Page 4

CHAPTER FOUR

T he words all swirled together as if someone had dropped ink into water.

Robert blinked, trying to ease the strain. His entire body had begun hurting a while ago, and now parts of his legs had fallen numb from sitting in one position for too long.

Compared to what Anne must’ve suffered though, his discomfort was like peeling the skin from around your nails.

The worst part was that the words Dickheadson had chucked his way were true: Robert had been a bad husband. Despite everything he’d promised Anne and everything he’d sworn to himself, he had fallen short. Just like his own father had.

After her first miscarriage, Anne had needed him. But hearing her cry herself to sleep constantly had sent him begging for the night shift. When he’d find his way home after a long shift, they’d argue over more and more inconsequential things, and then he’d keel over and fall asleep.

Hell, the day before she died, they’d had a blazing row about the washing-up liquid he’d purchased.

Two years ago, he’d told himself they both needed space to cool off and grieve. But that space had lasted longer than he’d expected.

Robert rubbed his eyes, trying to massage the pain away, but it intensified into a headache. He should quit and go get some sleep… Staring at the screen for eighteen hours straight hadn’t given him the answers. What’s to say another hour would?

He pulled up the notes he’d gathered so far. The building where the ‘accident’ had occurred appeared to be a mostly abandoned dump. A barely legit nightclub occupied the ground and basement. The alarm had been sounded at around 4 a.m. when a council worker fixing a road sign had spotted flames emerging from the top of the building. It had been a Thursday morning, and the nightclub had been closed.

Still, there’d been one casualty – his wife.

To his struggling mind, two things didn’t add up.

What had Anne been doing in a near-derelict building on a Thursday morning? No one lived there. The windows had all, apparently, been boarded up. Secondly, Dickheadson had said it was a gas leak, but something about that didn’t make sense…

Robert made a note to check in with the nightclub owner, then he picked up his pen and scribbled, ‘CCTV footage? ’

A yawn threatened to burst through his lips. Chances were, if he stood up, he would crash to the floor.

He could sleep during the day – it hardly mattered when you were on ‘sick leave’. If not for the mountains of paperwork and enquiries to jump through, Dickheadson would have fired him. So now, with all this free time, Robert could play armchair detective.

A key rattled in the lock, making Robert jerk up. ‘Oww!’ He groaned when his muscles revolted at the sudden movement. ‘Ow!’

So much for his police training.

The front door to his flat swung open. ‘Rob? Shite! What’s happened here?’ Muffled footsteps rushed in.

Robert grimaced but managed to push off the chair. God, it felt like someone was sticking needles into his body and not for acupuncture.

‘Robert!’ the intruder called again, as if to jolt Robert out of a haze.

‘W-What—?’ Robert cleared his throat. God, he was parched. ‘What are you doing here?’

PC Joshua MacLeod studied the drawn curtains, the desk lamp droning along, highlighting the scattered papers on the kitchen table. Then his eyes analysed the rest of the house.

Since Anne’s death, all Robert’d done was use his side of the bed, shower (occasionally) and sit at that table, thinking.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Robert asked to draw Joshua’s attention back to him. His pal wore a black T-shirt and trousers with his cop boots.

Joshua consulted the massive black watch on his wrist. ‘It’s half eight in the morning. I just got off shift expecting you’d be making breakfast. But…’ He sniffed the air. ‘Shite, ye reek. It’s a wonder no one’s phoned in to report a dead body in here. You haven’t bothered showering in how long now?’

Not waiting for an answer, Joshua walked into the kitchen. ‘You haven’t even made coffee yet.’ The fridge opened, followed by several cabinet doors. Then the sound of wood smacking against wood filled the air – cabinets closing. ‘You have no food.’

Robert’s stomach growled, as if agreeing with Joshua’s statement. Robert rubbed a hand over it, unsure when he’d last eaten. He certainly hadn’t made himself a coffee in the last few weeks either.

Joshua stalked back out, a cloth bag in hand. ‘Come on – let’s get the messages.’

‘I have work.’

‘Do you remember spitting into Dickheadson’s face, then trying to deck him? That man’s a sadistic bastard. He’s going to make your job hell. And I’m sure Cheryl’s heard by now. If she walks in here and sees you like this, she’ll have my hide.’

His spat with Dickheadson was a blur. Robert only knew he’d accomplished one thing that evening – his letter of recommendation would now read ‘do not hire this man’. But he didn’t want to talk about it, so he said, ‘Scared of Cheryl, are we?’

‘Piss off! I’ve been looking out for your sorry arse for a fortnight now. She’s been nipping at me to come babysit you. I’ve given you space – a man cannae always cry over a pint of ice cream – but honest to God, if she finds out all you’ve eaten are the frozen leftovers she’s been sending you, you know she’ll blow up this fucking building.’

Robert waited for a beat, then Joshua heard his own words and grimaced. ‘Sorry. I didnae mean to say that. But you know what I meant. Cheryl’s like Mary Poppins mixed with that lot from Supernatural and Mean Girls .’

That Robert agreed with. Cheryl Spiers was their pal but also the detective inspector who believed herself to be their elder sister of sorts – i.e. their bully.

Joshua sighed. ‘Go take a shower and then a nap. I’ll get some eggs and milk.’

‘Who are you? My ma?’ Robert asked.

Joshua rolled his eyes. ‘I’m trying to help.’

‘I’m not some charity case.’ Robert stuck his hands into his pockets.

‘Look, Robert…’ Joshua leaned in, so close Robert could see his pores. ‘You’ve lost your wife. It’s been three months. I understand you need time to recover. Need time to heal. We’re here for you.’

But that didn’t change the reality. Anne was just one of many women who went missing in the UK every year. The women neither he nor his colleagues could protect from predators. And then their grieving families had to deal with pricks like Dickheadson who swiped their file away to the ‘it-was-an-accident’ or cold-case pile.

Joshua placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘You need sleep. Listen to me. Cheryl’s at work, so she won’t be here anytime?—’

The buzzer sounded, signalling someone was downstairs wanting to come in. Robert usually ignored the buzzing – Joshua had a key, and no one else visited him.

The buzzer sounded again – this time it was one long stream of ‘pay attention to me!’

Robert and Joshua both looked at each other and groaned, ‘Cheryl.’

Robert hurried to the telecom and pressed the button to let Cheryl in. Joshua ran up to the windows and pulled the curtains open.

‘Open the window!’ Robert barked at Joshua as he hurried to his desk and flicked off the lamp. He was gathering up all the scattered papers when a knock sounded at his door.

Had she jogged up the stairs?

Joshua pulled the door open and called out a greeting.

‘There you are.’ Cheryl – her straight brown hair swinging in a high ponytail – rushed inside, arms loaded with containers. ‘I tried calling Josh, but he didn’t pick up. I made some lasagna and scones. Plus—’ Her sharp eyes – cop eyes – narrowed. She hadn’t made it to the rank of detective inspector without her sharp senses. Now she scrutinised Robert, plus his house, and read all his secrets.

Joshua took a step towards the door.

‘Stop right there.’ She pointed at Joshua then stalked towards the desk Robert stood at, dropped the containers of food, and snatched the papers he held. ‘What’s this?’

Robert didn’t answer, knowing it was a rhetorical question.

She flipped through the papers then, still clutching them, walked through to the kitchen. Again, cabinet doors slammed. ‘Joshua MacLeod, why is the pantry empty?’

For fuck’s sake! ‘I’m not a bloody invalid!’ Robert roared.

Cheryl strode out, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the carpeted floors, but the rage in her eyes flamed. ‘You’ve just lost your wife. He’ – she pointed at Joshua – ‘said he was keeping you stocked.’

‘I’ – Robert thumped his chest – ‘am dealing with it.’

‘You haven’t made coffee and have no food in your kitchen save for the containers I’ve been bringing you. You haven’t had any breakfast.’

Robert’s stomach growled again.

‘And,’ Cheryl snapped, ‘you haven’t showered. Opening windows doesn’t mask that stench. Plus, you haven’t slept and are working the case!’

‘I have to do it because the cops won’t!’ Robert threw his arms out.

‘Oh aye, the cops.’ Cheryl matched his decibel level. ‘I heard all about that. You stupid, stupid prick! Pricks!’ She pointed at Joshua. ‘I’ve had it with your masculine bone-headedness.’

Cheryl flapped the papers she’d snatched from Robert. ‘You forget that I’m a detective inspector. And I wouldn’t have let Dickinson classify this as an accident. It wasn’t. There are so many holes in his report, you’d think a rat went to town with it! But instead of talking to me, trusting me, you went and performed that wee show. You fucking…’

When words failed her, Cheryl marched up to him, took hold of Robert’s collar and said, ‘I was here to drop off food and tell you I have an eyewitness. But you don’t deserve a break. You want justice for your wife? Then get your act together.’

Still holding on to his collar, she dragged Robert into the other room and shoved him into the loo. Two seconds later, the door smacked into his face.

‘Take a shower. Now!’ Cheryl bellowed from the other side of the door. ‘Or I’m sending Joshua in to give you one. I told you, Josh: make sure he’s taken a shower. Is that hard to understand? Look at this house! Do you call washing fucking socks doing the damned laundry?’

Joshua’s answer was far muted and thus incoherent, but Cheryl…

‘No! You put the washing on. I’m making us breakfast,’ she barked. Then a fist smacked on the bathroom door, startling Robert. ‘Robert! Shower, now!’

Aye, Cheryl would’ve made for the quintessential 1940s wife with her excellent cooking skills and obsessive need to clean – but also a great villain in a superhero movie. If he was being level-headed, he’d admit her insistent bullying was her way of taking care of him. And instead of Joshua’s laissez-faire approach, hers was at least spurring him into action.

Robert peeled off his clothes and stepped under the rush of water, shuddering at the warm stream hitting his body. The pale skin on his stomach burned red.

He pumped some soap into his palm and froze when its scent hit his nostrils. Anne’s favourite. They shared a soap, and every time he’d leaned in to kiss her after a shower, she’d smelled of sweet strawberries. It wasn’t a masculine scent at all. But he’d used it first because he’d forgotten to keep his own stocked, and then because he liked feeling close to his wife, especially when he was on the night shift and missing her. He’d ensured they always had an extra bottle in the supply closet.

Now sweet strawberries were the only thing he had to feel even slightly close to Anne.

Feeling guilty for finding peace under the warm shower, he rubbed the soap off his skin and stepped out.

They didn’t have a radiator in the loo. Standing there butt naked, he shivered from the cold. But this discomfort, the slight bite as the water cooled on his skin, soothed him. Life without Anne didn’t have smiles, comfort or strawberry-scented soap. It was cold, overcast and harsh. Every breath would be painful.

It might seem dramatic. Petty even. But he’d vowed to protect her – when he’d proposed, when they’d wed and every time they’d lost a child.

Robert shut his eyes and banged his head on the wall. It hardly mattered anymore.

Anne was dead, and she’d taken all his hopes and dreams with her.