The Therapist by B.A. Paris

Thirty

Igo downstairs, taking the passport with me, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, dreading the confrontation I’m about to have with him. I open the door and take a sudden step back. It’s not Leo, but Thomas.

‘Oh.’ I should have realised that Leo wouldn’t ring on the bell, he has keys. But why is Thomas here? Did we have an appointment?

‘Alice, I’m sorry to disturb you but could I come in?’

He seems almost as flustered as I feel.

‘Um. Yes, I suppose so.’ I open the door wider, realising how ungracious I sound. But my mind is still spinning with the discovery of Leo’s passport.

He comes into the hall and I close the door behind him.

‘Can I ask – did you get a letter from Helen, Oliver’s sister?’

It’s hard to focus. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

‘I’m so sorry. I saw her last week and she said she wanted to write to you. I intended to check that you were open to receiving a letter from her. But when I saw her this morning, she told me that she’d already written and had asked her carer to post it.’ He looks at me anxiously. ‘I hope she didn’t put pressure on you in any way.’

‘Not at all,’ I tell him. ‘It was a very sweet letter. It must have cost her a lot physically to write it.’

He nods. ‘She’s so weak she can barely hold a pen. She can’t hold a book either and she loves reading. Thank God for audio books.’ He frowns slightly. ‘Is everything alright? You look shaken.’

‘That’s a good question. I don’t really know.’ Even to my ears my voice sounds strangled. ‘I’ve just discovered something very strange.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘No, thank you, it’s fine.’ I reach around him, intending to open the door so that he can leave, and find myself pausing. He’s a private investigator, maybe he can help me. ‘Actually, do you have a minute?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I really need a coffee. Would you like one?’

‘I’d love one.’

He follows me to the kitchen.

‘Have a seat. How do you take your coffee?’

‘Black, please, no sugar.’

He sits down. I’m still holding Leo’s passport so I put it on the table and go to make the coffee. My movements feel heavy, and I have to concentrate on getting the capsule into the machine. I take the cup over to the table, then go back for mine.

He waits until I’m sitting down opposite him, then nods at the passport. ‘I haven’t seen one of those for a long time.’

I pick it up. ‘It’s Leo’s – my partner’s. He told me he didn’t have a passport and I just found this in a drawer.’

‘Perhaps he meant he didn’t have an up-to-date passport. These haven’t been in use for years.’

‘It’s not that. It’s in a different name.’

He frowns. ‘Then – are you sure it’s his?’

‘It’s his photo. It’s the name that doesn’t match.’ I pick up the passport and turn to the relevant page. ‘His surname is Curtis, here it says Carter.’

‘Could I see?’ I hand it to him. He studies it for a moment then looks over at me. ‘You could always check it against his birth certificate.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to find it.’

‘Hm. What about his bank cards? Are they in the name of Curtis?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I mean, I’ve never noticed.’

‘What about his mail?’

‘Um, I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen any mail for him.’ I look at him, worry creasing my brow. ‘Is that strange? We weren’t living together before we moved here, he had a flat in London so his mail went there. And since we moved here – it was only a month ago but he should have received some mail here, shouldn’t he?’

‘I would have thought so.’

I raise my cup to my lips, trying to push away the black cloud of terror looming behind my eyes. My hand is shaking so much that coffee spills everywhere.

‘Sorry,’ I say, horribly aware of the tears pricking my eyes.

He reaches out and takes the cup from my hand, then goes over to the sink and comes back with a cloth.

‘Can I make you another coffee?’ he asks, mopping up the mess. ‘Or would you prefer some water?’

‘Water, please.’

He goes back to the sink and I hear the sound of running water, then cupboard doors being opened and closed as he looks for a glass. His movements are measured, giving me time to compose myself.

He brings the water over to me. ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the glass gratefully. Our hands brush and I pull away, confused by the electricity shooting through me at the feel of his skin.

He sits down. ‘If I can do anything to help.’

I take a shaky breath. ‘I think Leo might have known Nina.’

He doesn’t seem shocked, just looks at me intently, and it crosses my mind that maybe he’s known all along that Leo knew Nina. Maybe that’s why he came to our drinks evening, maybe he wanted to see up close the man he believes is responsible for her murder. Is that the reason he’s been visiting me, hoping I’ll let something slip? The sense of impending doom makes my heart race so fast I feel dizzy.

‘Why do you think that?’ he asks. His voice is calm and some of my terror subsides.

I tell him about the blond woman who turned up in Harlestone.

‘And you think it was Nina?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t see her face or anything, I just noticed she was blond.’

‘Did you ask Leo about her?’

‘Yes. At first he told me she was a client who was harassing him—’

‘Is he a lawyer?’

‘No, he’s a consultant. In risk assessment.’

He raises a dark eyebrow. ‘And he gets harassed by clients?’

‘That’s what he said. But later he told me she was a journalist who wanted to interview him.’

‘Do you remember when this was?’

‘Not long after we met, so late January, early February last year.’ I pause, remembering that Nina had been killed at the end of February.

He nods. ‘Where does Leo work?’ He’s in full investigator mode now.

‘In the Midlands. But he used to work in London.’

‘Do you know if he saw a therapist?’

‘I don’t think so. But I only saw him at weekends, he stayed at his flat during the week, so maybe he did.’

He looks up then and the concern I see in his eyes makes me afraid. I can’t help it; afraid for Leo, afraid for me, I feel close to tears again.

‘Maybe she was just a journalist who happened to be blond,’ he says.

‘I know. And I’m sure she was. It’s just that Leo knew about Nina being murdered here before he bought the house but he didn’t tell me.’

This time, he can’t hide his surprise. ‘That must have been—’

‘Devastating,’ I finish for him.

‘Did he say why he didn’t tell you?’

‘He said he knew I wouldn’t agree to live here if I knew about the murder and he really wanted this house.’

‘Why this particular house?’

‘For obvious reasons, it was cheaper than other properties we’d looked at so he made out that it was because I wouldn’t have to sell my home in East Sussex to help buy it. But he also admitted that he wanted this house because it’s in a gated residence. That’s when he told me he was getting harassed by clients, something he’d never mentioned to me before.’ I raise my eyes to his. ‘I did ask him if he knew Nina. He said he didn’t and I believed him. But that was before I found his passport.’

‘Would you like me to look up Leo Carter, see what I can find?’ Maybe he sees the panic in my eyes; although I want to get to the truth, engaging a private investigator to look into the man I’d been hoping to spend the rest of my life with is a huge step. ‘I don’t mean as a private investigator,’ he says quickly. ‘I mean as a friend. Here, now. I can google him, see if anything comes up.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Could you?’

He takes out his phone. ‘There probably won’t be anything,’ he says reassuringly.

‘And if there’s not?’

‘Then you’ll need to speak to Leo.’ He smiles to lessen the tension. ‘Maybe he just didn’t like the surname Carter.’

I watch, barely daring to breathe as he types into his phone. I keep my eyes fixed on his face, not on his screen, looking for a sign that he’s found something. It remains immobile, professional. I’m aware of his fingers scrolling down, then stopping. He reaches for the passport, opens it to the photo page with one hand. His eyes flicker from screen to photo and back again, staying there for a while as he reads.

I’m afraid to ask. ‘Have you found something?’

He raises his eyes to mine.

‘I think you might want to read this,’ he says quietly, passing his phone to me.

I look down at the screen, my heart thudding, and see a photo similar to the one in Leo’s passport, along with a news story about Leo Carter being sent to prison in 2005 for two years. For fraud.

My heart slows to a dull beat, keeping rhythm with the thought throbbing in my head. Leo went to jail? It’s so far away from what I thought that I have trouble focusing on the words in the article, something about him having been a compliance officer for an asset management company. Panic whirls in my stomach.

‘I don’t understand,’ I mutter.

He clears his throat. ‘Unfortunately, in my line of business, changing identity to conceal a criminal background is fairly commonplace.’ He pauses. ‘Leo didn’t mention it to you?’

‘No.’

‘You need to speak to him.’

I nod. ‘I know.’

‘Then perhaps I should leave.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Please, don’t get up, I can see myself out.’ He walks to the door, then stops. ‘If you need anything, anything at all, you have my number.’