Flint looked at him as if he were something unpleasant that was stuck to the bottom of her shoe. ‘Let go of me or I’ll call the police.’
Jeff did as she asked. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife’s been missing for over two weeks. I’ve been terribly worried about her.’
‘Yes, well. Your personal problems are none of my business. But in answer to your question, your wife instructed me by telephone. We haven’t met.’
‘Did she say where she was calling from?’ asked Jeff.
‘No.’
‘Well, did she leave a number, at least?’
‘She did not. I have an e-mail address. She said that would be the best way to contact her.’ On the back of another card, the agent scribbled something down. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Mr Stevens, I really must get on.’
Jeff looked at the card. His heart plunged for a second time. It was a Hotmail address, generic and untraceable.
‘If she contacts you again, Miss Flint, please ask her to get in touch with me. It’s really very important.’
The real estate agent gave Jeff a look that clearly translated as Not to me it isn’t.
Jeff went back to Gunther’s.
‘At least you know she’s alive and well.’ Gunther tried to get Jeff to look on the bright side at dinner.
‘Alive and well and selling our house,’ said Jeff. ‘She’s dismantling our life together, Gunther. Without even talking to me. That’s not fair. That’s not the Tracy I know.’
‘I suspect she’s still very hurt.’
‘So am I!’
It pained Gunther to see Jeff fighting back tears.
‘I have to find her,’ he said eventually. ‘I have to. There must be something I’ve missed.’
REBECCA MORTIMER WAS GETTING READY FOR bed when the doorbell to her apartment rang.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me.’ Jeff Stevens’s gruff, gravelly voice on the other side of the door made her heart skip a beat. ‘Sorry to come by so late. It’s important.’
Rebecca opened the door.
‘Jeff! What a lovely surprise.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’
He followed her into a living room littered with half-drunk cups of coffee and books on Celtic manuscripts. Rebecca’s hair was wet from the shower and the nightshirt she was wearing clung in places to her still-damp skin. Jeff tried not to notice the way it rode up when she sat down on the sofa, exposing the smooth, supple skin of her upper thighs.
‘The disc you gave me,’ said Jeff. ‘The footage of Tracy with McBride. Where did you get it?’
For a moment Rebecca looked nonplussed. Then she said, ‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me.’
She hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’d be betraying a friend. It’s complicated but…you’ll just have to trust me.’
Now it was Jeff’s turn to hesitate. ‘Do you have another copy?’
Rebecca looked surprised. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I destroyed the original you gave me. I was angry and I wasn’t thinking straight. But I’d like to look at it again. I’m hoping there might be some clue in there, something I missed the first time that might help me find Tracy. Can I have it?’
Rebecca pouted. ‘All right.’ She’d hoped, assumed, that Jeff had come here tonight to see her. Doing her best to mask her disappointment, she walked over to her desk drawer. Pulling out a disc, she handed it to him.
‘She doesn’t love you, you know.’
Jeff winced.
‘Not like I do.’
He looked at Rebecca, genuinely surprised.
‘You don’t love me. You barely even know me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes it is. Believe me. Besides, I’m far too old for you.’
‘Says who?’ Rebecca coiled herself around him like a cobra, kissing him with a passion that caught Jeff completely off guard. She was a gorgeous girl, but he wasn’t ready for this. Gently but firmly, he pushed her away.
‘I’m married,’ he said. ‘What happened between us the other day—’
‘Almost happened,’ Rebecca corrected him.
‘Almost happened,’ Jeff agreed. ‘Well, it shouldn’t have. I was hurt and angry, and you’re a beautiful girl. But I love my wife.’
‘Your wife’s a whore!’ Rebecca’s sweet, innocent features twisted suddenly into an ugly mask of jealousy and rage. Jeff stepped away from her, shocked. He had never seen this side of her before.
A horrible thought struck him. As if someone had cut the cable of an elevator he was taking, he felt his stomach lurch and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
‘How did you get the footage?’ he asked again. ‘Tell me!’
‘I won’t!’ snapped Rebecca. ‘Can’t you see you’re missing the point here? Tracy’s been screwing around behind your back. That’s the headline. Who cares how I caught her out. The point is I did. I did it because I care about you, Jeff. I love you!’
But Jeff was already gone, the disc clutched tightly in his hand.
*
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, Jeff sat in Victor Litchenko’s basement office in Pimlico, staring at a screen.
Victor was an old friend and one of the top audiovisual experts in the London underworld. A master at doctoring footage, both images and sound, Victor Litchenko described himself as a ‘digital artist.’ Few who’d worked with him disagreed.
‘It’s actually not a bad piece of work,’ the Russian said at last, sipping at the double espresso Jeff had brought him. ‘The most common mistake amateurs make is to go for something too complex. But here she simply doctored the time line and changed the lighting. Very easy. Very effective.’
‘So it is Tracy?’
‘It is Tracy. The footage itself is genuine, nothing’s been superimposed or patched together. All she did was to change
