The Watchful Eye by Priscilla Masters

exactly where she was going, with the basket looped over her arm: to buy the weekend’s provisions, and she would be gone for at least an hour by the time she’d queued and gossiped her way up and down the High Street. He was starting work at one, working through until ten o’clock tonight. But she never came in on either a Friday afternoon or evening – unless she’d forgotten something in her routine Friday-morning shop. He had further confirmation of the fact that the policeman must be out because of the way she turned the key twice in the door, double-locking it. She wouldn’t have done that had
he
been inside.
    He always called him ‘the policeman’ now because he didn’t like saying
his
name. Just calling him by his job title depersonalised him
.
    He waited until Claudine had turned the corner and was out of sight before he unlocked the door and slipped inside.
    Then he started to be clever. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, which he had filched from a packet of hair dye that had been damaged in the shop.
    He stood briefly in the hall, looking around him at the pale walls, the cream carpet, the pictures on the wall. Ahead of him was the kitchen, neat and clean with a stainless steel sink. On his left were two doors, both ajar. He peeped around the first door into a square sitting room decorated in the same pale, neutral colours. The other room was a dining room withdark walls and a mahogany table and chairs. The whole house smelt of her. Clean, fragrant oranges and perfume. She must have given herself a quick spray just before she had left. He breathed her very air in, deep into his lungs, tasted it in his mouth and smiled. He knew Claudine would be gone for an hour but he didn’t want her to come back and find him here so, just to make absolutely sure, he had allowed himself only twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes. No more.
    He didn’t want to be discovered.
    He padded upstairs, noting the cream walls, the tasteful pictures of rainy French street scenes, leant in close to scrutinise one particular framed photograph in gaudy Seventies colours. A little girl, presumably Claudine, about six years old, in a white dress, standing against the whitewashed wall of a French farmhouse, a severe looking, black-frocked woman behind her, her arm resting on the little girl’s shoulder. He stood back and wasted a precious moment looking at it. ‘Charming,’ he muttered. ‘Quite charming.’
    But of course he couldn’t linger. Time was of the essence. He moved on to the landing and found her (he couldn’t call it their) bedroom easily. His nose led him straight to it, that waft of perfume leading him on. He stood in the doorway and admired the white, cotton duvet cover, starched pillowcases, the open window blowing the fragrance right through the room towards him. On the far side of the room was a huge piece of furniture even he recognised as antique and French. A sort of wardrobe thing. But he didn’t want that. Her personal belongings wouldn’t be in there.
    They would be in – ah, the chest of drawers.
    He tugged the top drawer open and almost recoiled in disgust.
    Men’s underpants and black socks. Big black, policeman’s socks. The smell of shoe polish and feet. He closed it quickly then pulled open the next drawer and immediately smelt the perfume again. Stronger than before. She must spray her underwear. ‘The little tart’, he muttered under his breath. He removed his glove and put his hand in to touch the beautiful, beautiful things. Pink, black, white and cream. Such a lovely cream brassiere. Satin and lace. He ran his hands over them. The satin felt smooth – almost oily against his skin.
    ‘Sweet satin and lace,’ he whispered before lifting out a cream top and French knickers, putting it to his cheek before stuffing them into his pocket.
    On the top of the chest of drawers was a small, wooden jewellery box. He lifted the lid and found a pair of pearl earrings pressed into a velvet groove.