Couldn’t risk pissing her off, could you, given what she could do to you, given what she knew?
‘I only sent my grid, no words. Before you ask: yes, we’ve been exchanging our Wordle scores most days since then. Not every day. We’ve each missed a few. But Jemma, I swear to you, from whenever it started until now, that’s the only contact I’ve had with her for the last nearly eleven—’
‘You were having an affair with her, weren’t you?’ I can’t believe I’ve said it. I’ve made it exist more than it did before; here it is, in the room with us, the reality of it. ‘Maybe not since 2012, but at some point, you and Marianne were lovers.’
What else could it be? What other explanation is possible?If it’s true, then please let him lie to me.
‘Having … an affair? With Marianne?’ His face twists. Then he laughs.
‘At some point you wanted it to stop, but that was tricky, wasn’t it? Marianne could have told me what had been going on, and you couldn’t take that risk. Was that why?’
‘Why what?’ Olly asks, looking as if he might laugh again.
‘Why you tried to murder her in November 2012,’ I say.
18
Tuesday 31 October 2023, 12.50 p.m.
SIMON
Simon had been to Cambridge before, and found he liked it more each time he was here. At first, he’d thought that feeling of being able to breathe more easily was down to being nowhere near home. No one was going to recognise him or approach him. It was true, he’d always felt more relaxed – though also lonelier, that was the disadvantage – in places where he had no ties, but the more often he came to Cambridge, the clearer it became that he liked it for other reasons too. It was colourful and felt alive in a way that Spilling didn’t, and the snatches of overheard conversation were eye-opening. Two men walking in front of Simon were having a vigorous argument about whether a treasurer’s wife had any right to insist that the organist write an essay justifying his refusal to take communion from a female priest. The focus of the discussion wasn’t changing church traditions but rather whether one person could reasonably impose essay-writing duties on another when they had no structural authority over them. Simon knew where he stood on the matter: unequivocally, no.
If his map wasn’t lying to him, the Cedarwood Centre, whereOliver Mayo worked, was going to be coming up any second now on the left. Yep, here it was. As he approached the front door, it opened and two women came out, one addressing the other over her shoulder: ‘… and I told her, I can’t believe any woman likes it. It’s like being dipped in the tepid remains of a bowl of cereal.’
Simon hoped Oliver Mayo would prove to be as loud and forthright as the rest of Cambridge, because he had a lot of questions he wanted to ask Jemma Stelling’s ex-boyfriend. Was it a good sign that Mayo had willingly agreed to the appointment?
He found himself feeling disappointed as he shook the hand of the man he’d driven for two hours to meet. His first impression was of a cautious, reserved person – shy, even – who had no intention of shouting his mouth off about anything. There was something uncomfortable, also, about his intense focus on Simon. Normally, in the presence of a police detective, particularly after a serious crime had been committed, people experienced a lot of internal drama, whether they were guilty or innocent; their attention would switch back and forth between their interior world and the external one. Sometimes it made them difficult to talk to; they would lose concentration and keep having to reorient themselves.
Not Mayo. His large, brown eyes were two still pools, and Simon sensed nothing behind them apart from a sort of …force of observationwas the only way he could describe it. This felt like a deeper and, frankly, more threatening level of attention than he’d ever had focused on him before. He wanted to shake its weight off him.
‘This won’t take long,’ he said, then silently berated himself for his defeatist attitude. He’d been here less than five minutes,and he was already convinced Mayo would, as politely as possible, give him nothing. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’
‘Happy to help,’ said Mayo. ‘Is there a new lead? I’m assuming you’re here about Marianne’s murder, if you’re from Culver Valley CID.’
‘You’ve spoken to my colleagues, then? DS Kombothekra?’ Simon still hadn’t made contact with his team, still hadn’t responded to any of the dozens of messages they kept leaving for him.
‘Name doesn’t ring a bell, and I think it probably would.’ Mayo smiled. ‘Someone phoned me yesterday evening – sounded young enough to be my daughter. And a lad with a big, round baby face was here this morning from Cambridge Police, spoke to me and the reception staff. Both experiences made me feel very old, and I didn’t appreciate the déjà vu. Because of 2012,’ he added, in case Simon didn’t get it. ‘It was uncanny, talking to them. Felt as if I was pulling out an old play script and reciting the same lines as eleven years ago: I was with a client, here, nowhere near Sleatham St Andrew.’
Which is why you got delegated to Cambridge Police.Simon could see the logic: Sam, Sellers and Gibbs would all be thinking of Mayo as having been conclusively eliminated. Still, one of them would probably come and talk to him tomorrow, given that Marianne had briefly accused him eleven years ago before taking it back, and Simon was glad to be getting in first. Beating them to the solve would be …
He found he couldn’t feel the uncomplicated relish he was aiming for. Dooper was the one he wanted to crush with a resounding victory, not his team. He hated knowing he couldn’t help them without adding another solve to the list of cases she was so proud of, those successfully closed sinceshe took over; none of which she’d had any direct hand in, of course.
‘Have a seat,’ said Mayo. ‘Can I make you tea, or coffee?’ He gestured towards the small navy-blue kettle on his desk.
Simon wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of holding either of the two mugs sitting beside it. One had a slogan – ‘As I Suspected, I Was Right About Everything’ – and the other, a soppy picture of two green elephants linking trunks and stretching out their front legs towards each other. ‘Ordinary tea, milk, no sugar,’ he said. ‘Thanks. How are you bearing up?’
‘Marianne?’ said Mayo. ‘Shocked but also okay. She meant a lot to me once, but … not any more. Not for a long time. My only concern is for Jemma, Marianne’s stepdaughter. That’s why I was keen to see you today. Neither of the other two, the young ones, could tell me anything about how she is and she’s not answering my calls or texts.’
