Page 74 of The New House

‘This stain,’ he says, pointing to a rust-coloured splash across the laces of both shoes. ‘Whose blood is this, Mrs Downton?’

chapter 44

millie

He has no evidence it’s blood, of course, but I’m not going to debate the point. I’m impatient for the two detectives to be gone. I need to get to the hospital to check on my patients, and this interview is a waste of everybody’s time.

‘It’s Felix’s blood,’ I say. ‘He had a nosebleed when I was at the Porters’ house a few weeks ago. I helped him deal with it, and his wife will confirm it. And before you go to the trouble of getting a warrant to search the rest of my house, he got blood on my running clothes, too, and I’m happy to hand them over to you, though obviously they’ve been washed several times since he bled all over them.’

‘My wife had nothing to do with Felix’s disappearance,’ Tom says. ‘And she certainly didn’tmurderhim! Stacey Porter’s the one you should be asking questions! Felix told me a very different story from the one Stacey told my wife. He claimedhewas the one being physically abused. Itdoeshappen,’ he adds, as DCI Hollander looks sceptical.

‘Oh, we know it does,’ DS Mehdi says.

‘My wife is a respected cardiologist,’ Tom adds angrily. ‘We have two young children! Do you seriously think she murdered Felix Porter in – what? A jealous rage? A crime of passion? Is this ridiculous investigationreallythe best use of public funds?’

I wish Tom would stop defending me. Ihave everything in hand. Throwing Stacey under the bus won’t help.

‘No one is saying Mr Porter has been murdered,’ DS Mehdi says. ‘Unless you have reason to think otherwise?’

‘We’re exploring all avenues, Mr Downton,’ DCI Hollander adds. ‘We’re not accusing your wife of anything. We’re just trying to build a fuller picture of the—’

‘You don’t even know Felix is actually missing,’ Tom interrupts. ‘He’s probably sunning himself on a beach in Spain somewhere!’

‘He hasn’t used his phone or his credit cards since the day your wife went round to his house,’ DS Mehdi says mildly.

DCI Hollander stands and pulls out a business card. He hands it to Tom, who flings it onto the coffee table with conspicuous contempt.

‘Mr Porter’s absence is a matter of concern, Mr Downton,’ the detective says. ‘We are treating this as a missing person inquiry. If you hear from him, or have anything else to add that you think might aid our investigation, we’d be grateful if you’d get in touch.’

‘D’you mind if I take these?’ DS Mehdi says, holding up my running shoes.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I use them every day.’

‘My wife’s explained why Felix’s blood is on them,’ Tom says. ‘You’ve no reason to suspect she’s committed a crime. You don’t even know a crime’s been committed! And did you have a warrant to search our house?’

‘You gave me permission to look around,’ DS Mehdi says.

‘I did no such thing!’

‘It’s fine, Tom,’ I say. ‘Take the shoes, detective. I’ll find a spare pair.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Downton. We’ll get them back to you as soon as we can.We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions. And once again, we appreciate your time.’

Tom and I both accompany the two detectives to the front door and watch as they drive away. I’m quite certain they’ll be back. Neither of them are fools, particularly the older one, DS Mehdi. It’s almost impossible for someone to completely disappear without trace these days: even if they flee abroad, there’ll be CCTV of them at a railway station or airport, and a digital money trail of some kind. Wherever you go, you need funds to survive. The chaos surrounding the collapse of Copper Beech will muddy the waters, but eventually the police will trace any bank accounts to which Felix may have had access before or after he went missing. And if all of them remain untouched, sinister conclusions will be drawn.

DS Mehdi and DCI Hollander may suspect me of having a hand in Felix’s disappearance. They may suspect Stacey, or the two of us of working together. But the field of suspects is certainly considerably wider than it might have been a few weeks ago: thanks to the collapse of Copper Beech, the number of people who’d like Felix dead is probably in triple digits.

And until and unless they find a body, Tom’s right: they can’t even prove a crime has been committed, much less who did it.

‘Where are you going?’ Tom asks, as I pick up my briefcase and car keys.

‘To work,’ I say.

‘You don’t think we need to talk about what just happened?’

‘Not really. I appreciate the support, Tom,’ I add, ‘but it wasn’t necessary.’

‘You know you can tell me anything,’ he says. ‘I’ve got your back, no matter what.’

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