Love You Dead

110 Friday 13 March

J. Paul Cornel stifled a yawn, enjoying the aroma of the massive Armagnac that Jodie had poured him, then puffed on the last few inches of the fat Cohiba cigar. Patting his belly contentedly, he said, ‘Jeez, you spoiled me tonight. What a meal. Divine scallops and the most perfectly cooked steak — you know, I can’t remember ever eating a better steak.’

Actually, he could. It was full of gristle and she’d overcooked it. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. The high-backed Perspex chair at the glass dining table was cripplingly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t about to tell her that either.

‘You’re a true genius as a chef. Apple crumble and custard — my favourite dessert.’

‘Nothing’s too good for you. I’m loving your company.’

‘And me yours.’ He yawned. ‘Look at the time. Almost midnight — where did the evening go?’

‘I had no idea it was so late.’ she said. ‘It’s been such fun.’

‘It has. Think I’m pretty much ready to hit the sack. I’m afraid my medication has that effect on me.’

‘Your room’s all made up.’

‘A few years back and I’d have made love to you all night.’ He raised his glass. ‘My lovely Jodie, where have you been all my life?’

She raised her Drambuie.

‘God, how I wish I’d met you sooner. I wonder how different my life might have been,’ he said.

‘It’s never too late. Is it?’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ He drained his glass, stubbed out the remainder of his cigar and stood up, unsteadily. ‘I don’t have a toothbrush.’

‘I’ve got a spare one.’

‘You’re an angel.’

‘True.’ she said.

They both smiled.

‘I wish— you know— that I could make love to you,’ he said.

She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

‘Good plan.’

‘What would you like for breakfast?’

‘You!’ he said.

‘I think I can arrange that!’

Ten minutes later she led him upstairs. Cornel noticed her cat scratching a wall at the end of the corridor.

‘What’s he after?’ he quizzed her.

‘I think he’s mousing. He keeps doing that — maybe there’s a mouse in the cavity wall. Tyson!’ she shouted. The cat shot off along the landing and down the stairs.

There seemed to be a lot of scratches at the bottom of the wall, as well as a few shallow grooves. What, he wondered, was the other side of it? Her snakes? He would try to take a discreet closer look when he had the opportunity.

A few minutes later, with J. Paul Cornel safely installed in the guest bedroom with ensuite bathroom, Jodie went back downstairs to clear up. She was feeling pretty good about how the day had gone but, she knew, she needed to deepen the bond between them. He seemed to be a bit guarded, and she needed to break that down.

How?

He had confessed his impotence due to a prostate operation. Maybe, if she could arouse him despite what he had said, that would do the trick? Perhaps later she would slip into his bed, naked, and try.

She topped up her Drambuie, lit another cigarette and sat at the kitchen table. She liked him. Which was as well, she thought, if she was intending to marry him.

A copy of the Argus newspaper lay there. As she sipped her liqueur and smoked, idly flipping through the pages, her eyes were suddenly drawn to a story.

It wasn’t so much the headline that caught her eye, but the photograph below.

An attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, with her arm round a large man of indeterminate age, mid-to late-fifties, at least.

She read through the article. The two detectives were engaged to be married. Then tragically, whilst off duty, Potting’s fiancée had bravely entered a burning house to rescue a child and dog trapped inside. The child and her dog had got out, but DS Bella Moy had failed to emerge. Her body was recovered some hours later.

And now she remembered something that Paul had said to her over dinner last night.

I lost my soulmate in a house fire.

His whole expression had changed after he had uttered those words. Last night she had taken it as someone very private revealing too much about himself.

She stared back at the photograph, concentrating hard on the man. The shape of his face. The slightly bulbous nose. The thinning hair in a comb-over. The short bull neck.

Feeling a prickle of unease, she opened the lid of her laptop and googled ‘Sussex Police — Norman Potting — Images’.

A whole raft of photographs appeared. Some were of total strangers. But others looked remarkably like a shabbier version of J. Paul Cornel.

Was she imagining it? Was he just a lookalike? Was she being too cautious after the Walt Klein fiasco?

There was one way she might find out.

She googled J. Paul Cornel and started to sift through his images, taking screen-shots of each.