Free Birth Marks by Sarah Dunant Page A

talking about her love life and I let it ride. Then some time at the end of April I caught the flu. I was off for a week. She never called round or even checked me out. When I got back she had gone. She left me a note wishing me love and luck, but no forwarding address.’
    â€˜Just like that?’
    â€˜Just like that.’
    â€˜And you think she went to Paris?’
    â€˜I dunno. All I know is that she was doing a lot of commuting around the time she got pregnant and that Paris was the place she was going. Maybe when he found out he offered to look after her and she accepted.’
    â€˜So how come she didn’t tell you?’
    He made a face. ‘Could be she didn’t think I’d appreciate the maternal instinct. Or perhaps she thought it would spoil her image. Carrie liked to see herself as more independent than she really was.’
    I gave it some thought. Paris? Why not? Except what about the six months of postcards she kept sending to Miss Patrick, all franked ‘London’? One thing at a time. I looked at him. He was drawing on the tablecloth with his fork, etching spellbound lines in unconscious homage to Hitchcock. I took it as a sign. ‘And that’s it? I mean you didn’t hear from her again?’
    He shook his head. But he still didn’t look at me.
    â€˜And how much of all this did you tell the police?’
    He kept making ski runs in the snow. ‘They asked for facts, not opinions. So I told them. I didn’t know where she’d gone. They weren’t that interested anyway. They’d already made up their minds. Suicide passed off as accidental death to keep the old bat happy. Either way, she was just one poor fucker less to claim the dole. She was her own witness, they didn’t need anyone else.’
    â€˜And if they had asked the right questions? Is there anything else you could have told them?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜I mean you’re sure she didn’t get in touch with you again?’
    â€˜No, I mean yes, of course I’m sure. Shit.’ He slammed the fork down on the cloth and you could see he was suddenly very angry with himself. I let him stew in it for a bit. He finished off the rest of the glass and looked around for the waitress, but she was busy with someone more glamorous. He turned to me. ‘Anyway, it was your job to find her. You’re the one who blew it.’
    â€˜Oh yes. And when was that, Scott? At what exact point did I blow it? In the café outside Cherubim on Friday afternoon? Or maybe in the dressing-room with you on Saturday? What was it I should have asked you then that would have got me the information I needed?’
    He shook his head in a fury and made as if he was getting up to go, but thirty seconds later he was still there. Behind that gorgeous façade something was crumbling, eaten away by the acid of guilt. I just hung on to the other end of the line. He brought himself in eventually.
    â€˜All right. So she rang me,’ he said at last, his eyes on the tablecloth. ‘Before she died. It was on the Friday, in the morning. She said she was sorry to get in touch so suddenly, but she needed a place to stay, that night or over the weekend.’ He paused, then closed his eyes up tight. ‘I offered her my flat.’
    â€˜And,’ I said at last when it was clear he wasn’t going to.
    â€˜She never turned up.’
    So he’d known all the time. Even that Friday afternoon in the café. I saw again the look on their faces when I mentioned her name. And I felt the kick with which Scott had silenced little Miss Motor Mouth.
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell me?’
    â€˜Because she made me promise not to,’ he said with a blast of fury and pain that caused eyes to flicker. ‘She said it was absolutely vital that no one knew where she was. And that if anyone got in touch looking for her, I was to tell them I hadn’t seen her since