Dead at First Sight

51 Tuesday 9 October

Paul said he would be late home tonight, 8 p.m. at the very earliest, and Toby Seward was happy about that. He’d only got back an hour ago from a meeting with a multinational tech company that had offered him a dream ticket. A series of motivational speeches around the globe. They would fly him and Paul — if he could join him — business class and put them up in swanky hotels. What he was required to do was a cake-walk. Give a series of talks he’d done a thousand times before and could do in his sleep.

On the television on the wall beyond the kitchen island unit, a recording of MasterChef was playing. A contestant was explaining his particular recipe for scallops with chorizo and black pudding. Toby had blanched the scallops, the black pudding ready on the side on the warming plate. He was now occupied dicing tomatoes with his cheffing knife on the chopping board, whilst keeping an eye on the shallots softening in the pan on the induction hob. The oven timer tinged. He needed to take the chorizo out.

The doorbell rang.

Toby glanced at his watch: 7.05 p.m. Who was it? Paul, locked out? Too early for him to be back.

The bell rang again.

Oh, for God’s sake!

He debated whether to take the chorizo out or answer the door first. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably some dimwit pizza delivery guy with the wrong address. He walked into the hallway and over to the front door. He should have checked the spyhole, he knew. Should have checked it, he rued, in the months and years that followed. If someone had asked him why he hadn’t, he would not have been able to give them a rational answer.

It was a question that would haunt him for the rest of his life.