“I’m worried.” Jeff poured himself a third tumbler of Laphroaig from Gunther’s decanter. He couldn’t face the thought of sleeping at Eaton Square—Tracy wouldn’t be back anytime soon, and their bedroom had become the scene of the crime—and Gunther had offered him a bed. Secretly Jeff hoped that eventually Tracy might also turn up on Gunther’s doorstep and Gunther could act as referee while they worked things out. Because they would work things out. The alternative was unthinkable.
“What if something’s happened to her?”
“Tracy can take care of herself,” said Gunther. “Besides, something has happened to her. She’s walked in on her hubby in bed with another woman.”
“We weren’t in bed.”
“Near enough. Who is this ghastly strumpet anyway?”
“She’s not ghastly and she’s not a strumpet,” said Jeff. “Her name’s Rebecca, but she’s not important here.”
Gunther arched a dubious eyebrow. “Apparently that isn’t Tracy’s take on things.”
“Jesus, Gunther, not you too? I told you, Tracy’s the one who’s been having an affair, okay? Not me.”
“Hmm.” Gunther frowned. “Yes. You did say that.”
He found it terribly hard to believe that Tracy would cheat on Jeff. On the other hand, perhaps this was only because he deeply, desperately didn’t want to believe it. Gunther Hartog was old and wise enough to know that every human being is capable of infidelity. Rationally, one must assume that professional con artists like Tracy and Jeff were more capable than most. And Tracy had been depressed lately, not at all herself.
“She’s been lying to me for months,” said Jeff. “Yesterday I saw hard evidence with my own eyes. It’s all on video, Gunther. CCTV. I’m not making this up. It was only after I saw the truth in black and white that I . . . I slipped, with Rebecca.”
“You’ve never slept with her before?”
“Never! I might have been tempted,” Jeff admitted. “But I never touched her.”
“Would you have slept with her,” Gunther asked, “ . . . if Tracy hadn’t walked in?”
“Probably,” said Jeff. “Yes. I would. Tracy broke my heart, for God’s sake! Not that any of that matters now anyway, because Tracy’s taken off into the night.” He ran a hand despairingly through his thick, dark hair. “It’s a mess.”
“You really think she’s been sleeping with this doctor chappie?”
“I know she has,” Jeff said grimly.
“But you still want her back?”
“Of course I do. She’s my wife and I love her. I’m pretty sure she loves me too, despite everything. This baby stuff has thrown us both for a loop.”
“Well . . .” The old man smiled. “That being the case, you will find her. Try not to panic, old boy. Tracy will turn up.”
TRACY DIDN’T TURN UP.
Not that day, not that week, not the next week.
Jeff took a leave of absence from the museum. He knocked on every door of every contact of Tracy’s, however tenuous. Fences and appraisers and restorers whom they’d worked with in the past. Staff at the various prisoners’ charities to which Tracy gave money. Even her personal trainer got a call from a distraught and red-eyed Jeff.
“If I’d seen her, I’d tell you, honest.” Karen, a bubbly bottle blonde from Essex, couldn’t imagine what would possess any woman to run out on a bloke as fit as Jeff Stevens. Even a beauty like Tracy couldn’t hope to do better than that, surely? “But she ain’t been ’ere. Not for weeks.”
Finally Jeff stormed into 77 Harley Street.
“I want to see Dr. Alan McBride. The bastard’s been screwing my wife.”
All the women in the waiting room put down their copies of Country Life and stared at him, shocked. At least Jeff assumed they were shocked. Most of them were in their forties, hence the trip to the fertility clinic, and had had far too much Botox injected around their eyes to be able to register more than mild surprise.
“They’ve been having an affair and now my wife’s gone missing,” Jeff ranted at the hapless receptionist. “I want to know what McBride knows.”
“I can s
ee you’re upset, sir.”