Marriage Under Suspicion Read Free

business
    contact. Innocent, and potentially useful. End of story.
    Traffic was miraculously light, and she didn't hang about, finding herself at home almost
    before she'd dared hope, parking next to Ryan's Mercedes in the underground car park
    which served the development where their flat was sited.
    It was the top floor of what had once been a large warehouse, overlooking the river. In
    addition to a superb living area, which also contained the galley kitchen, a bathroom, and
    the room which Ryan used as his office, there was a wide gallery up a flight of wooden
    steps housing their bedroom, and a private bathroom. The floors were pale, sanded wood,
    the ceilings were high and vaulted, and every window had wonderful views.
    Each time she opened the front door, Kate felt a thrill of ownership buzz through her
    veins. It was light years away from the flat they'd had when they first married, she
    thought. That had been the basement of a Victorian house, where the floors creaked, the
    windows stuck, and the plumbing was eccentric. They'd spent the first year furnishing it,
    prowling around second-hand shops and markets to find exactly the pieces they wanted.
    But the eclectic mixture they'd assembled wouldn't have fitted in here, and they'd sold
    most of it on to the couple who'd bought the basement from them as well.
    Here, furnishings had been kept to a minimum, and clutter banished altogether. Kate had
    concentrated on shades of cream and ivory, with an occasional bold splash of
    Mediterranean colour. And it worked. A glossy magazine had suggested using the flat in
    a series on 'Working at Home', but rather to Kate's disappointment Ryan had refused to
    take part, saying simply he couldn't afford the disruption to his routine.
    Now, she used her key quietly, because Ryan would still be working, and it was
    important not to disturb him. He liked peace when he was writing, although he was
    reasonably tolerant of interruptions, especially when they came with a cup of coffee.
    I'll give him half an hour, and then take him some, Kate thought, dropping her briefcase
    on to a sofa.
    And she paused, as it occurred to her that things were altogether too quiet, too peaceful.
    She listened intently, but only silence came surging back to her.
    She cleared her throat. 'Ryan—are you there?' And, for the first time, was aware of a faint
    echo in all that vaulted emptiness.
    She thought, in bewilderment, but he must be here. He's always here. And besides, he
    didn't take the car.
    Across the room, she could see the answering machine's red light winking at her. When
    she played back the tape, she found just her own message, unheard.
    She checked the bedroom, and both bathrooms, then looked in Ryan's office to see if he'd
    left her a note, but there was nothing. His desk was clear.
    Of course, she thought. He wasn't expecting me until tomorrow.
    She felt absurdly deflated. She'd rushed back here like a mad thing to be with him, and he
    was somewhere else. What was more, there was no table booked at Chez Berthe, or
    anywhere for that matter.
    She sighed. She'd have to do something with pasta. Tuna, she thought, and anchovies,
    and there was some garlic bread in the freezer. She might as well make a start on it,
    because Ryan wouldn't be long—not if he hadn't taken the Merc.
    On the other hand, she realised, as she glanced restively around her, the flat was
    preternaturally tidy— unused even, as if no one had been there all day.
    Oh, stop it, she adjured herself. You're just disappointed. You don't have to be paranoid
    as well.
    She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She'd make herself a cup of coffee instead,
    and then begin the evening meal. Surprise him when he returned.
    As she turned off the tap, she saw the two crystal flutes upturned in the drainer.
    Her brows lifted. Champagne? she thought. But Ryan hardly ever drank champagne. He
    was a claret man. They'd spent their eventual honeymoon touring the Medoc.
    She set the