You did say that.’
He found it terribly hard to believe that Tracy would cheat on Jeff. On the other hand, perhaps this was only because he deeply, desperately didn’t want to believe it. Gunther Hartog was old and wise enough to know that every human being is capable of infidelity. Rationally, one must assume that professional con artists like Tracy and Jeff were more capable than most. And Tracy had been depressed lately, not at all herself.
‘She’s been lying to me for months,’ said Jeff. ‘Yesterday I saw hard evidence with my own eyes. It’s all on video, Gunther. CCTV. I’m not making this up. It was only after I saw the truth in black and white that I…I slipped, with Rebecca.’
‘You’ve never slept with her before?’
‘Never! I might have been tempted,’ Jeff admitted. ‘But I never touched her.’
‘Would you have slept with her,’ Gunther asked, ‘…if Tracy hadn’t walked in?’
‘Probably,’ said Jeff. ‘Yes. I would. Tracy broke my heart, for God’s sake! Not that any of that matters now anyway, because Tracy’s taken off into the night.’ He ran a hand despairingly through his thick, dark hair. ‘It’s a mess.’
‘You really think she’s been sleeping with this doctor chappie?’
‘I know she has,’ Jeff said grimly.
‘But you still want her back?’
‘Of course I do. She’s my wife and I love her. I’m pretty sure she loves me too, despite everything. This baby stuff has thrown us both for a loop.’
‘Well…’ The old man smiled. ‘That being the case, you will find her. Try not to panic, old boy. Tracy will turn up.’
TRACY DIDN’T TURN UP.
Not that day, not that week, not the next week.
Jeff took a leave of absence from the museum. He knocked on every door of every contact of Tracy’s, however tenuous. Fences and appraisers and restorers whom they’d worked with in the past. Staff at the various prisoners’ charities to which Tracy gave money. Even her personal trainer got a call from a distraught and red-eyed Jeff.
‘If I’d seen her, I’d tell you, honest.’ Karen, a bubbly bottle blonde from Essex, couldn’t imagine what would possess any woman to run out on a bloke as fit as Jeff Stevens. Even a beauty like Tracy couldn’t hope to do better than that, surely? ‘But she ain’t been ’ere. Not for weeks.’
Finally Jeff stormed into 77 Harley Street.
‘I want to see Dr Alan McBride. The bastard’s been screwing my wife.’
All the women in the waiting room put down their copies of Country Life and stared at him, shocked. At least Jeff assumed they were shocked. Most of them were in their forties, hence the trip to the fertility clinic, and had had far too much Botox injected around their eyes to be able to register more than mild surprise.
‘They’ve been having an affair and now my wife’s gone missing,’ Jeff ranted at the hapless receptionist. ‘I want to know what McBride knows.’
‘I can see you’re upset, sir.’
‘That’s very observant of you.’
‘But I’m afraid Dr McBride’s—’
‘Busy? Yes, I’ll bet he is.’ Ignoring the receptionist’s protests, he barged his way into the doctor’s office.
The room was empty. Or so Jeff thought, until he heard voices, a man and a woman’s. They were coming from behind a green curtain that had been drawn around an examination table at the back of the room. Marching over, Jeff ripped back the curtain.
He saw three things in quick succession.
The first was a woman’s vagina.
The second was the same woman’s face, propped up on a pillow, her expression slowly transitioning from surprise to embarrassment to outrage.
And the third was a doctor.
The doctor was about sixty-five, heavyset and, Jeff guessed, Persian. He did not look happy. More importantly, he was not Dr Alan McBride.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said smoothly. ‘Wrong room.’
Back in the waiting room, the receptionist glared at him.
‘As I was saying, I’m afraid Dr McBride’s on holiday.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘WHERE?’ Jeff bellowed.
The girl crumbled. ‘Morocco. With his family.’
So he has a family, does he? Bastard.
‘When will he be back?’
The receptionist regained her composure. ‘I must ask you to leave now, sir. This is a doctor’s office, and you’re upsetting our patients.’
‘Tell McBride I’ll be back,’ said Jeff. ‘This isn’t over.’
Outside, he walked along Harley Street in a daze. Where are you, Tracy? Where in God’s name are you? He took a cab to Eaton Square as he did every day, just in case Tracy had decided to return to the house. His heart soared when he saw a woman standing in the front garden, bending low over the rosebushes, but as he approached he saw that it wasn’t Tracy.
‘Can I help you?’
The woman turned around. She was in her early forties, blonde and had the sort of hard, overly made-up face and heavily lacquered hair that Jeff usually associated with newscasters.
‘Who are you?’ she asked him rudely.
‘I’m Jeff Stevens. This is my house. Who are you?’
Newscaster lady handed him a business card. It read: Helen Flint. Partner, Foxtons.
‘You’re an estate agent?’
‘That’s right. A Mrs Tracy Stevens has instructed me to put this property on the market. My understanding was that she is the sole legal owner. Is that not correct?’
‘No. It’s correct,’ said Jeff, his heart beating faster. ‘The house is in Tracy’s name. When did she instruct you to sell it, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘This morning,’ Helen Flint replied briskly. Pulling out a house key from her Anya Hindmarch handbag, she began unlocking the front door. Now that Jeff had confirmed the fact that he wasn’t a co-owner, he’d become an irritation.
‘Did you see her?’ Jeff asked. ‘In person?’
Ignoring him, the agent punched in a code to turn off the alarm and walked into the kitchen, taking
