Must not get distracted from my mission. From my plan.

  ‘What’s the owner’s reason for selling?’ I asked White Socks.

  ‘He’s a detective, I understand, with Sussex Police.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘This was his marital home. I understand he’s separated from his wife. I don’t know any more really. I can find out if you’re interested?’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘I’ve got a cousin in the police. He told me the divorce rate is very high among coppers,’ White Socks said.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s their lifestyle. Lot of shift work, late hours, stuff like that.’

  Bruno and I followed him downstairs.

  We went into the sitting room, and I took a deep breath. It was like entering a time warp. It was almost exactly as I had last seen it, almost a decade ago. The minimalistic style in which I’d decorated this room, with black futon sofas and a low, black Japanese table. I’d do it differently now. Darker cosy walls and a light sofa, a couple of chairs and a nice deep-pile rug is more how I’d see it, I think. In the far corner stood Roy’s antique jukebox, but, to my surprise, on the floor in front of it were spread out, untidily, some of Roy’s prized collection of vinyl records, many out of their sleeves.

  Why had they bothered to tidy some rooms, but not others?

  ‘Great room, this,’ White Socks said. ‘Lovely big windows and a working fireplace. Ideal family room. Converted with real taste!’

  I stared around, smiling at his last comment, transported back a decade, thinking how funny it is that everything dates. Back then I thought this style would last for ever.

  ‘Yeah, but I’d give it a makeover, looks like it hasn’t been done for a decade!’ I said, amusing myself.

  ‘Well, we all have different tastes. It has huge potential, doesn’t it?’

  Still smiling, I followed through into the equally minimalistic open-plan kitchen-diner.

  My emotions were all over the place. I wanted to tell him that this was my house too. My home! That he had no right to be selling this without my permission, and that I wasn’t dead at all.

  But somehow I managed to keep schtum and just listen.

  ‘I understand this used to be two rooms, which the present owner knocked into one. It could of course be kept like this, or changed back to a separate kitchen and dining room,’ he said.

  Of course it could! I thought. And then I saw the goldfish. It was in a round bowl on the work surface, close to the microwave, with a plastic hopper for dispensing food clipped to the side.

  Marlon? Could it possibly be Marlon, still alive after all this time?

  No way!

  I walked over and peered closely. The fish looked old and bloated, opening and closing its mouth in a slow, steady, gormless rhythm. Whatever golden orange colour it had once had was now faded to a rusty grey.

  I crushed away a tear. Could this really be him? The goldfish Roy had won at a funfair? He’d be fifteen years old now, at least.

  Bruno suddenly joined me, peering into the bowl, too. ‘Schöner Goldfisch!’ he said.

  Stupid, I know, but I really was close to tears. ‘Marlon?’ I said, quietly, willing this so much to be him.

  The fish opened and shut its mouth.

  I was aware of White Socks watching us.

  ‘Marlon?’ I said again, louder, tears running down my cheeks now.

  ‘Warum nennst du ihn Marlon, Mama?’

  ‘Because that’s his name, mein Liebling!’

  ‘You know its name?’ White Socks asked.

  Could a goldfish really live this long?

  At that moment, the front doorbell rang.

  White Socks hurried out of the room to answer it.

  And I took the opportunity. I told Bruno to stay where he was and I dashed back upstairs, into our bedroom and straight through to our en-suite bathroom. There must be something. For God’s sake! I stared, frantically, at the bare shelf, and then at the equally bare shower cubicle.

  Roy’s washbasin was on the right. I opened the drawer beneath.

  Bingo!

  It was crammed with all kinds of bathroom stuff that had been removed from sight.

  Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Oh yes! Brilliant. Perfect!

  I’d learned all about DNA testing from Roy. How just one hair follicle could be enough to nail a suspect. I had a whole jungle here! I dropped the hairbrush and toothbrush into my ever-trusty handbag – a new genuine Louis Vuitton I’d treated myself to.

  Then one more thing. Was it still here?

  I walked furtively into the bedroom and was relieved to hear the crass voice of White Socks downstairs, no doubt starting the next viewing.

  Then I had to look. Had to.

  I opened my wardrobe door. And saw all my clothes hanging there, exactly as I had left them. I tugged open the drawers and my underwear, pullovers, T-shirts and everything else still lay there.

  Have you moved on, Roy? Or do you keep all this because you hope I may come back into your life?

  I hurried over to my bedside table and opened the middle drawer.

  It was still there. The silver bracelet Roy had given me for my birthday. It was antique Tiffany and he’d bought it at one of the jewellery shops in Brighton’s Lanes – one of the few shops he trusted. It had meant a lot to me, and I’d planned to take it when I left, but I forgot – guess I had a lot of other things on my mind.

  It was tarnished, but I could still see the engraving on the inside:

  RG ♥ SG

  More tears rolled down my cheeks. Shit. Get a grip, girl.

  I popped the bracelet inside my bag, then went back downstairs.

  White Socks was standing in the hall with two almost indescribably dull-looking people, busily pointing out how wide the staircase was, and that you did not get staircases this wide in new-builds today.

  ‘Will you send me a report on all the damp spots we found?’ I asked him gaily. ‘And that dry rot you mentioned in the kitchen floor?’

  As he gave me a completely baffled look, I ushered my son towards the front door. Then I stopped at the threshold, as the couple stared at me, and added, ‘I do hope you tell this couple about the subsidence in this area – that the houses on either side have needed underpinning. Such a shame, such a nice street otherwise!’

  Then we were gone.

  94

  June 2017

  I have the cash to buy this house. OK, a bit mad, really, to buy my own house, but I can sort all the financials out with Roy in the fullness of time.

  The car reeks of our cheeseburgers – although Bruno has eaten most of mine because I don’t have much appetite – and greasy fries. I’ve got a clear view through the windscreen of the entrance to the gated townhouse development where Cleo lives. With my husband.

  Of course at some point Roy was going to move on with his life – what the hell had I expected? But all the same it hurt so much. If I could just tell him the reasons I had to leave, maybe he could forgive me. He knew how dangerous Albazi was. There’s no way I could’ve stayed. He’d understand, if I could just explain. But now it worried me he was trying to dismiss his past with a single wave of his hand. Among the many reasons for having me declared dead was so he could be free to marry that woman.

  I looked again at the particulars of our house. Our forever home. It was on the market now, and it might never come back on again for the rest of our lives, because it was the kind of house people might live in for years. The kind of family home where people could grow old together.

  Where Roy and I could grow old together.

  That had been the plan when we’d bought it. What kind of an old couple would we have made?

  ‘Mama, how much longer do we have to stay here?’ Bruno asked suddenly.

  I looked at him. Roy had always said he would be happy whatever the sex of our children. Was Bruno his son? I was about to reply to him, to tell him not much longer, when I saw a man striding down the street towards us. He was dressed in a dark suit and carrying a bulky case.

  Oh my God.

  It was nearly ten years since I’d last seen him – for certain anyway – but in this fading light it could have been just twenty-four hours. His trim figure was just the same and his face had barely aged. Only his hair was different, cropped short and gelled. It suited him. And he looked happy.

  Shit. So happy.

  I knew there was no chance of him recognizing me – I was wearing a baseball cap pulled low, large dark glasses and my hair was completely different. But even so, I lowered my face, a thousand thoughts going through my mind.

  How happy was he with Cleo? How long had they been seeing each other? Did they bicker like we used to?

  What do I do next?

  I raised my head and had a cautious peep. He was tapping on the entry panel keypad. Then he pushed the wrought-iron gate open and entered. Moments later it swung shut behind him with a clang I heard.

  It swung shut on me.

  Locking me out of his new life.

  I watched until he had walked out of sight.

  Then I twisted the key in the ignition so hard I thought for a moment I had snapped it in half. The engine fired. Then I accelerated away so furiously it sent Coke spurting over Bruno, who protested loudly.

  I can’t remember ever feeling so low in all my life.

  95

  September 2017

  I realized what it was about Dr Eberstark that made him look like a hawk, albeit a wise hawk. It was his nose, a big hooked proboscis that could almost be a beak, partly concealed by the enormous black-rimmed glasses he wore. He had kind, sympathetic eyes through those lenses, smiling eyes, but an almost permanently bemused expression.

  In all the times I had seen him, I’d not figured out whether he reserved that expression for me, or it was simply how he viewed the world – or at least, the world as seen through the eyes of his patients. Not a very happy world, I would think.

  So am I now officially dead? It seems ages since I picked up that copy of the Münchner Merkur in the Englischer Garten and read the advertisement my husband had placed, to have me declared dead.

  So was he my husband still, even if I was legally dead? Was he my ex-husband, my was-husband? My lawyers weren’t sure. No one was sure.

  This Monday afternoon we were having one of our long, habitual and expensive silences, punctuated only by the sound of the traffic three floors below on Widenmayerstrasse. I say expensive because it was costing me the same whether we talked or not. I had started to speak but then hesitated, feeling embarrassed, although Dr Eberstark was the one person I should be able to talk to about anything, because he wasn’t there to judge me. Just to help me.

  But there were times when I felt he was like a judge at the Bench, looking at me, the villain on trial in the dock. Even though I was on the couch facing him, I could feel his eyes on my back.

  ‘I do horrible things sometimes,’ I said, finally getting it out. Then fell silent again.

  After a while he asked, ‘What kind of horrible things, Sandy?’ His voice was always calm.

  ‘I put an advertisement in their local paper’s Deaths column that their baby had died.’ As I say the words out loud I am so embarrassed it feels as though I am hearing someone else speak them. Come on, judge me, be shocked! He stays as calm as ever as if what I am telling him is just so routine. I bet inside he thinks I’m nuts. Who wouldn’t?

  The problem was I was upset and fuming. I drank far too much and made two very bad decisions that I now regret. Not only did I put the advert in their local paper, but I had also scratched into the bonnet of Cleo’s car: ‘COPPER’S TART. UR BABY IS NEXT.’

  What on earth was I thinking? I am deeply ashamed, but alcohol had made me feel confident and heightened my emotions. The day I left Roy I was so wrapped up in the threat and my own danger I didn’t give him or his future enough thought. I didn’t consider that he would have a new girlfriend or children. But now I wanted him back, everything was different.

  I tell Dr Eberstark about vandalizing Cleo’s car. I’m on a roll now, may as well get it all out in front of the expert.

  Did I detect a hint of admonishment in his tone?

  ‘What did you think you would achieve by doing that?’

  There was a framed photograph on the doctor’s desk of him with an attractive, rather academic-looking woman and two very serious-looking girls in their late teens. They stood in a posed group, all looking so prim, so perfect, so anodyne. As if none of them, ever in their lives, had farted.

  ‘Sometimes I feel I’m like the scorpion in that fable,’ I told him.

  ‘Which fable?’

  ‘The one where the scorpion asks the turtle to give him a ride across the river to the other side. The turtle replies, “I can’t do that. You might sting me to death.” The scorpion says, “Look, I’m not dumb. If you carry me across the river and I sting you, we will both die – you from my sting and I will drown.”

  ‘So the turtle says, “Okay, that makes sense!”

  ‘They get halfway across the river and the scorpion stings the turtle. The turtle, in agony and starting to sink, turns and looks at the scorpion and says, “Why did you do that? Now we’re both going to die.”

  ‘The scorpion replies, “I know. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. It’s in my nature.”’

  Dr Eberstark asks if I think I’m the scorpion, if that’s how I justify my anger and what that tells him. I don’t know what it all represents but I know it makes me sad that Roy’s moved on without me.

  Then, totally changing the subject, he asks, ‘In our last session you were going to tell me something about the baby. Do you want to tell me now?’

  The baby? Cleo’s baby?

  No, I realize. He means Bruno. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure it was Roy’s.’

  He barely reacted at all. Maybe he’d been expecting something like this. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was having an affair. With one of his colleagues.’

  He looked at me, silent and a little expectant, which made me feel I ought to continue.

  ‘A short while before I left Roy, I had an affair with a man called Cassian Pewe. Well, more a fling than an affair. More like a few one-night stands. I saw him a handful of times right up until the time I left Roy before I realized that actually I really didn’t like him. I’m in the process of having a DNA test done now, to see if I can establish whether it’s Roy or him who is the father.’

  I watched him nodding, absorbing this.

  ‘Interesting,’ is all he replied.

  Then, infuriatingly, as he so often did just when things were getting going, he looked at the clock on the wall.

  ‘OK, time’s up. I’ll see you on Wednesday.’

  96

  September 2017

  After leaving Dr Eberstark’s consulting room, and running the gauntlet of the receptionist in the adjoining room who acted as his sentinel, I crossed busy Widenmayerstrasse and strolled over the grass towards the path that ran along this side of the Isar river.

  It was my ritual after every session, to stroll or jog along the bank. A time for collecting my thoughts and reflecting on what we had discussed. An hour to myself, before I had to head off and collect Bruno from school.

  The sky was a wintry grey, with faint drizzle falling, and my thoughts were grey.

  Although I’d rented a really beautiful apartment on Widenmayerstrasse, in general my lifestyle during our recent years in Munich had been pretty modest. I’d bought a second-hand VW Golf, similar to the one I’d had in England. Bruno was in a private school but the fees were reasonable. And all our holidays had been relatively local. In summer we’d gone to Lake Constance, Bodensee, and to a ski resort near Salzburg in the winter months, where I’d enjoyed watching Bruno learn to ski – and really take to it.

  As a result of being reasonably frugal, and the prudent investments of my gambling win in Frankfurt, made by the finance management company my lawyer had introduced me to, my portfolio had increased to over £2 million.

  The asking price for our house in Welbeck Street, Hove, was £880,000. I’d contacted the estate agent first thing this morning and put in an offer of £850,000. He’d told me he already had an offer for £875,000 and it was a cash buyer.

  Without hesitation, I told him I was a cash buyer too and upped my offer to £900,000.

  He told me he would speak to the vendor and get back to me.

  Actually I AM THE VENDOR! I wanted to joke with him. Or at least 50 per cent the vendor.

  Except I wasn’t. Not any more. I was dead. Legally dead, anyway.

  I’d called my lawyer in Frankfurt to try to understand where I stood. He didn’t know the procedure and promised to get back to me. By the time of my next session with my psychiatrist, two days later, he had still not come back.

  And in this strange status, I realized I was the very embodiment of Schrödinger’s cat, which was both alive and dead at the same time.

  I decided I would begin my next session with Dr Eberstark, on Wednesday, by telling him this.

  Then I pulled my phone out and saw there was a text from the estate agent, saying he’d just tried to call me.

  Damn, stupid me, I’d put my phone on silent for my session with Dr Eberstark and hadn’t put the sound back on. I called him back immediately. When he answered he sounded, as he always did, like he was chewing gum. He told me the news that the other party had raised their offer to £910,000.

  ‘Are you playing silly buggers?’ I asked him, straight out.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bidding war, Mrs Lohmann. This is happening a lot these days.’

  I could imagine him lording it at some desk in an open-plan ground-floor office in full view of the street and, with each increased bid, going kerchinggg!

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to nine hundred and fifty thousand.’

  ‘Nine hundred and fifty thousand?’ he said, double-checking, still chewing.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Final offer?’

  ‘Final offer.’