the hall and the door opened. The pizza man was in my line of vision as business was transacted but I distinctly heard a female voice and laughter as the box disappeared into the house and the door closed again. I waited. I felt nauseous as I imagined the two of them on the sofa sharing supper. At 10.35 the light went out. Then a landing light appeared, followed by a lamp in the bedroom. It wasn’t a flat then, as I’d thought, but a house. It somehow made things worse. The curtains glowed a deep red. But seconds later the place was in darkness. I wondered what excuse Sharp had given his wife. An educational conference? A sick friend?
And the girl? All I could do now was return early in the morning, then follow her home – or, more likely, to her place of work.
I drove home and started copying the images I’d captured at the Sharps’ on to my computer. What puzzled me was that if the Raistrick Road property was not a flat conversion but a house – a three-storey townhouse offering leafy views and riverside walks – how could a part-time lecturer afford to rent it? Or rather, I thought, how did he disguise the expenditure? I ran through the couple’s bank statement. There were no outlandish cash withdrawals – the mortgage was the single biggest outgoing, followed by a monthly instalment for Sharp’s white 4×4, courtesy of Judith’s substantial salary as HR director of a City insurance firm.
One thing I could do was find out who owned the property. I logged on to a land registry search, paid the fee and keyed in the address. It would take a few hours to come through, probably mid-morning.Now I looked at the DVDs I’d copied on to my memory stick. I set the first film going. It showed some event – heads bobbing, glasses chinking – held at Warninck’s, an independent bookshop near the arts cinema. The event looked well attended, bright-faced people milling around with wine amid light chatter and expectant mirth. Then Sharp himself came on to a small stage with a microphone and introduced a guest author, J. L. Forssinger. Sharp was quite the host, suavely interviewing Juliet, as he called her, as they sat facing each other in striped armchairs. Afterwards she put on glasses and read an extract that was followed by questions from the audience. And now here was red-haired Judith – planted by Sharp, no doubt, to get the ball rolling – asking Juliet when she’d first had the idea that she might one day become a crime writer.
The next video produced a similar scenario. This time after the reading Sharp moved among the audience with the microphone. Judith was there again, volunteering with the inaugural question, followed by one or two others. Then, miraculously – almost as if I’d dreamed her into the film – there she was … a lovely young woman in the crowd, speaking into Sharp’s microphone, her bushy hair tied back. It was the moment they met. It had to be. As she made her contribution I watched him regarding her, smiling with a narrow-eyed, undisguised animal longing.
How my heart soared for her. How I hated him. Was this love?
I took a fresh scalpel from my box and sharpened my coloured pencils while I watched. ‘The theme of loneliness is very strong in all of your books, Mr Gates,’ she said. ‘Where does that come from?’
I wondered whether Sharp even remembered now that this occasion was on film, this fine literary evening with his olderwife fading into the throng of laughter, replaced by this fresh new blossom. The camera moved away to another questioner and I fast-forwarded the video for further glimpses of her, but there were none. I rewound and replayed the moment over and over. The girl’s cheeks had the beginning of a pink glow. Her voice was more confident and resonant than I’d imagined (and, believe me, I had imagined) – a voice accustomed to speaking out, in a classroom, a debating chamber, a public arena. Far from being cowed by the proximity of minor celebrity, she
And the girl? All I could do now was return early in the morning, then follow her home – or, more likely, to her place of work.
I drove home and started copying the images I’d captured at the Sharps’ on to my computer. What puzzled me was that if the Raistrick Road property was not a flat conversion but a house – a three-storey townhouse offering leafy views and riverside walks – how could a part-time lecturer afford to rent it? Or rather, I thought, how did he disguise the expenditure? I ran through the couple’s bank statement. There were no outlandish cash withdrawals – the mortgage was the single biggest outgoing, followed by a monthly instalment for Sharp’s white 4×4, courtesy of Judith’s substantial salary as HR director of a City insurance firm.
One thing I could do was find out who owned the property. I logged on to a land registry search, paid the fee and keyed in the address. It would take a few hours to come through, probably mid-morning.Now I looked at the DVDs I’d copied on to my memory stick. I set the first film going. It showed some event – heads bobbing, glasses chinking – held at Warninck’s, an independent bookshop near the arts cinema. The event looked well attended, bright-faced people milling around with wine amid light chatter and expectant mirth. Then Sharp himself came on to a small stage with a microphone and introduced a guest author, J. L. Forssinger. Sharp was quite the host, suavely interviewing Juliet, as he called her, as they sat facing each other in striped armchairs. Afterwards she put on glasses and read an extract that was followed by questions from the audience. And now here was red-haired Judith – planted by Sharp, no doubt, to get the ball rolling – asking Juliet when she’d first had the idea that she might one day become a crime writer.
The next video produced a similar scenario. This time after the reading Sharp moved among the audience with the microphone. Judith was there again, volunteering with the inaugural question, followed by one or two others. Then, miraculously – almost as if I’d dreamed her into the film – there she was … a lovely young woman in the crowd, speaking into Sharp’s microphone, her bushy hair tied back. It was the moment they met. It had to be. As she made her contribution I watched him regarding her, smiling with a narrow-eyed, undisguised animal longing.
How my heart soared for her. How I hated him. Was this love?
I took a fresh scalpel from my box and sharpened my coloured pencils while I watched. ‘The theme of loneliness is very strong in all of your books, Mr Gates,’ she said. ‘Where does that come from?’
I wondered whether Sharp even remembered now that this occasion was on film, this fine literary evening with his olderwife fading into the throng of laughter, replaced by this fresh new blossom. The camera moved away to another questioner and I fast-forwarded the video for further glimpses of her, but there were none. I rewound and replayed the moment over and over. The girl’s cheeks had the beginning of a pink glow. Her voice was more confident and resonant than I’d imagined (and, believe me, I had imagined) – a voice accustomed to speaking out, in a classroom, a debating chamber, a public arena. Far from being cowed by the proximity of minor celebrity, she
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