Chapter 2

"I still don't understand how you wouldn't know we were looking for you, Mrs Bryant," Inspector Maynard said. "The search, and your husband's arrest, was in all the newspapers."

Lisa looked across at me. "They arrested you? Oh, Kevin, I'm so sorry. I didn't expect anything like that to happen. I left you a note."

"Yes, you did, computer printed and unsigned. No one believed it."

"Frankly, Mrs Byant, I'm having difficulty accepting that you didn't know about the search. It was in all the newspapers and your husband's arrest was carried by the foreign news media."

"Inspector, I was in a foreign country and couldn't speak the language. The only news I saw was on the television, and that was in French. I had no idea what was going on here."

"And you didn't much care," I added.

Lisa turned to me. "No, Kevin, to be completely honest, you're right. I didn't care what was happening here. We hadn't been on the same wave-length for years. You couldn't stand my friends, and I didn't have much interest in your life, but you have to believe me, I didn't want to cause you any trouble."

WPC Cavendish had left the room to use her radio. She came back and passed a paper to Inspector Maynard.

"Mrs Bryant."

"Will you stop calling her Mrs Bryant," I said "She's not Mrs Bryant—she's my ex-wife with the emphasis on the ex."

Lisa looked confused, and the inspector was stuck for words.

"Okay—Lisa, is that your Range Rover outside?"

"Yes, it is. Why?"

"Well, it seems the Spanish police have been looking for it and you, in connection with a death in a bordello in Malaga."

"He just died in the girl's room—it was nothing to do with me."

"So I believe. The case has been dropped. The post mortem said it was a heart attack. The Spanish police are a little annoyed with you for leaving the country while the case was still open."

"I just had to get away. Away from those horrible people. You were right about them, Kevin—they just use people to get what they want, then drop them."

"Okay, Mrs ... sorry, ... Lisa, I think we're done. We'd like you to come to the station sometime to provide a statement, but as far as I'm concerned it's case closed."

I walked inspector Maynard and the WPC to the door. As he left he turned and offered me his hand. "Thank you, Mr Bryant, and good luck for tomorrow."

"Thank you, Inspector. Goodbye."

I watched them go and heaved a sigh of relief. I closed the door and waited for the next visit.

I can't say I didn't miss Lisa, because I did. The house was empty, and you even miss the arguments when they're not there. However, things could have been worse. She'd left her bank and credit cards, so at least I didn't have to worry about her taking all our money. She even left her brand new Mini, something that pleased me because I was paying for it. I took some time off the following day and went in to the bank, surrendered Lisa's cards and took her name off the accounts. I took Lisa at her word. She'd said don't try to find me, so I didn't—I didn't even report her missing.

It was ten days later when Elliott called that things took a turn for the worse. Elliott couldn't believe his mother would just leave like that. He insisted on involving the police and came home to file a missing person report. That was when I first met Inspector Maynard. He seemed to be most interested in the fact that I hadn't reported her missing. After a couple of weeks he returned to tell me they'd got nowhere trying to find Lisa. None of the local taxi drivers had picked her up and they didn't think she'd used the bus. I laughed at the last statement. Lisa hadn't used a bus since the day we got married.

"Mr Bryant, do you have any idea where your wife would have gone, or who she might have left with?" he'd asked me.

"I have no idea and I don't much care, Inspector," had been my reply.

Of course, after that he wanted to know about our relationship and I told him the truth. I had been brought up to do that: "Tell the truth and shame the devil," my mum had always said. She'd obviously never dealt with a policeman eager to make a name for himself. My admission that we were like two people who shared a house and sometimes had sex didn't do me any good. I knew something was afoot two days later when I left for work and found half the world's press camped on my front lawn. As I walked to the garage I could hear shouts from the reporters.

"Where is your wife, Mr Bryant?"

"Is she dead, Mr Bryant?"

"Are you a suspect, Mr Bryant?"

I backed my old Skoda out of the garage, and as I went back to close the door I got more of the same questions fired at me. As I got back in the car I simply said, "You people know as much, if not more, than I do."

I was in a meeting with Bob Danvers when Maynard turned up again.

"Mr Bryant, I have here a warrant to search your house and grounds, and another to impound and examine your car. I must ask you to accompany me back to your house in order to guarantee full access."

I looked at Bob and sighed, rolling my eyes. "Look, Inspector, if you want to search my house that's fine. Here are my keys and these are the keys for the car. You'll find it in the car park. I really don't think you need me." I handed over both sets of keys. "Now, Inspector, Mr Danvers and I have important business to discuss."

What followed took me completely by surprise. Inspector Maynard took hold of my left hand and clamped one side of a pair of handcuffs on my wrist.

"Kevin Bryant, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Lisa Bryant. You're not obliged to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Now please stand, sir, and put your hands behind you."

I did as instructed, the other cuff was locked on my right wrist and I was led from the room. As I went out of the door Bob called out to me. "I'll call the company lawyer. Don't say anything until he gets there."

For two days they kept me in the cells at the police station with several interviews each day. I followed Bob Danvers instructions and refused to say anything without my solicitor present. At the end of two days Maynard applied to the court for more time to question me, but my solicitor challenged him to produce any evidence that a crime had actually been committed. Maynard had to accept that there was no evidence and I was released. Someone had tipped off the press and there was a gang of photographers waiting as I walked out to the waiting cab.

When the taxi pulled up outside my house I could hardly believe my eyes. The garden and the house were cordoned off with tape bearing the legend 'Crime Scene—Do Not Cross'. The gate to the back garden was off its hinges and the front door was open. I used my phone to take photos. I asked the taxi driver to wait while I packed a case. Walking straight through the tape, I entered my house. The sight was unbelievable. Downstairs the carpets had been ripped up and I could see two mechanical diggers and a number of policemen digging large holes in my garden. The patio had already been ripped up. I was about to go up to my bedroom when a policeman came down the stairs.

"What are you doing here? Can't you fucking read? It says, 'Crime Scene—DO NOT CROSS'."

"First, there has been no crime, and second, this is my house. I LIVE HERE."

The policeman used his radio to ask permission to let me in, then looked back at me. "Why are you here?"

"Well, I certainly can't live here, so I need to pack a case to move out."

"He says he needs to pack a case, sir," he said into the radio.

"Okay. Sir, you can do that, but I have to supervise you so I can check what you take."

Upstairs, all the carpets had been ripped up, there were floorboards up in every room and a ladder up to the loft hatch. I took photos as I went. In the bedroom I found the contents of my wardrobe draped over the bed and the contents of the drawers spread about the room. As best I could, I collected up what clothes I needed. My suitcase was already out on the floor, and I put what I could find into it. I got back in the taxi and asked the driver to take me to a hotel.

The next day I saw my picture splashed across the tabloid newspapers. One, the Morning Post, captioned the photo with the headline "Getting away with Murder". The bastards will pay for that, I thought. When I got into work I walked across the factory floor and someone started clapping. As more people noticed me the applause grew louder. As I reached the door to the offices I turned, took a very theatrical bow and the applause turned to laughter. Sally, my secretary, welcomed me with a kiss on the cheek.

"I knew it couldn't be true," she told me as she put a cup of coffee down on the desk.