Kiss Her Goodbye by Allan Guthrie Page B

him on more than one occasion as being slightly overweight. Well, now. Adam occasionally stole a glance in the full-length mirror in his bedroom and agreed he could lose a few pounds. Five eight. Eleven and a half stone. Hardly obese. Fat or not, though, there was little doubt she liked him. Described him as "paternal" on one occasion, "wise" on another. Mentioned several times that he had a terrific sense of humor. Claimed he had cheered her up more than once. She was getting better, she thought.
    Then, just over a week into her stay, she had written this:
I imagined I was getting over it. I was dead wrong. On my way back from the toilets, it crashed into me again. Knocked the wind out of me like a kick in the stomach. It really terrifies me, the way it makes me feel. Writing about it now, safely back in my room, my hand's shaking and my mouth's dry and, Christ, I'm scared. Now I've started crying again. God, I'm so fed up with crying. So fed up with my stupid self.
    And a couple of days later:
I'm filthy. I want to pour bleach down my throat. I can't sleep. If I turn out the light I'll see his face. I'll smell the whisky on his breath. I'll hear his words. "Be nice to Daddy, Gem. It won't hurt. Won't hurt at all."
    Adam stopped reading. No matter how many times he read it, it was equally incomprehensible. No wonder she'd left home in such a hurry.
    Maybe Ruth had found out. Maybe that's why Joe had killed her.
    Adam ought to go to the police. If it wasn't for the note, that's exactly what he'd do. But Gemma had trusted him. For reasons best known to herself, she wanted the diary delivered to her scumbag father.
    If only there was someone he could confide in. He considered the possibilities. A sad reflection of the loneliness of his life was that he could only think of two candidates.
    Dorothy Kelly was twenty-four, divorced, childless. She was his receptionist, cleaner, cook and accountant. To boost her otherwise paltry salary, Adam provided free accommodation. Since her marriage ended painfully a couple of years ago, she'd lived in the Orwell room. She liked her job. She loved talking to writers. You see, she wanted to write as well. So far, she'd written the opening chapter of a romance novel which she refused to show Adam no matter how much he begged. She was a little shy. She still got depressed from time to time.
    Had he asked her, Adam was sure she'd be happy to talk about Gemma. And he was sure, if he mentioned it, she'd keep the diary's existence a secret. This was the problem: Adam suspected Dotty was a little bit in love with him. He had witnessed the way she smiled at him, the look in her eye a couple of times when he caught her watching him, her embarrassment when she realized her furtive glances had been observed.
    No, that wasn't the problem. If he was truthful — and this was the problem - the feeling was mutual. When he talked to her, invisible fingers clawed under his skin and massaged his bones. Sometimes it felt as if a giant ladle had plunged down his throat and was stirring the contents of his stomach. She, well, she turned him on. It was impossible to deny it.
    Unfortunately, a relationship with Dotty was something he was unable to foster. Nurturing a sexual relationship with his only member of staff was against the rules. His own rules, admittedly, but he wasn't about to change them just because it suited him. Adam held a position of trust. He had to rise above his baser desires. Difficult though it was when you lived in the same building, the only way he knew of achieving this was to keep contact with Dotty to a minimum. Which was hard when all he wanted to do was strip her naked every time he saw her.
    Then, in the Stevenson room, there was Willie Lang. Adam's only current client. No such sexual designs on him, fortunately. Van driver, mobile phone salesman, interior decorator, museum caretaker, baker and, latterly, screenwriter. There wasn't much Willie hadn't turned his hand to. He claimed he'd