‘Jason Mercer,’ he says.
‘What did he look like?’
‘Mid-forties, close cut brown hair, mean-looking, green eyes. Said he was about six foot two.’
‘Could describe a million people,’ I say, although it’s an accurate description of the man I last saw staring up at me through thick plastic. My heart jumps and my skin tingles. ‘Why are they searching for him? Is he dangerous?’
‘They said not to approach him. He’s on the run for something and was last seen in this area.’
I feel my mouth go dry, but my head is both relieved and concerned. He might be a criminal, which explains the break-in, but it’s not great to hear the police are already out searching for him and have Muswell Hill as his last known location. I want to ask more, but Stephen turns to me, pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket, and says, ‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘This was posted through the door today,’ he says. ‘Addressed to me.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Hand-delivered,’ he says, staring at my face now.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘You’d better read it,’ he says.
With my pulse still racing from the revelation about Jason Mercer, I take the envelope. It is one of those you buy in packs of thirty from WHSmith’s and it’s warm from its proximity to Stephen’s armpit. I pull out a piece of ruled A4 paper and read eight short words:
Your wife isn’t who she says she is.
‘Came about an hour after the police were here.’
‘You don’t know who it’s from?’ I ask.
‘No idea.’
‘She didn’t sign it, then?’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘Your mother. There’s only one person I know who’d stoop so low as to try to drive a wedge between us.’
‘That’s absurd. My mother wouldn’t do a thing like that. What does it mean, anyway?’
‘Oh, don’t be so naïve. She’s always questioning my background, isn’t she?’
‘That’s only because you never share anything about yourself.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I share; in her eyes, I’ll never be good enough for her little boy.’
‘She’s not going to send anonymous letters, Lalla. Anyway, she wouldn’t know what to do with a biro.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ I say, looking at the scrappy note. ‘But who else would do such an unpleasant thing?’
‘Sounds like a threat, doesn’t it?’ he says. ‘Whoever sent this thinks they know something about you that I don’t. What might that be, Lalla?’
‘Well, darling, if I was having an affair, which I’m not, I’d have good grounds, wouldn’t I?’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘You barely touch me any more, unless you’re drunk.’
