Page 5 of The Dead Ex
‘Not been here long enough.’
‘Don’t you want to check your diary?’
‘There’s no need.’
There’s a brief silence during which I force myself not to speak any more, conscious that I haven’t sounded very convincing.
‘Mind if we take a look round?’asks the woman.
‘I have a client here,’ I say.
‘Ah yes. I believe you are a masseuse?’
Her manner of speaking suggests that I offer a different kind of service. It wouldn’t be the first time that my occupation has been misinterpreted.
‘Aromatherapist, actually.’
The man stares at me blankly. Those who aren’t familiarwith alternative treatments can easily get the wrong end of the stick.
‘I do massage people, but with essential oils.’
As if on cue, there is an ‘excuse me’ cough behind. My lady has clearly got bored with waiting. ‘I can see you are busy.’ She glances nervously at my two visitors. ‘I’ll ring later to make that appointment.’
She slips out into the dark. I suspect I won’t see her again. Despite my earlier wish that she wouldn’t return, I am not comforted. That onewill talk.
I gesture my visitors towards my studio, wondering momentarily whether I’ve remembered to close the trapdoor fully. Thankfully, I have.
They look suspiciously at the phials of liquid on the shelf above my desk. ‘Do you make your own potions?’ says the woman.
I resist a smile at her use of a word which suggests witchcraft or black magic. ‘We call them essences. Actually, I buy themfrom a mail-order site.’
‘What does this stuff do?’ asks the detective.
Just what I’d asked at the beginning. ‘Relaxes you. Helps restore memory. Gives you strength.’
The woman is picking up the lavender oil and smelling it. ‘I’ve always wanted to try it out.’
‘I can give you my card if you like.’
‘We know where you are.’
Of course.
‘So you work from home?’ says the man.
‘I’m registered.’My tone is more defensive now.
It doesn’t take long to do the ‘tour’. It’s a compact, two-bedroom, one-level apartment (one of the bedroomshaving become my studio) right on the seafront, ‘boasting easy access to the amenities of Penzance’, as described by the estate agents.
‘Nice view,’ says the woman, looking out at the sea from my bedroom.
It’s why I came here. This morning, the water wasa particularly striking azure blue. Yesterday it was green. The day before, black. Too dangerous for me to swim, even if I had a wet suit like some of the keen locals.
‘You don’t miss city life, then?’
It’s as though they are purposefully ignoring the elephant in the room.
‘David,’ I say desperately. ‘Where was he when he went missing?’
