Death's Door

Twenty-six

‘Seven thirty!’ Alex exclaimed, as she opened the front door. ‘Bloody cops: you’re all the same.’

‘Sorry,’ said Griff Montell, hanging his head like a guilty dog. ‘I did phone; you have to give me that.’

‘Yes,’ she retorted, ‘and I told you that by eight thirty I’d be long gone from here. So what the hell are you doing ringing my doorbell?’

‘Spring said that she hadn’t heard you go out,’ he told her bravely, if a little tentatively. ‘So why the hell are you still here?’

‘Why do you think? Because I’m not so bloody liberated that I like trawling bars and restaurants on my own.’ Finally she relented and allowed him a small smile. ‘Come on in.’

He stepped into the flat. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Nowhere.’ She reached up and rubbed the back of her hand against his chin. ‘Griff, you look knackered, plus you need a shave: I wouldn’t be seen dead with you like that. I’ve cooked something for us. . against my better judgement, mind you.’

‘How did you know I’d ring your bell, me being so late and all?’

‘I told your sister to send you in when you got back; from what you said she was subtle about it.’ She frowned at him. ‘Before you get any ideas about the two of us around the supper table, I asked her if she’d like to join us, but she’d already eaten.’

‘What sort of ideas would I get?’ he asked, affecting an innocent expression.

‘None that are going to do you any good.’

‘I could go next door and shave, if that would help.’

‘Not in the tiniest,’ she answered sincerely. ‘We’ve had one fling, you and I, and it was very satisfactory, but we agreed afterwards that it was just between friends, and that we weren’t going to let it become a habit. What you can do, though, is come into the kitchen and grab yourself a beer from the fridge, while I finish throwing the salad together.’

Griff winked at her as he followed her out of the living room. ‘That sounds like a decent compromise,’ he conceded. ‘What are we having, apart from the salad? I’m not being presumptuous,’ he added. ‘You did say you’d been cooking.’

‘It’s a chicken casserole, Spanish style, a recipe I picked up from my dad.’

‘He cooks too?’

‘You better believe it; while I was growing up he didn’t have the option. Now he’s a one-parent family again, he has a live-in nanny to do that for the kids, but he still has to fend for himself, and cook for them all at weekends.’

‘How long was he on his own after your mother died?’

‘About fifteen years,’ she told him, ‘and he really was on his own too. If there were any women around, I never knew about them. I was so pleased for him when he took up with Sarah.’

‘I suppose you must have been gutted when they split up.’

‘Only for the three kids. The pair of them had grown well apart by then, so it was for the best. I’m glad that they came to an amicable agreement about parenting, even if it does put most of the responsibility on him.’

‘What if she remarries and wants to change the deal?’ he asked.

‘Then she’ll have to go to court in Scotland,’ Alex replied, ‘and take me on into the bargain. But that won’t happen. Sarah left for her career. Truth is, she’s doctor first, mother second. Damn!’ she exclaimed suddenly, in the act of taking the lid off the casserole dish.

‘What’s up?’

‘I left my apron in my bedroom. Be a honey and get it for me, will you? I’ve got my hands full here, and this may splash when I stir it.’

‘Sure. I remember where your bedroom is. . even if it is off limits now.’ He laid his beer on the breakfast bar and headed off on his errand.

Alex replaced the lid and waited for him, easing off her oven glove so that she would be able to tie on the apron when it arrived. He was gone for longer than she expected. She assumed that he had gone into the bathroom en route, until she heard him call to her. ‘Come through here, will you, please?’

‘Griff,’ she called back, ‘what is it? If you’re thinking of chancing your arm, you’ll be wearing this bloody supper.’

‘I’m serious. I need to talk to you.’

Puzzled by his sudden change of mood, she did as he asked. She found him standing at the foot of her bed, staring at a picture set on the wall above the headboard. ‘Has that always been there?’ he asked.

‘It’s been there since I got it. You’ve seen it before; it was there when we did our thing. Obviously you were too preoccupied to notice it at the time. Why? What’s so special about it?’

‘This morning I found myself looking at a houseful of work by the same artist. You know who did this?’

‘I confess that I don’t.’

‘Stacey Gavin, the girl who was murdered in South Queensferry two months ago, killed we now know by the same man who shot Zrinka Boras. Where did you get it?’

‘My dad gave it to me,’ she replied. ‘It was my Christmas present. He’s a bit of a closet connoisseur, my old man. He said I should look after it, that it was an investment. He’s got one himself, out in Gullane. The picture I bought him, by the poor Boras girl, was partly to thank him. God, that’s weird, isn’t it? My father has work by two murdered artists hanging on his walls.’