thought, letting herself in quietly through the front door. Claire was in, her bag and keys dumped on the hall table, next to a pile of half-opened mail, her briefcase and shoes discarded at the bottom of the narrow flight of stairs. As a solicitor in one of the City law firms, she worked long hours and would have been tucked up in bed hours ago.
Donovan went into the kitchen and checked the answer machine but there were no messages and no note either from Claire to say that anyone had called. Disappointed, although not surprised, she dropped her keys onto the table and poured herself a glass of white wine from an open bottle in the fridge. It wasn’t very nice but it was all there was and at least it was cold. She and Claire never had time to do any shopping. Resisting the urge to light a cigarette, she took her wine upstairs and tiptoed past Claire’s bedroom door into the bathroom where she turned on the taps and helped herself to a large dollop of Claire’s Body Shop Orange Blossom Bath Essence. She undressed quickly and sank back into the bath, feet up on either side of the taps, letting the rising water wash over her shoulders and neck as she sipped her wine.
Logic told her that she shouldn’t expect to hear from Richard again. Newly promoted to DI, Richard had recently joined one of the murder teams in south London and was working all hours. It had got to the point where they rarely ever saw each other. He had half-suggested she put in for a transfer to somewhere closer to where he worked. But why should she move? She hadn’t known him that long and she was enjoying working on Clarke’s team. There had never been much of a sparkle about Richard. A small part of her hoped he might get over his pride or inertia and call her. But what then? She needed something different. Someone different. More than anything she wanted some fun for a change and perhaps some excitement.
It was past midnight by the time Tartaglia got home – a ground floor flat in a terraced house off Shepherd’s Bush Road. He pushed his motorbike up the short tiled path that led from the street to the front door, parking it out of sight behind the high hedge, by the dustbins. He’d bought the flat with some money left to him by his grandfather a few years before. The place had been a tip, with wiring, plumbing and fixtures dating back to the seventies. It had taken him, his cousin Gianni, and a couple of the lads from Gianni’s building firm several weekends to transform it, painting the walls white, sanding the floorboards and putting in a modern kitchen and bathroom. The flat was the first place he had ever owned and it would take a lot to get him to move again.
As he put his key in the lock, Henry, the Siamese cat belonging to his upstairs neighbour Jenny, twisted around his legs, meowing to be brought in. Judging by the dark windows and drawn curtains on the floor above, Jenny had gone to bed. As he opened the front door and let himself into his flat, Henry slipped through his legs, weaving his way into the sitting room. He wasn’t keen on cats, generally; their hair made him sneeze. But Henry had become a frequent visitor, thick-skinned to all efforts to exclude him, and Tartaglia had grown fond of him, often leaving the kitchen window at the side of the house ajar so that Henry could come and go.
He went into the sitting room, switched on the light and drew the shutters across the window, blocking out the orange glare of the streetlamp just outside. He flung his jacket onto the sofa and checked the answer machine. Apart from a bleep where somebody had hung up, there were two messages, one from Sally-Anne saying that there was no change in Clarke’s condition and one from his sister, Nicoletta, asking him over for Sunday lunch. She said there was someone she wanted him to meet, no doubt another of her hopeless, single female friends. For once, he was relieved to be working all weekend, with an excuse that even Nicoletta would be
Donovan went into the kitchen and checked the answer machine but there were no messages and no note either from Claire to say that anyone had called. Disappointed, although not surprised, she dropped her keys onto the table and poured herself a glass of white wine from an open bottle in the fridge. It wasn’t very nice but it was all there was and at least it was cold. She and Claire never had time to do any shopping. Resisting the urge to light a cigarette, she took her wine upstairs and tiptoed past Claire’s bedroom door into the bathroom where she turned on the taps and helped herself to a large dollop of Claire’s Body Shop Orange Blossom Bath Essence. She undressed quickly and sank back into the bath, feet up on either side of the taps, letting the rising water wash over her shoulders and neck as she sipped her wine.
Logic told her that she shouldn’t expect to hear from Richard again. Newly promoted to DI, Richard had recently joined one of the murder teams in south London and was working all hours. It had got to the point where they rarely ever saw each other. He had half-suggested she put in for a transfer to somewhere closer to where he worked. But why should she move? She hadn’t known him that long and she was enjoying working on Clarke’s team. There had never been much of a sparkle about Richard. A small part of her hoped he might get over his pride or inertia and call her. But what then? She needed something different. Someone different. More than anything she wanted some fun for a change and perhaps some excitement.
It was past midnight by the time Tartaglia got home – a ground floor flat in a terraced house off Shepherd’s Bush Road. He pushed his motorbike up the short tiled path that led from the street to the front door, parking it out of sight behind the high hedge, by the dustbins. He’d bought the flat with some money left to him by his grandfather a few years before. The place had been a tip, with wiring, plumbing and fixtures dating back to the seventies. It had taken him, his cousin Gianni, and a couple of the lads from Gianni’s building firm several weekends to transform it, painting the walls white, sanding the floorboards and putting in a modern kitchen and bathroom. The flat was the first place he had ever owned and it would take a lot to get him to move again.
As he put his key in the lock, Henry, the Siamese cat belonging to his upstairs neighbour Jenny, twisted around his legs, meowing to be brought in. Judging by the dark windows and drawn curtains on the floor above, Jenny had gone to bed. As he opened the front door and let himself into his flat, Henry slipped through his legs, weaving his way into the sitting room. He wasn’t keen on cats, generally; their hair made him sneeze. But Henry had become a frequent visitor, thick-skinned to all efforts to exclude him, and Tartaglia had grown fond of him, often leaving the kitchen window at the side of the house ajar so that Henry could come and go.
He went into the sitting room, switched on the light and drew the shutters across the window, blocking out the orange glare of the streetlamp just outside. He flung his jacket onto the sofa and checked the answer machine. Apart from a bleep where somebody had hung up, there were two messages, one from Sally-Anne saying that there was no change in Clarke’s condition and one from his sister, Nicoletta, asking him over for Sunday lunch. She said there was someone she wanted him to meet, no doubt another of her hopeless, single female friends. For once, he was relieved to be working all weekend, with an excuse that even Nicoletta would be
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