with
any
of his female students. No, hours of watching porno rushes had done nothing for his libido. And no, he’d never had the urge to extend role-play to a Donald Duck mask and an audience of total strangers.
Afterwards, snatching a cup of coffee with Dawn before they both drove Addison back to his house, Stapleton blamed the solicitor for the lack of progress, but Dawn wasn’t so sure. While it was true that his brief, an ambitious young Oxford graduate, had a reputation for making the going as tough as possible, Dawn had been watching Addison carefully and had drawn a very different impression. Here was a guy who was used to making up his own mind. The brief, able as she might be, was there as a legal backstop.
They started at the top of the house, working their way methodically from room to room, pulling out drawers, opening cupboards, sifting through shelf after shelf of carefully labelled box files. Addison was almost obsessively organised – separate drawers for underwear and socks – and Dawn tidied up after Stapleton, aware of Addison monitoring their every move. Once again, this wasn’t the behaviour of a guilty man. On the contrary, his interest seemed to be purely domestic. He’d made a habit of filing his life away, and he wanted everything back exactly where it belonged.
The house wasn’t big, and an hour was enough to have drawn a comprehensive blank. Their knowledge of Addison now extended to trekking holidays in Nepal and a passion for certain kinds of modern jazz, but they’d found absolutely nothing that could conceivably link him to the Donald Duck incidents.
With the kitchen back in one piece, it was Addison himself who suggested they take another look at the garden. Stapleton looked at him in some irritation.
‘Why so keen?’
‘I just want this thing cleared up. Once and for all. Is that a problem?’
They went out into the little yard at the back. The sun blazed down on the tiny patch of grass and Dawn could see where the depth of Addison’s tan had come from. The garden was walled on three sides, trelliswork woven with honeysuckle and wild roses, and the borders at the foot of the brickwork were a mass of carefully chosen shrubs. There wasn’t a corner of Addison’s life that hadn’t been thought out, and this sun trap must have offered the perfect escape between the frustrations of teaching and the prospect of yet another evening in front of the edit machines, splicing one heaving body against another.
There was access to an alley at the rear of the property through a newly painted wooden door. Beside the door, tucked into a corner of the garden, was the shed Dawn and Stapleton had searched the previous day. They did it again, this time hauling out the sunlounger and electric mower to search behind shelves neatly stacked with weedkiller, plant nutrients and tins of gloss paint. Again, nothing.
Emerging into the sunshine, Dawn and Stapleton exchanged glances. Then Dawn’s eye caught one of the larger shrubs on the other side of the door to the alley at the back. There was something tucked behind it, something shiny. She beckoned to the solicitor, pointing it out, then bent to retrieve it. Her fingers brushed through the thick-bladed leaves. She could feel the shape of a face, some kind of nose, and then, at the back, a twangy length of elastic. She pulled it clear, stepping back. Addison was staring at her. Stapleton had raised an eyebrow.
A Donald Duck mask. In mint condition.
Joannie was in the kitchen, buttering a slice of toast, by the time Winter finally made it home. She looked up at him in some surprise. She’d slept well last night, asleep long before Winter had returned from Faraday’s place, and she’d still been dozing when he’d left for work. According to the note he’d left beside the kettle, he’d be busy all day. Yet here he was, reaching for a couple of slices of wholemeal and feeding them into the toaster.
‘Where’s the car?’ She hadn’t heard
any
of his female students. No, hours of watching porno rushes had done nothing for his libido. And no, he’d never had the urge to extend role-play to a Donald Duck mask and an audience of total strangers.
Afterwards, snatching a cup of coffee with Dawn before they both drove Addison back to his house, Stapleton blamed the solicitor for the lack of progress, but Dawn wasn’t so sure. While it was true that his brief, an ambitious young Oxford graduate, had a reputation for making the going as tough as possible, Dawn had been watching Addison carefully and had drawn a very different impression. Here was a guy who was used to making up his own mind. The brief, able as she might be, was there as a legal backstop.
They started at the top of the house, working their way methodically from room to room, pulling out drawers, opening cupboards, sifting through shelf after shelf of carefully labelled box files. Addison was almost obsessively organised – separate drawers for underwear and socks – and Dawn tidied up after Stapleton, aware of Addison monitoring their every move. Once again, this wasn’t the behaviour of a guilty man. On the contrary, his interest seemed to be purely domestic. He’d made a habit of filing his life away, and he wanted everything back exactly where it belonged.
The house wasn’t big, and an hour was enough to have drawn a comprehensive blank. Their knowledge of Addison now extended to trekking holidays in Nepal and a passion for certain kinds of modern jazz, but they’d found absolutely nothing that could conceivably link him to the Donald Duck incidents.
With the kitchen back in one piece, it was Addison himself who suggested they take another look at the garden. Stapleton looked at him in some irritation.
‘Why so keen?’
‘I just want this thing cleared up. Once and for all. Is that a problem?’
They went out into the little yard at the back. The sun blazed down on the tiny patch of grass and Dawn could see where the depth of Addison’s tan had come from. The garden was walled on three sides, trelliswork woven with honeysuckle and wild roses, and the borders at the foot of the brickwork were a mass of carefully chosen shrubs. There wasn’t a corner of Addison’s life that hadn’t been thought out, and this sun trap must have offered the perfect escape between the frustrations of teaching and the prospect of yet another evening in front of the edit machines, splicing one heaving body against another.
There was access to an alley at the rear of the property through a newly painted wooden door. Beside the door, tucked into a corner of the garden, was the shed Dawn and Stapleton had searched the previous day. They did it again, this time hauling out the sunlounger and electric mower to search behind shelves neatly stacked with weedkiller, plant nutrients and tins of gloss paint. Again, nothing.
Emerging into the sunshine, Dawn and Stapleton exchanged glances. Then Dawn’s eye caught one of the larger shrubs on the other side of the door to the alley at the back. There was something tucked behind it, something shiny. She beckoned to the solicitor, pointing it out, then bent to retrieve it. Her fingers brushed through the thick-bladed leaves. She could feel the shape of a face, some kind of nose, and then, at the back, a twangy length of elastic. She pulled it clear, stepping back. Addison was staring at her. Stapleton had raised an eyebrow.
A Donald Duck mask. In mint condition.
Joannie was in the kitchen, buttering a slice of toast, by the time Winter finally made it home. She looked up at him in some surprise. She’d slept well last night, asleep long before Winter had returned from Faraday’s place, and she’d still been dozing when he’d left for work. According to the note he’d left beside the kettle, he’d be busy all day. Yet here he was, reaching for a couple of slices of wholemeal and feeding them into the toaster.
‘Where’s the car?’ She hadn’t heard
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