The Detective's Daughter

32

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Stella found the car immediately. She got out of the van and inspected it: the bonnet was cold, the windscreen hidden beneath a thick layer of snow that sparkled blue in the moonlight. It was still snowing, meaning Paul could have returned as little as twenty minutes ago and the car would look like this.

Paul Bramwell lived in a 1980s block off the Goldhawk Road that consisted of two buildings forming an ‘L’ shape surrounded by bushes and shrubs. One element of whatever Paul and Stella had shared had been the communal gardening days. Stella had surprised herself by rather enjoying taking part in planting, clipping and pruning along with Paul’s elderly neighbours; more than he had done himself. Terry’s gardening books, unopened on her living room shelf until then, had finally come in handy.

There were no footprints to the front entrance but again this would be because it was snowing.

She had not wanted Paul’s key and had only agreed to keep it in case he locked himself out.

Paul would not credit her with reading clues and reaching a conclusion; he would not expect her. Stella was both relieved and surprised that he had not confronted them by the statue.

His flat was on the second floor. Music was thumping from the flat opposite. Paul could sleep through anything, although Stella doubted that he would be asleep. He would be planning his next move. He might not be there; he might be at her flat. Briefly she let herself appreciate the irony of each of them spying on the other before remembering that she had seen his car.

She turned the key and slipped inside.

There were three bedrooms. Paul used the box room for playing online games and mending computers. She could hear fans whirring in servers and laptops ranged on a rack.

The kitchen had a serving hatch through which Stella would catch Paul watching her while he prepared supper as she sat in the living room. Over steak and oven chips he would confess how special it was to have her there and she must treat it as her home. Stella had not known how to.

The table was a mess of plates and dishes of half-eaten food. Paul never cleared up after a meal; not wanting to spoil the mood he left the crockery to soak beneath a film of greasy water overnight. At first, drawn in by his skill in networking her office computers, his boyish charm and their agreement that there were ‘no strings’, Stella had gone along with it, but soon her anxiety at the task burgeoning in the sink overwhelmed her attraction to Paul and she would rush out to clear the kitchen.

Motorcycle boots stood on the parquet floor in the hall, one balanced on the toe of the other where he had taken them off. Stella switched on the light and picked up a boot: the leather was dry. The tread on the heel was worn thin. This did not make sense.

Bags of shredded paper awaited recycling: Paul was neurotic about identity theft – another concern they had shared.

He would only just have gone to bed; he was usually up later than this, trawling the internet. He was using bed as an alibi.

The bedroom blazed with light: on every surface was a candle, lines of tea lights covered the chest of drawers and the window sill. There was a funny smell. Paul had complained of being allergic to room deodorizers. Incense sticks burned in a pot. Stella tripped on a heap of bedding at her feet.

It took a moment for Stella to comprehend the scene. Paul was naked and face down on the bed. Then she saw two more legs either side of him, the knees raised. She backed out.

She had accidently deadlocked the Yale; Paul caught up with her fumbling with the front door.

‘What are you playing at?’ He was struggling into a dressing gown.

Stella could smell him. She could smell both of them.

‘How come you are here?’

‘You were spying on me!’ Even as she spoke, Stella knew she had made a mistake. Paul had got drunk, picked up a woman and brought her back. He had used for her the romantic candle display meant for Stella. In the morning he would regret it, but he would let it slip to Stella, hoping to make her as jealous as she made him. Hoping she would change her mind and they would live happily ever after.

Stella was jealous, an all-purpose jealousy that did not belong in this bachelor flat but somewhere else out of reach.

Paul had been here all night, setting up candles, ordering a takeaway and the rest.

‘The only one spying on anyone is you, on me.’ Paul was reasonable.

‘I’m sorry,’ Stella whispered.

‘Why don’t you hurry on home to your toy boy and find him something to clean.’

Paul could not help himself and Stella allowed herself to feel vindicated.

They heard shuffling from the bedroom. Paul would have portrayed himself as a rolling stone, unattached and without baggage: Mr Cool.

‘You have been stalking me,’ Stella insisted.

‘I love you, that’s all. I’ll ask her to leave, then we can talk.’

‘You never have time, you put work first, you care more about your computers and your silly kids’ games.’ Stella did not know where the words came from. She would rather he was interested in computers than in her.

The hallway swam, the walls wafting like card; her head throbbed.

‘This is bollocks, Stella. It’s you who is always too busy.’ Paul did up his dressing gown, looking at her strangely.

She put the key on the telephone table and rushed out of the flat.

On King Street a thought filled her with dread.

If Paul was telling the truth, then someone else had been listening by the statue. Instinctively she pressed the central-locking button and checked her mirror.

Still she did not see a car behind her.