addresses. She didn't use it as some people use a diary, to write up a daily record of their lives. Recording the past was alien to her outlook. She was forward-looking. She scribbled in appointments, names, birthdays.
That diary was of no conceivable interest to anyone else.
So where was it?
He said, 'Stupid arse.'
The answer was as obvious as the stone vase in the park. In the lining inside the bag was a zip. She kept the diary in an inner pocket. Impatient now, he dropped the chopstick and used his finger and thumb to open the zip and feel inside.
Result.
The diary was dry and in near perfect condition. He turned to the date of the murder, Tuesday, February the twenty-third, and found an entry. Steph had written in her blue ballpoint:
T. 10 a.m. Viet. Pk, opp. bandstand
He frowned at the page, baffled, disbelieving, shocked. He'd been telling everyone it was most unlikely Steph had arranged to visit the park - because she hadn't said a word to him. But why hadn't she mentioned it? She was so open about her life. Always told him everything.
Didn't she?
All at once his hands shook.
He hesitated to check the rest of the diary. It would be an invasion of her privacy. Already he felt shabby for opening it. Then an inner voice told him the murder squad would pore over every page after he handed it in, and he was more entitled than they to know what was in the damned thing.
He had this gut-wrenching fear that his trust in Steph was about to unravel. Up to now he'd never had a doubt about her loyalty. Theirs had been an honest, blissful marriage. That had been one of the few certainties in his case-hardened life. Was it possible he'd been mistaken, that she had secrets she'd never discussed with him?
This looked horribly like one, this appointment in the park. Did 'T' stand for a name, someone she'd met, or - please, please - something totally different and innocent that happened in parks, like ... like what, for Christ's sake?
Tennis?
Outdoors, in February? Ridiculous.
T'ai Chi, then?
Why not? Steph was forever trying therapies, holistic this and alternative that. Didn't always speak of them, because she knew he dismissed all of it as baloney. It was not impossible she'd joined a group who exercised in the park.
Somehow, he couldn't picture it.
Briefly he was tempted to destroy the diary without looking at any more of it. If he'd been living an illusion, wasn't it preferable to hold onto precious memories, even though they might turn out to have been unfounded?
He dismissed that. The diary was pivotal evidence, whatever else was in it. The killer had to be caught, and this proved Steph had made an appointment to go to her place of execution. The chance that some casual mugger had killed her was now so unlikely that it could be discounted. She'd obviously been lured to her death. The murder squad had to be told.
So he started leafing through. It was a small diary with seven days spread over two pages, and Steph's entries were short. They took some interpreting. 'Ox' meant her stints at the Oxfam shop. They varied a bit from one week to the next, so she had to keep a record of them. She'd also scribbled in appointments with the doctor and dentist, family birthdays, dinner invitations and theatre bookings. He was looking for other things.
Disturbingly, he found them.
Monday 15 February Ox 2-5 P out. Must call T.
With that, the T'ai Chi theory went down in flames.
Wednesday 17 February Ox 10-1. Hair (Jan) 1.30.
Friday 19 February P out. Call T tonight.
On the following Tuesday - Shrove Tuesday, the diary reminded him - she'd had her fatal meeting in the park with the person she called "T". These were crucial entries and he copied them into a notebook of his own.
It was deeply worrying, not to say hurtful. The first mention of 'T', on Monday the fifteenth, seemed to be linked with the note that he, 'P', was out. He remembered. It had been one of his regular, mind-numbing PCCG meetings with local
That diary was of no conceivable interest to anyone else.
So where was it?
He said, 'Stupid arse.'
The answer was as obvious as the stone vase in the park. In the lining inside the bag was a zip. She kept the diary in an inner pocket. Impatient now, he dropped the chopstick and used his finger and thumb to open the zip and feel inside.
Result.
The diary was dry and in near perfect condition. He turned to the date of the murder, Tuesday, February the twenty-third, and found an entry. Steph had written in her blue ballpoint:
T. 10 a.m. Viet. Pk, opp. bandstand
He frowned at the page, baffled, disbelieving, shocked. He'd been telling everyone it was most unlikely Steph had arranged to visit the park - because she hadn't said a word to him. But why hadn't she mentioned it? She was so open about her life. Always told him everything.
Didn't she?
All at once his hands shook.
He hesitated to check the rest of the diary. It would be an invasion of her privacy. Already he felt shabby for opening it. Then an inner voice told him the murder squad would pore over every page after he handed it in, and he was more entitled than they to know what was in the damned thing.
He had this gut-wrenching fear that his trust in Steph was about to unravel. Up to now he'd never had a doubt about her loyalty. Theirs had been an honest, blissful marriage. That had been one of the few certainties in his case-hardened life. Was it possible he'd been mistaken, that she had secrets she'd never discussed with him?
This looked horribly like one, this appointment in the park. Did 'T' stand for a name, someone she'd met, or - please, please - something totally different and innocent that happened in parks, like ... like what, for Christ's sake?
Tennis?
Outdoors, in February? Ridiculous.
T'ai Chi, then?
Why not? Steph was forever trying therapies, holistic this and alternative that. Didn't always speak of them, because she knew he dismissed all of it as baloney. It was not impossible she'd joined a group who exercised in the park.
Somehow, he couldn't picture it.
Briefly he was tempted to destroy the diary without looking at any more of it. If he'd been living an illusion, wasn't it preferable to hold onto precious memories, even though they might turn out to have been unfounded?
He dismissed that. The diary was pivotal evidence, whatever else was in it. The killer had to be caught, and this proved Steph had made an appointment to go to her place of execution. The chance that some casual mugger had killed her was now so unlikely that it could be discounted. She'd obviously been lured to her death. The murder squad had to be told.
So he started leafing through. It was a small diary with seven days spread over two pages, and Steph's entries were short. They took some interpreting. 'Ox' meant her stints at the Oxfam shop. They varied a bit from one week to the next, so she had to keep a record of them. She'd also scribbled in appointments with the doctor and dentist, family birthdays, dinner invitations and theatre bookings. He was looking for other things.
Disturbingly, he found them.
Monday 15 February Ox 2-5 P out. Must call T.
With that, the T'ai Chi theory went down in flames.
Wednesday 17 February Ox 10-1. Hair (Jan) 1.30.
Friday 19 February P out. Call T tonight.
On the following Tuesday - Shrove Tuesday, the diary reminded him - she'd had her fatal meeting in the park with the person she called "T". These were crucial entries and he copied them into a notebook of his own.
It was deeply worrying, not to say hurtful. The first mention of 'T', on Monday the fifteenth, seemed to be linked with the note that he, 'P', was out. He remembered. It had been one of his regular, mind-numbing PCCG meetings with local
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