Page 32 of The Dead Ex
They must. Mymedical notes would surely have mentioned my past. It’s all connected. So why haven’t they brought up the big thing that’s missing here?
‘None of this proves anything,’ I say.
DI Vine glances around the room. ‘We’ll decide that when we’ve finished looking around. How’s the burning smell, by the way?’
I’d almost forgotten.
‘Gone,’ I say lamely.
‘That’s good.’
He turns and walks into my studio.I follow meekly,feeling wretched, conscious that I’ve given the E word a bad press.
They start with my desk: one of the few items here which belongs to me and not my landlady. After David, I walked away from material possessions. Besides, when you are constantly moving on, it’s easier not to have too much. I bought the desk the other week from a local antique shop in the mistaken belief thatI might stay here for a while.
I can hear the policewoman in my bedroom. More drawers are being pulled out. Cupboard doors open and shut.
I ring Lily Macdonald again. The solicitor’s answerphone is still on. I leave another message.
Outside, the sky is turning pink. It’s nearly evening. I yearn to get out. Walk along the seafront. Hear the waves gently lapping on the shingle. Smell the saltair. Pretend that none of this is happening. Kid myself that I’m like everyone else walking past.
The inspector has my ‘Bills’ file out. My heart catches in my throat. He is flicking through. Any minute now, I tell myself, he will see it. Any minute.
In a way, I want him to.
In another, I don’t, because – dammit – part of me still loves David, despite everything. It’s as though there’s no logicleft in my head.
He puts the file down. Either he hasn’t noticed the document hidden amidst the other financial papers or else he doesn’t realize it’s important.
‘May I look in your kitchen?’ he says.
‘It hasn’t changed in the last ten minutes.’
He ignores my sarcasm, spreading his hands as if apologizing. But I know he isn’t.
I shrug. ‘Be my guest. I’ll come too. I need to get my medicationanyway.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ I follow him and reach for the bottle, which – because it’s a controlled drug – I keep on a high shelf as advised by the consultant.
The detective is watching me closely. ‘Do you ever forget to take it?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I neglect to mention there are times when I choose not to for reasons already given. Sometimes I think I’m damned if I swallow the stuff and damnedif I don’t.
I point to the DON’T FORGET board on the wall with its jaunty border of flowers around it. There’s a mark for each date. I add to it now.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Take a look for the day that David went missing.’
It’s there. We can both see it. So is the mark for the day before and the day after.
‘It can’t be easy for you,’ he says in a softer tone.
‘It’s not.’ This time his kindnessseems genuine, causing my eyes to blur. I turn to one side. ‘I’d make you a cup of tea,’ I say, ‘but I don’t have a kettle, as you can see.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Hot liquids,’ I add. ‘I might scald myself. Some people use microwaves to make hot drinks but there’s still a chance you could get burned.’
