It’s real.
‘One thing, though. I was thinking, do you want to talk about my wife?’
There’s that word again,wife. As far as Lucy’s concerned, the less she knows, the better. Keep the shame away. Blood surges up into her neck, blotches forming on her cheeks. ‘Is it any of my business?’
‘Sorry, sorry. Not my current wife. Gabriela.’
Lucy sits in silence for a moment, watching the brake lights of the car in front of them shine red in the distance. She’s not seeing them, though; she’s seeing a woman lying dead, blood everywhere.
‘You OK?’
She needs to answer. She’s not sure what to say. So many questions, she’s not sure where to start. ‘I am,’ she says. ‘There’s been a lot to take in this weekend, that’s all. Let me think about it.’
‘I understand,’ he says. ‘Look, what I’m looking forward to most is sharing my work with you. It’s been such a long time since anyone understood me, understood what I was doing. I’ve got so many projects. So many plans. We’re going to be amazing. It will take a while but trust me. We are going to be great.’
This, this is the dream. Everything else is incidental, even the passionate responses he teased from her the night before. Working with Edgar really is everything to which Lucy has aspired.
‘I would love that,’ she says.
‘There’s one project I have in mind. Very sensitive. I could use some fresh eyes on it. How would you fancy a trip to the Highlands with me?’
No hesitation. ‘I’d love that.’
He reaches over, his hand closing over her thigh more firmly, sliding upwards and squeezing again before he puts it back on the steering wheel and turns his attention to the road.
They’re getting close to his home, Lucy realises. He’s missed the turning to drop her off. She should tell him – she doesn’t want to. She’s rolling his words over in her mind, his plans for their future, terrified they’ll disappear like smoke the moment she opens the car door.
One final right turn, a crossroads, and they’re nearly there. Lucy fights the urge to hide in the footwell of the car, cover herself with her coat. When it comes to his wife, she knows it’s better neither to see her nor to be seen. She picks up her bag, ready to make a run for it.
A screech of brakes. She’s thrown hard against her seatbelt as he comes to a halt, foot flat on the brake. She looks up, startled. No one in the road in front. But further along, by the gate that she recognises as his, a police car is parked up, its blue lights flashing.
‘Christ,’ he says under his breath, and flings the steering wheel round to park the car in the nearest gap. He jumps out, leaving the engine still running, the door open. Lucy watches after him for a moment before collecting herself, gathering her stuff quickly and following him.
‘Are you all right? Rachel? What’s going on?’ Edgar is shouting as he runs up to his house, sheer panic in his voice. Lucy’s close behind him, but she stops near the garden wall, desperate not to intrude. Two police officers are standing by the doorstep, while a dark-haired woman is just inside the house, a baby in her arms. Edgar rushes to her, pushing the police to one side as he grabs hold of her.
‘Rachel! You all right? I thought . . .’ he says, his voice breaking.
‘I’m all right,’ Rachel says.
Lucy hugs her arms tight round herself.A baby? Seriously?She should leave; but she’s compelled to stay, fixed to the spot. The police.
‘Why are you here?’ Edgar shouts at the police. He’s holding Rachel close to him, hand clamped to her shoulder. Lucy remembers the feel of his hands on her, hunches up even further.
‘Do you know a man called Victor Machado?’ the police officer says.
Victor. What the hell? Without meaning to, Lucy draws closer to the group by the door.
‘Victor? Why?’
The police officer continues. ‘There’s been a house fire. Two men were inside – one dead, another with very serious injuries. There was a wallet next to him containing ID in the name of Mr Machado, and a note with your address on it. While we wait for information from the Bolivian embassy, we’d like to see if you can help us at all.’
Edgar’s face blanches. He staggers forward. Rachel grips hold of him with one arm, clutching the child with the other. Even her lips are pale. Lucy’s stomach churns, acid rising in her throat. Whether more from the thought of that nice man, his warm smile, burned to a crisp, or the completely unannounced baby in Edgar’s wife’s arms, she doesn’t know.
‘But—’ Lucy starts to say, but Edgar interrupts her.
‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ Edgar says. ‘He lives in the US.’
‘Does he have any connections here?’
