Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

BELGRAVIA WAS PARTICULARLY BEAUTIFUL in the springtime, Jeff Stevens thought as he set out from Eaton Square in the direction of Hyde Park. The cherry trees lining the Georgian streets were all in bloom, an eruption of white that mirrored the white stucco facades and laid a snowy carpet over the uneven paving stones. Frequent rain had left the grass in Chester and Belgrave Square a glowing, vibrant green. And everywhere ­people seemed cheerful and renewed, grateful to have emerged from another long, gray, relentless London winter.

For Jeff and Tracy Stevens, the winter had been longer than most. Tracy’s miscarriage had hit both of them hard, but Jeff carried an extra burden of guilt, afraid that it was the fight they’d had over that stupid Mercian coin that had triggered it. He had discreetly returned the coin months ago, and no one at the British Museum had been any the wiser. But the damage that had been done to his relationship with Tracy was not so easy to fix.

They still loved each other. Of that there was no doubt. But the coin incident had forced them both to realize that they’d been papering over some pretty seismic cracks within the marriage. Perhaps it was Tracy’s struggle to conceive that had obscured them? Or Jeff’s total immersion in his new job? Or both? Whatever the cause, the bottom line was that Jeff had changed since they gave up their old life of heists and capers. And Tracy, fundamentally, had not.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t prepared to give up the actual act of committing crimes. That she could do. The stealing of the Saxon coin had been a one-­shot deal, which she had no intention of repeating. It was more that there was a part of her identity, an important part, that she didn’t want to let go of. Jeff, at long last, was starting to understand this.

He still hoped that a child would eventually fill the void for Tracy, the way that his passion for antiquities had filled the void for him. They began IVF with high hopes. But as one cycle failed, and then a second, Jeff could only stand by and watch helplessly as the dark sadness inside his wife grew bigger and bigger, like a tumor nothing seemed able to stop.

Jeff tried to make Tracy whole with his love. He started coming home early from work, took her on romantic vacations and surprised her with all sorts of thoughtful gifts: a vintage oil painting of the quarter of New Orleans where Tracy had grown up; a beautiful leather-­bound book on the history of flamenco, the dance to which Jeff and Tracy had first fallen in love; a pair of jet earrings from the Whitby coast, where the two of them had once spent a memorably awful weekend in a dreadful hotel, but where Tracy had become intoxicated with the wild, moorland landscape.

Tracy was touched by all of them. But the sadness remained.

“It sounds like depression,” Rebecca suggested tentatively, listening to Jeff pour his heart out over tea in the museum café. “Has she seen anybody?”

“Like a shrink, you mean? No. Tracy doesn’t believe in all that stuff.”

“Yeah, well. Unfortunately mental illness happens, whether you believe in it or not,” said Rebecca. “Having someone to talk to might help.”

“She has me to talk to,” said Jeff. Rebecca could hear the despair in his voice.

“Maybe there are things she can’t talk to you about.” Reaching across the table, she squeezed Jeff’s hand.

Rebecca Mortimer had tried not to feel attracted to Jeff Stevens. It was unprofessional. But after months of working in close proximity to his gorgeous gray eyes and jet-­black curls, his easy manner and his warm, infectious laugh, she’d given up the effort. How awful it must be to be married to a withdrawn, depressed wife who resented your work and shut you out emotionally. If she, Rebecca, had a husband like Jeff, she’d treat him like a king.

Jeff glanced up, as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “You know what? Maybe she is seeing someone. Maybe she has a shrink and is embarrassed to tell me. That would explain a lot.”

“Explain a lot of what?” Rebecca asked.

“She’s been . . . I don’t know. Cagey, recently. Like she has these mysterious meetings and won’t tell me where she is. Or she comes home late and she seems kind of happier. Less stressed.”

Rebecca nodded silently. Inside she thought, Well, well, well. I wonder if the perfect Mrs. Stevens has a boyfriend on the side? It was typical of Jeff that such a thought had clearly never even crossed his mind. Jeff Stevens worshipped his wife. But perhaps the goddess Tracy was about to come crashing down off her pedestal.

Jeff had reached the park now. When the weather was fine he often walked all the way to work, but he was already late this morning, so he hopped on the number nineteen bus.

Rebecca greeted him when he came in. She and Jeff shared an office on the second floor of the museum. If you could call it an office. It was really more of a broom closet, with room for only one desk and two chairs wedged side by side.

“Hey.” Rebecca handed him a cup of coffee, strong and black the way he liked it.

“Hey.”

In a pair of tight black jeans and a bottle-­green sleeveless top that contrasted strikingly with her titian hair, Jeff noticed she was looking particularly beautiful this morning. He also noticed that she seemed unhappy about something. She was biting her lower lip nervously and avoiding meeting his eye.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I set up meetings with two different restorers for those Celtic manuscripts. I thought we could—­”

“Celtic schmeltic,” said Jeff. “Don’t bullshit me. What’s on your mind?”

Rebecca closed the office door and leaned back against it. “I’m scared if I tell you, you’ll hate me.”

The surprise registered on Jeff’s face. “I won’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”

“I don’t know. ­People have been known to shoot the messenger. I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip. But I . . . I’m worried about you. I don’t like to see you being lied to.”

Jeff frowned and sat down. “Okay. So now you have to tell me. What’s this about?” Had someone in the museum been bad-­mouthing him? Was someone after his job? It wouldn’t be unheard of. He was an amateur, after all, in a senior position. Perhaps one of his colleagues was—­

“It’s Tracy.”

Jeff flinched as if he’d been stung.

“What about Tracy?”

“Last week, you told me she’d gone away to Yorkshire for the night. Some walking tour.”

“That’s right,” said Jeff.

“No. It isn’t.” Rebecca blushed scarlet. “I saw her.”

“What do you mean you saw her? Where?”

“In London. In Piccadilly, actually. It was the evening I left early to meet my mother, remember? I saw Tracy coming out of a restaurant. She was with a man and they were laughing and joking and—­”

Jeff held up a hand. “You must be mistaken. It was probably someone who looked like her from a distance.”

“I wasn’t at a distance.” Rebecca spoke quietly, clearly terrified of provoking him. “I was right there. It was her, Jeff. She didn’t see me because she was too wrapped up in this guy she was with.”

Jeff stood up. “I appreciate you telling me,” he said with a stiff smile. “And I’m not angry because I know you meant well. But I assure you you’re mistaken. Tracy was in Yorkshire last week. Now, I’d better get down to the manuscript room. I’m twenty minutes late as it is.”

Rebecca stepped aside and he walked out, closing the door firmly behind him.

Damn it, thought Rebecca.

THE NEXT THREE WEEKS were torture for Jeff. He knew he ought to go home and confront Tracy after what Rebecca had told him. Not because he believed Rebecca. It was a mistake, it had to be. But so that Tracy could reassure him. Jeff needed that reassurance desperately, like a flower needs sunlight and water. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. Whenever he tried, all he could think about was Louise.

Louise Hollander, a stunning heiress whose father had owned half of Central America, had been Jeff Stevens’s first wife. She had taken the lead in their courtship, chasing him relentlessly until he had given in. Jeff had genuinely loved her, despite her money rather than because of it. When he first overheard gossip about Louise’s affairs, he’d dismissed it. Louise’s friends were spiteful snobs, who wanted their marriage to fail. But soon the rumors grew from whispers to a deafening roar and Jeff had no option but to face the truth.

Louise Hollander broke Jeff’s heart. He vowed never, ever to become emotionally vulnerable to a woman again. And then he met Tracy Whitney and realized he’d never really loved Louise after all. Tracy was Jeff’s world, the mother he lost, the lover he dreamed of, the sparring partner he’d never been able to find.

Tracy wouldn’t deceive me. She couldn’t.

Tracy loves me.

Rebecca must be wrong.

And yet, something was up with Tracy. Jeff had felt it before Rebecca even said anything. He’d felt it for months. The missed dinners, the trips, the unexplained meetings, the total and utter lack of interest in sex.

Two weeks after Rebecca’s bombshell Jeff finally found the courage to make an oblique reference to Tracy’s Yorkshire trip. They were in bed, reading, when he blurted it out.

“When you went away a ­couple of weeks ago by yourself, didn’t you feel lonely?”

“Lonely?” Tracy raised an eyebrow. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Jeff moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her. “Maybe you missed me.”

“It was only one night, darling.”

“I missed you.” He ran a hand down her bare back before slipping it beneath the elastic of her Elle Macpherson panties. “I still miss you, Tracy.”

“What do you mean?” Tracy laughed, wriggling away from his hand. “You have me. I’m right here.”

Are you? thought Jeff.

Tracy turned out the light.

Whereas before, work had been a welcome respite from the emotional tension at home, now Jeff felt almost as ill at ease with Rebecca as he did with Tracy. He’d promised not to shoot the messenger. And yet on some, unconscious level, he realized he was angry with the beautiful young intern. Rebecca was wrong about Tracy. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet she’d sown a seed of doubt in Jeff’s heart that refused to die. Well meaning or not, in one fell swoop Rebecca had shattered his equilibrium, leaving him feeling awkward and out of place at the British Museum as well as at Eaton Square.

One rainy morning, Jeff arrived at their joint office dripping wet—­he’d forgotten his umbrella and couldn’t face going back home to retrieve it—­to find Rebecca packing up her things.

“What’s going on?”

Stuffing the last of her books into a cardboard box, Rebecca handed him a stiff white envelope. She forced herself to smile.

“No hard feelings, boss. I’ve had an incredible time working with you. But we both know we can’t go on like this.”

“Go on like what?” said Jeff. Irrationally, he found he felt even angrier than usual. “You’re resigning?”

“I’m leaving,” said Rebecca. “I believe it’s only called resigning if you get paid.”

“Because of me?” For the first time, Jeff felt a stab of guilt.

“I think you’re amazing,” said Rebecca. To Jeff’s astonishment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him, just once, on the lips. The kiss wasn’t long but it was heartfelt. Jeff was embarrassed by how instantly aroused it made him.

“Look . . .” he began.

Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t. Please.” She handed him an unmarked disk. “Watch this, after I’m gone. If you ever want to talk, you have my numbers.”

Jeff took the disk and the letter, staring at them both dumbly. It was a lot to take in at nine o’clock in the morning. Before he’d recovered enough to say anything, Rebecca was gone.

Depressed and exhausted suddenly, he sank down into his chair. Outside, the rain was still beating down relentlessly. The splatter of droplets on the tiny single window above his desk sounded like a hail of bullets.

What’s happened to my life? Jeff thought miserably. I feel like I’m under attack.

Switching on his computer, he slipped the disk inside.

Within ten minutes, he’d watched the footage five times. Then he read Rebecca’s letter.

He stood up, his feet unsteady beneath him, and opened the office door. He started walking down the corridor. After a few seconds he broke into a jog, then a run. The elevators took forever, so he bounded down the south stairs, two at a time.

“Did you see Rebecca Mortimer?”

The girl at the front desk looked startled.

“Hello, Mr. Stevens. Is everything all right? You look—­”

“Rebecca!” Jeff panted. “Did you see her leave the building?”

“Yes. She was saying good-­bye to some of the staff in the café, but she just left. I think she was heading toward the tube on . . .”

Jeff was already sprinting out of the double doors.

TRACY WALKED DOWN MARYLEBONE High Street with only a flimsy umbrella to protect her from the torrential rain, but nothing could dampen her spirits. It had been a long day but a wonderful one. She looked around for a cab.

It had been so long since she’d felt this happy, so long since she’d felt happy at all, that she almost didn’t know what to do with herself. There was a part of her that felt guilty about Jeff. Poor Jeff. He’d tried so hard to understand her grief over losing their baby. Tracy could see the effort he was making, but somehow that made everything twenty times worse. None of this was Jeff’s fault.

But it isn’t my fault either. I can’t help who I am. And I can’t stop needing what I need.

Alan understood. Alan got it, got her, in ways that Jeff never could.

Tracy had seen him again today. It had reached the point where simply being in the room with him had the capacity to make her happy, and hopeful for the future. Perhaps that was the key. Hope. Tracy had tried, she really had, but she’d felt so trapped in her married life with Jeff since they got back to London, so hopeless. Forty-­five Eaton Square, the home that used to be her sanctuary, had become a prison.

No more.

Tracy was on her way home now to talk to Jeff. She was nervous, but at the same time she wanted to tell him. Needed to tell him, to unburden herself at last. Just the thought of peeling off her wet clothes, climbing into the shower and washing away the pain of the past year filled her with a profound sense of relief.

No more secrets.

It was time for the next chapter to begin.

THE LIGHTS WERE OFF when she got back to the house. Jeff didn’t usually get home till seven or eight and would probably be later tonight since he wasn’t expecting her back. Tracy hadn’t known what time she would leave Alan’s, so had made up a story about dinner with a girlfriend.

That will be the last lie I tell him, she resolved, climbing the stairs. From now on it would be honesty all the way.

She pushed open the door to the master bedroom and froze. For a moment, quite a long moment actually, time stood completely still. Tracy’s eyes were sending one message to her brain, but something—­her heart, perhaps—­kept intercepting the signal and sending it back. This is what I am seeing, her brain seemed to be telling her, but it cannot be true.

She was so silent and still, barely even breathing, that it took Jeff a few moments to realize she was standing there. When he did, and their eyes finally met, he was standing by the window, locked in a passionate embrace with an utterly oblivious Rebecca Mortimer.

They were both still dressed, but Rebecca’s shirt was half unbuttoned, and Jeff’s hands were on her back as they kissed passionately. When Jeff saw Tracy and tried to pull away, Rebecca grabbed him like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft.

Stupidly, Tracy’s first thought was She has an amazing figure. Rebecca was wearing spray-­on jeans that she was clearly itching for Jeff to help her out of. It was as if the whole thing was a scene in an erotic play. Some sort of fiction, from which Tracy could detach herself. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

The real Jeff, my Jeff, would never do that to me.

It was only when Rebecca turned, saw Tracy and screamed that the illusion shattered.

“How could you?” Tracy looked witheringly at Jeff.

“How could I? How could you?”

Straightening his hair, Jeff walked toward his wife looking as aggrieved as it was possible for someone to look with lipstick smeared all over his face and neck.

“You started it!”

“I-I . . . what?” Tracy stammered. “You’re in our bedroom with another woman!”

“Only because you’ve been having an affair with your fertility doctor!”

Tracy looked at him first with bafflement, then with disgust.

“Don’t try to deny it!” Jeff shouted at her.

“You make me sick,” said Tracy. As if seducing his intern wasn’t bad enough, now Jeff was trying to turn this around onto her? “How long has this been going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

Tracy laughed, a loud, brittle, ugly laugh with no joy in it. This can’t be happening. She couldn’t bring herself to look directly at Rebecca. But out of the corner of her eye she could have sworn she saw a distinct gleam of triumph in the younger woman’s eyes. Wrapping her anger around her like a cloak, Tracy turned on her heel and fled.

“Tracy! Wait!”

Pulling on a pair of shoes, Jeff ran after her. He heard the front door slam as he raced downstairs and chased her out into the street. It was still raining, and the pavement felt slippery and slick beneath his bare feet.

“For God’s sake, Tracy!” He grabbed her arm. Tracy struggled but couldn’t break his grip. “Why can’t you admit it? I know I was wrong to kiss Rebecca—­”

“Kiss her? You were about to do a lot more than kiss her, Jeff! You were in our bedroom, all over that girl like a rash! If I hadn’t walked in . . .”

“What? If you hadn’t walked in, what? I’d have slept with her? Like you did with Dr. Alan McBride?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re a liar!” There were tears in Jeff’s eyes. “I saw the footage, Tracy. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“What footage? What are you talking about?”

“YOU, coming out of the Berkeley Hotel with that man. That bastard! The two of you, kissing in the street at two in the morning. The same day you claimed to be in Yorkshire. You lied to me. And then you have the gall to accuse me of having an affair!”

Tracy closed her eyes. She felt as if she were going mad. But then she remembered that this was Jeff’s signature, the way he always used to work, back in the old days. Baffling and bamboozling his victims till they couldn’t tell up from down or right from wrong.

I’m no victim, Tracy thought. I’m not one of your dumb “marks.” This is about you, not me. You and that damn girl.

“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she said. “But the only man I’ve slept with in the last four years is you, Jeff.”

“That’s a lie, Tracy, and you know it. You and McBride . . .”

Tracy lost her temper. “Don’t say his name! Don’t you dare. Alan’s a decent man. An honest man. Unlike you. Go back to your girlfriend, Jeff.”

With a sharp tug, she pulled her arm free and ran.

HOURS PASSED AND THE rain kept falling. Tracy had no idea where she was going, or why. Soon it was completely dark. Eventually she found herself on Gunther Hartog’s street, staring up at his splendid, redbrick house. Just around the corner from his Mount Street antiques shop, Gunther Hartog’s Mayfair home was one of Tracy’s safe places, her happy places. She and Jeff had spent many long, drunken, convivial evenings there, discussing jobs they’d done or planning new capers.

Me and Jeff.

The ground-­floor lights were all on. Gunther would be in his study, no doubt, reading books on politics and art late into the night. Jeff used to call him the best-­educated crook in London.

Jeff. Damn old Jeff. He’s everywhere.

For the first time all evening, Tracy gave way to tears. The image of Jeff with that awful girl in his arms would never leave her. They were in our bedroom. He was about to make love to her, I know he was. For all I know he’s done it hundreds of times before. Her natural instinct was to want to claw Rebecca’s eyes out, but she checked herself. I refuse to be one of those women who blame the other woman. Why should a young girl like that respect Jeff’s wedding vows if he doesn’t? No, Jeff’s the bad guy here. He’s the liar.

A small voice inside her dared to remind her that she’d been lying too But Tracy snuffed it out.

Hold on to the anger, she told herself. Don’t let go.

She couldn’t barge into Gunther’s house and seek comfort there. She couldn’t go home. Some wild, irrational part of her wanted to knock on Alan McBride’s door. He always made her feel so safe. But Dr. McBride had his own family, his own life. She knew she shouldn’t intrude.

I’m on my own, thought Tracy. Then, reaching down to stroke her barely swelling belly, she edited the thought.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” she said aloud. “I meant we’re on our own. But you mustn’t worry. Mommy will take care of you. Mommy will always take care of you.”

JEFF WOKE THE NEXT morning feeling like he’d been hit by a truck.

Rebecca had left right after Tracy.

“I can stay if you want,” she’d offered hopefully.

“No. Go back to your apartment,” Jeff told her. “And go back to work tomorrow. If anyone’s leaving the museum, it’s me, not you.”

She’d done as she was asked, for now. Jeff knew he would have to deal with the situation eventually. But one crisis at a time.

He tried Tracy’s cell phone. Turned off, of course. Then he tried her friends, acquaintances, contacts from the old days. After twelve hours he had made no progress. No one had seen or heard from her, not even Gunther.

“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 see you’re upset, sir.”

“That’s very observant of you.”

“But I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s—­”

“Busy? Yes, I’ll bet he is.” Ignoring the receptionist’s protests, he barged his way into the doctor’s office.

The room was empty. Or so Jeff thought, until he heard voices, a man and a woman’s. They were coming from behind a green curtain that had been drawn around an examination table at the back of the room. Marching over, Jeff ripped back the curtain.

He saw three things in quick succession.

The first was a woman’s vagina.

The second was the same woman’s face, propped up on a pillow, her expression slowly transitioning from surprise to embarrassment to outrage.

And the third was a doctor.

The doctor was about sixty-­five, heavyset and, Jeff guessed, Persian. He did not look happy. More importantly, he was not Dr. Alan McBride.

“I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly. “Wrong room.”

Back in the waiting room, the receptionist glared at him.

“As I was saying, I’m afraid Dr. McBride’s on holiday.”

“Where?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“WHERE?” Jeff bellowed.

The girl crumbled. “Morocco. With his family.”

So he has a family, does he? Bastard.

“When will he be back?”

The receptionist regained her composure. “I must ask you to leave now, sir. This is a doctor’s office, and you’re upsetting our patients.”

“Tell McBride I’ll be back,” said Jeff. “This isn’t over.”

Outside, he walked along Harley Street in a daze. Where are you, Tracy? Where in God’s name are you? He took a cab to Eaton Square as he did every day, just in case Tracy had decided to return to the house. His heart soared when he saw a woman standing in the front garden, bending low over the rosebushes, but as he approached he saw that it wasn’t Tracy.

“Can I help you?”

The woman turned around. She was in her early forties, blond and had the sort of hard, overly made-­up face and heavily lacquered hair that Jeff usually associated with newscasters.

“Who are you?” she asked him rudely.

“I’m Jeff Stevens. This is my house. Who are you?”

Newscaster lady handed him a business card. It read: Helen Flint. Partner, Foxtons.

“You’re a real estate agent?”

“That’s right. A Mrs. Tracy Stevens has instructed me to put this property on the market. My understanding was that she is the sole legal owner. Is that not correct?”

“No. It’s correct,” said Jeff, his heart beating faster. “The house is in Tracy’s name. When did she instruct you to sell it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“This morning,” Helen Flint replied briskly. Pulling out a house key from her Anya Hindmarch handbag, she began unlocking the front door. Now that Jeff had confirmed the fact that he wasn’t a co-­owner, he’d become an irritation.

“Did you see her?” Jeff asked. “In person?”

Ignoring him, the agent punched in a code to turn off the alarm and walked into the kitchen, taking notes. Jeff followed.

“I asked you a question,” he said, grabbing her by the elbow. “Did my wife come to your offices this morning?”

Helen Flint looked at him as if he were something unpleasant that was stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Let go of me or I’ll call the police.”

Jeff did as she asked. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife’s been missing for more than two weeks. I’ve been terribly worried about her.”

“Yes, well. Your personal problems are none of my business. But in answer to your question, your wife instructed me by telephone. We haven’t met.”

“Did she say where she was calling from?” asked Jeff.

“No.”

“Well, did she leave a number, at least?”

“She did not. I have an e-­mail address. She said that would be the best way to contact her.” On the back of another card, the agent scribbled something down. “Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Stevens, I really must get on.”

Jeff looked at the card. His heart plunged for a second time. It was a Hotmail address, generic and untraceable.

“If she contacts you again, Miss Flint, please ask her to get in touch with me. It’s really very important.”

The real estate agent gave Jeff a look that clearly translated as Not to me it isn’t.

Jeff went back to Gunther’s.

“At least you know she’s alive and well.” Gunther tried to get Jeff to look on the bright side at dinner.

“Alive and well and selling our house,” said Jeff. “She’s dismantling our life together, Gunther. Without even talking to me. That’s not fair. That’s not the Tracy I know.”

“I suspect she’s still very hurt.”

“So am I!”

It pained Gunther to see Jeff fighting back tears.

“I have to find her,” he said eventually. “I have to. There must be something I’ve missed.”

REBECCA MORTIMER WAS GETTING ready for bed when the doorbell to her apartment rang.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Jeff Stevens’s gruff, gravelly voice on the other side of the door made her heart skip a beat. “Sorry to come by so late. It’s important.”

Rebecca opened the door.

“Jeff! What a lovely surprise.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He followed her into a living room littered with half-­drunk cups of coffee and books on Celtic manuscripts. Rebecca’s hair was wet from the shower and the nightshirt she was wearing clung in places to her still-­damp skin. Jeff tried not to notice the way it rode up when she sat down on the sofa, exposing the smooth, supple skin of her upper thighs.

“The disk you gave me,” said Jeff. “The footage of Tracy with McBride. Where did you get it?”

For a moment Rebecca looked nonplussed. Then she said, “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

She hesitated. “I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

“I’d be betraying a friend. It’s complicated but . . . you’ll just have to trust me.”

Now it was Jeff’s turn to hesitate. “Do you have another copy?”

Rebecca looked surprised. “Yes. Why?”

“I destroyed the original you gave me. I was angry and I wasn’t thinking straight. But I’d like to look at it again. I’m hoping there might be some clue in there, something I missed the first time that might help me find Tracy. Can I have it?”

Rebecca pouted. “All right.” She’d hoped, assumed, that Jeff had come here tonight to see her. Doing her best to mask her disappointment, she walked over to her desk drawer. Pulling out a disk, she handed it to him.

“She doesn’t love you, you know.”

Jeff winced.

“Not like I do.”

He looked at Rebecca, genuinely surprised.

“You don’t love me. You barely even know me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is. Believe me. Besides, I’m far too old for you.”

“Says who?” Rebecca coiled herself around him like a cobra, kissing him with a passion that caught Jeff completely off guard. She was a gorgeous girl, but he wasn’t ready for this. Gently but firmly, he pushed her away.

“I’m married,” he said. “What happened between us the other day—­”

“Almost happened,” Rebecca corrected him.

“Almost happened,” Jeff agreed. “Well, it shouldn’t have. I was hurt and angry, and you’re a beautiful girl. But I love my wife.”

“Your wife’s a whore!” Rebecca’s sweet, innocent features twisted suddenly into an ugly mask of jealousy and rage. Jeff stepped away from her, shocked. He had never seen this side of her before.

A horrible thought struck him. As if someone had cut the cable of an elevator he was taking, he felt his stomach lurch and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“How did you get the footage?” he asked again. “Tell me!”

“I won’t!” snapped Rebecca. “Can’t you see you’re missing the point here? Tracy’s been screwing around behind your back. That’s the headline. Who cares how I caught her. The point is I did. I did it because I care about you, Jeff. I love you!”

But Jeff was already gone, the disk clutched tightly in his hand.

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THE next morning, Jeff sat in Victor Litchenko’s basement office in Pimlico, staring at a screen.

Victor was an old friend and one of the top audiovisual experts in the London underworld. A master at doctoring footage, both images and sound, Victor Litchenko described himself as a “digital artist.” Few who’d worked with him disagreed.

“It’s actually not a bad piece of work,” the Russian said at last, sipping at the double espresso Jeff had brought him. “The most common mistake amateurs make is to go for something too complex. But here she simply doctored the time line and changed the lighting. Very easy. Very effective.”

“So it is Tracy?”

“It is Tracy. The footage itself is genuine, nothing’s been superimposed or patched together. All she did was to change the time clock in the bottom right-­hand corner. You think this was shot at two A.M. because there’s a set of numbers there telling you so. If you strip those out, like so”—­he tapped a few keys—­“and remove the superimposed shadowing she used like . . . so . . .” Some more tapping. “Voilà! Now, what do you see?”

Jeff frowned. “I see the same exact thing but in the daytime. There’s Tracy, coming out of the hotel. And there’s her lover.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Victor interrupted him. “Look again. What makes you think that’s her lover?”

“Well, they’re . . . She kisses him. Right there,” said Jeff.

“On the cheek,” said Victor. “How many women do you kiss on the cheek every day? And then what happens?” He fast-­forwarded the footage in slow motion. “They embrace. A friendly hug. They part ways. Shall I tell you what that looks like to me?”

“What?” Jeff’s mouth felt dry.

“It looks like two friends having lunch.”

Jeff watched the footage again, slowly.

“It’s the oldest trick in the book, and one of the best,” said Victor. “I’ve used it in countless divorce cases. A man and a woman coming out of a hotel at two A.M. and embracing, after the woman’s told her husband she’s spending the night three hundred miles away? That’s an affair. But edit the circumstances just a little, and what have you got?”

Jeff’s voice was a whisper. “Nothing.”

Victor Litchenko nodded. “Exactly. Nothing at all.”

THE DESK CLERK AT the British Museum smiled warmly.

“Mr. Stevens! Welcome back.”

Jeff hurried past her up to his office and pulled open the door.

His desk had been dusted but otherwise was exactly as he’d left it the day he stormed out. The day he last saw Tracy.

Rebecca’s desk was empty.

All her things were gone.

IT TOOK HIM TWENTY minutes to reach Rebecca’s building. Ignoring the bell to her flat—­no warnings, not this time—­Jeff pulled a hairpin out of his jacket pocket and expertly picked the lock.

Once inside, he slipped upstairs, ready to break into the apartment itself and confront Rebecca. The bitch had deliberately deceived him, sabotaging his marriage and playing him for a fool. When he thought about how close he’d come to sleeping with her, he felt physically sick. But that was all in the past now. Now Jeff knew the truth. Now he was going to make her pay. He was going to find Tracy, and force Rebecca to tell her the whole truth. Tracy would still be angry, of course. She had every right to be. But when she saw how desperately sad and sorry he was for ever doubting her, when she realized what a Machiavellian, twisted young woman Rebecca Mortimer really was . . .

Jeff stopped outside Rebecca’s flat. The door was wide open.

He stepped inside. The place looked like a bomb had hit it, clothes and books and trash strewn everywhere.

An elderly Indian man looked surprised to see him.

“If you’re looking for the young lady, she’s gone, sir. Took off last night and told the security guard she won’t be back.” He shook his head bitterly. “No scruples, these young ­people. She still owed me three months’ rent.”