What to Do When Someone Dies by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page A

called Joe on the office number.
    ‘Yes?’ He sounded unusually curt.
    ‘It’s me. Is that the way you usually talk to clients?’
    ‘Ellie.’ His voice softened. ‘It’s one of those days. I was going to call you this evening. Tell me about the inquest. Are you all –’
    ‘Were there any problems with your business?’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    I repeated the question, mentioning the email I’d found on Greg’s computer.
    ‘What date did you say?’
    ‘A week or so ago.’
    There was a pause.
    ‘I’m scrolling through my mail and there’s nothing I can see from Greg about a worry.’
    ‘So, everything was OK?’
    ‘Depends what you mean. If you want me to bend your ear about clients who don’t pay up on time, don’t give us proper information and then complain, or dealing with the Revenue and the nightmare of bureaucracy… But that’s just business as usual and you’ve got problems of your own.’
    ‘All the work Greg had to do late at the office, that wasn’t because there were problems?’
    ‘Did he often work late?’ His tone was cautious, with an underlying note of sympathy.
    I felt the blood flame into my cheeks. ‘That is, he came home late recently. Later than usual anyway.’
    ‘Did he seem stressed?’
    ‘No. At least, not really.’
    ‘Not really?’
    ‘You know, I keep thinking back and seeing things I didn’t notice at the time – or, at least, thinking I can see things. Maybe he was a bit preoccupied. Or maybe I’m making that up.’
    There was a silence at the other end. I knew what Joe was thinking: that perhaps Greg was preoccupied because he was having an affair. I waited for him to say it, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was too respectful of my feelings.
    ‘If he was worried, though,’ I continued, ‘I think he would have told me. He wouldn’t have protected me. That’s not the kind of marriage we had. That I thought we had. We were in things together; we shared things.’
    ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Greg would have told you.’
    ‘You mean about everything?’
    Another silence.
    ‘Ellie, I’m finishing up here. Can I come round on my way home? I’ll bring a bottle of wine and we can talk this through.’
    ‘I won’t be here.’
    I found her address in his old address book and decided to walk, even though she lived in Clerkenwell and probably wouldn’t be in anyway, and even though the drizzle outside was turning into a steady downpour. It didn’t feel like something I could express over the phone.
    As I arrived, I saw her coming from the other direction, feeling in her bag for her door key. She was wearing a belted mac and a scarf tied round her head, and looked like a fifties film star in one of those classy black-and-white French movies.
    ‘Hello.’
    I stood in front of her and she looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, then gave an exaggerated little start. ‘Ellie? My God. I meant to get in touch. I’m so very, very sorry. He was such a lovely –’
    ‘Can I come in?’
    ‘Of course. You’re soaked.’
    I looked down at myself. I was still wearing my inquest clothes and had forgotten to put on a jacket. It was true that I was cold and wet. I must have looked dreadful.
    I followed Christine up the stairs and into a spacious kitchen-living room. She took off her mac and hung it over the back of a chair, pulled the scarf off her head and shook out her chestnut hair.
    ‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just at the moment.’ Then she offered me tea.
    ‘No, thanks.’
    ‘Or coffee, or a cold drink?’
    ‘Is that the boiler Greg fixed?’ I asked. ‘He never managed to get ours sorted.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    Christine sat down opposite me, then stood up and filled the kettle but didn’t switch it on. She turned towards me. ‘Is there a particular reason you came?’
    ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
    Her face took on the eager, helpful expression I’d become so familiar with since Greg’s