Page 73 of Don't Let Him In

Dear Al

I don’t know what’s going on. We miss you. I’ve been going mad, losing the plot, doing crazy things. I heard a seagull in the background of one of our phone calls and I became convinced you were at the seaside, that you were having an affair. I even went to this house out by Folkestone and rang on the doorbell because I was so sure you’d be there. Of course you weren’t there and I felt like an idiot, and of course seagulls don’t only live by the sea, I know that, and I’m losing my mind, Al. I understand that your mum needs you too, but please, please come home. We need you, Jonah needs you. I can send you money. Just come back. I love you so much. Please darling. Please.

Beneath her message is a row of praying-hands emojis and three red hearts.

My stomach lurches and for a moment it all comes flooding back, the joy of life with Martha, her cottage, the boys, my beautiful daughter. But then I think—how did she know about Nina’s house in the first place? So I reply circumspectly.

Baby. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, I love you too. But what is this business about a house in Folkestone? What on earth, you crazy girl! How bizarre!

She replies a moment later:

Please forgive me, I used a dog tracker in the car a few weeks ago, when I thought you were having an affair. The app showed you going to that house when you left us in the pub that day. I was an idiot. Obviously you weren’t there. I hope you can forgive me??? Please come home. Please.

More praying-hands emojis. More love hearts.

My heart, which had begun to harden against Martha, softens at the edges. Yes, I think, it is reasonable that she might have suspected an affair. It is reasonable that she might have tried to keep tabs on me. It is reasonable that having heard seagulls in the background of a call I told her I was making from the Midlands, she might have jumped to a conclusion of that nature and then of course it makes sense that she would come to the house, to see for herself. And what would she have seen? As she said, a family home, family photos, no sign of me, of an affair, of anything untoward. My tendency is to forgive her. But I don’t reply immediately. I sit on the bed in Jessie’s spare room, and I consider my options.

Jessie makes a soup that night: chicken, leeks, potatoes, cumin; it’s very warming and much better than her lasagna. I watch her across the table, taking in the bloom of sadness across her face, and I wonder about her future, her life, her money. And then I go to bed to think.

By 2 a.m., I have made my decision.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Ash sees Jane waiting for her outside Bar Amelie. The bar has two large square bay windows overlooking the street, which have been painted a cool charcoal black, and large double doors in the center, with an arched window above and cascades of plants hanging from the ornate balcony that juts out overhead. Ash is wearing something she swiped from the shop today: a wrap minidress in black with a puffy bow at the shoulder. She wears it with boots and tights and her mother’s leather jacket and thinks she has made a good attempt at looking like the sort of young girl who frequents Mayfair wine bars.

Jane is elegant in a trouser suit with heels and an overcoat. She pulls AirPods out of her ears as Ash approaches, tucking them into a little canister that she pops into her bag before leaning down to hug her.

“Bloody hell,” she says. “This is all mad. And you know, I feel like after all these years I’ve finally found my role in life. I haven’t enjoyed anything this much in ages, to be quite frank, and I’m sorry if that sounds bad, but honestly, I feel reborn. You look gorgeous, by the way,” she says. “So like your dad. But prettier, obviously. And I love this dress. With the boots. You’re making me sad I didn’t have any children now, and I never feel sad I didn’t have children. Shall we go in?”

Ash follows Jane through a velvet curtain and into a womb of palest sea green and copper and burnt red and crowds of softly lit people andsome kind of background music that sounds vaguely enchanting. Jane finds them two stools at the bar and orders them each a glass of champagne. While the bartender is pouring their drinks, Jane directs a question at her. “So, who owns this place? Is it the guys who did the Ivy?”

“Oh, no,” says the young woman, “not them. But two other guys. One of them was called Luke Berner. But he died about three years ago, just after it opened. So now it’s just Jensen.”

“The owner died?” Jane repeats.

Ash feels a small shock pass through her.

“Yes, really sad. Suicide. He was only forty-one.”

“Oh my God,” says Jane, clasping her hand to her collarbone. “That’s tragic.”

“Yeah,” says the girl. “I don’t really know much about it. But I think it was something to do with money? Debt? I dunno. Anyway”—she smiles sadly and places the second glass of champagne in front of them—“can I get you anything else?”

Jane orders some mini chorizos, bread, and a bowl of olives, and then hands the girl her card, pooh-poohing Ash’s half-hearted attempt at paying her share. The moment the girl looks away, Jane starts googling Luke Berner, and there it is, a news report, very low-key: a man found dead in unsuspicious circumstances, no police investigation, an accompanying picture of a vibrant-looking man with slicked-back dark hair, sunglasses, good teeth, a pint of lager on a table in front of him, someone’s disembodied hand on his shoulder. A happy-looking man. But everyone looks happy at least once before they kill themselves, Ash thinks. It doesn’t mean anything.

Then Jane googles the other owner, Jensen de Witt. He’s a much older man, with a swoop of gray hair that curls up at his collar, crinkled hazel eyes, a Mediterranean tan, a gold chain, drinker’s teeth. According to LinkedIn, he’s sixty-four, has six children, and lives in Geneva with his second wife. He owns a bar in Saint-Tropez and another in Dubai. He reeks of cash, even on the tiny screen of Jane’s phone. And then suddenlyAsh feels a sharp dig in her ribs and she looks at Jane, who is pointing with a weird attempt at subtlety to the other side of the bar. Ash looks up and sees steel-gray hair, a turned-up collar, a royal blue sweater tied around the neck, the gleam of a fat golden watch, and she sees it’s him, Jensen de Witt, the bar’s owner, chatting with two young members of staff and enjoying a joke of some kind.

“Fucking hell,” says Jane, grabbing her bag and her champagne glass. “Quick, bring your drink, we’re going over. Follow me.”

Ash picks up her glass and follows Jane to the other side of the bar, watching as she reaches for Jensen de Witt’s hand and says, “Oh my goodness. Jensen, it’s you.”

Ash watches Jensen’s face as he mentally goes through every woman he’s ever met who looks and sounds like Jane, a genial smile on his face as he says, “Yes. Of course,” in a soft French, possibly Belgian, accent. “And…”

“No, sorry, you don’t know me. My name’s Jane Trevally. I’m here with my friend’s daughter, Ash. My friend recommended we should come here. Her boyfriend told her he was a co-owner, but someone else said they’d never heard of him and now he’s sort of done a disappearing act and I wondered if you knew of any way of getting hold of him?”

Jensen’s brow puckers and his lips purse. “You’re not talking about Luke?”

“No. God. Sorry. No. We heard about Luke and that is—that’s just terrible. No, this is a guy called Nick Radcliffe.”

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