The Detective's Daughter

31

He might have slipped on the ice, she admonished him. He was too old to take risks.

The snow had given him away, crunching underfoot. If there had been no snow he would have been able to hear what they were saying. She admitted that snow made the place deathly quiet when he was away; a blanket of white suffocating her. Desperate to keep her smiling he continued, divulging too much.

They were talking about the Rokesmiths, he told her. The man was Jonathan Rokesmith’s friend. They both knew that Jonathan only had one friend and he was called Simon.

He could see the subject upset her and he tried to come up with another: she loved to hear the tales of his day. On summer evenings, sitting out on the terrace, they mixed gin and tonics and watched the rooks; fewer nests this year. He associated her with sunshine and told her so.

He would have to go. He called a goodbye up the stairs. She would probably demand that he come up to the bedroom and kiss her but she did not reply. This had not happened before so he went up anyway and popped his head around the door.

She was smiling. He kissed her long and tenderly and then left the room without looking back.

He let himself out by the back door. It would not be long before he returned.

And with her new television, she would hardly notice he was gone.