The Other Woman by Jill McGown Page B

was a solitary listed cottage which stood on the bypass, and with which Melissa had fallen in love when they had moved to the area. The view was non-existent tonight, he thought, as he looked at the soft cloak in which the town had wrapped itself.
    The front door opened directly into the living-room with the open staircase on the left; she wasn’t home yet. There was an odd quality to the emptiness of the house; an abandoned feel. Simon felt like he had when the floodlights had gone out, and it was the house that was doing it to him. Without Melissa, without even Robeson, yelling for food and wrapping himself round his legs, it didn’t have much to offer. Where was Melissa? Had something happened to her?
    He put the kettle on for coffee, chiding himself for being fanciful. She had said she was doing a late interview. Why in the world should he feel as though her absence were somehow sinister?
    He had had no idea that Sharon had any involvement with Jake Parker; perhaps they were just passing the time of day. But why would that make this other man react like that? If that was how it had happened. And no matter how you looked at it, Sharon was at the football match. Why? And why hadn’t she told him? She had said she was meeting someone – why wouldn’t she have said that that was where she was going?
    He made tea, and wished that Melissa would come home. He was worried about her. He glanced at the clock, a pool of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. He had been so relieved once again to find the house empty; it had given him a chance to think about what was happening without Melissa asking all the time what was wrong. But it was such a dreadful night; she could have had an accident. He could imagine the scorn with which he would be greeted if he were to start ringing hospitals, but it was really very late now.
    He pulled the telephone towards him, and dialled the number of the police station.
    â€˜Sergeant Woodford, please,’ he asked when he got through.
    â€˜Who’s calling?’
    â€˜Simon Whitworth.’ His hand gripped the receiver as he. waited for the call to be put through. If Melissa had had an accident, he’d—
    â€˜Woodford.’
    â€˜Ah … Sergeant Woodford. It’s … er … it’s Simon Whitworth here – I was in earlier to see Jake Parker?’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Whitworth.’
    â€˜Well … I hope this doesn’t sound too hysterical, but my wife – she did say she would be working late, but it’s almost half-past eleven now, and – that is, she works in Barton, you see. Well – she was interviewing someone, but I don’t know where that would be – it could have been anywhere in the county, really.’ He took a breath, aware that what he had just said probably hadn’t made any sense at all. ‘I wondered if you had had any accidents reported,’ he said.
    â€˜I can check for you, Mr Whitworth,’ he said, his voice entirely calm. ‘ One moment.’
    Simon’s foot tapped nervously on the floor as he waited once more, his ear cocked for the sound of a car engine that never came. Please Melissa, please. Don’t have had an accident.
    â€˜The good news is that we have had no serious accidents reported,’ Sergeant Woodford’s reassuring voice said.
    Her car could be in a ditch, unnoticed. She could be bleeding to death somewhere … Simon couldn’t bear it.
    â€˜If you can tell me the make and number of your wife’s car, we’ll certainly keep an eye out for it,’ he went on.
    Simon supplied the information, wondering in a detached way if they did that for everyone, or just for people with whom they happened to have a professional connection. He had a good relationship with the police, unlike some of his colleagues; his practice tended towards property and divorce, and he really only got involved in the criminal courts with people who had got themselves