and turned down
his offer of a life in London. A boil wash had done the trick on the cotton. Shame it didn’t work on lingering emotion as well.
She sighed ran both hands through her hair, picturing Oz’s face: sculpted cheekbones, full luscious lips, dark chocolate eyes like deep limpid pools. Chick-lit? Dick-lit more like. Mills
and Bev. She gave a lopsided smile then flushed the loo, washed her hands. Quick glance in the mirror confirmed she looked like shite. Tough. Given what she’d witnessed tonight, it
wasn’t the worst look in the world.
Back on the landing she heard a noise from the spare room. She pressed an ear against the door heard Fareeda’s stifled sobs. She reached for the handle, pulled back at the last second,
knew further probing tonight would be futile. Fareeda was on a psychological knife edge. Bev was pretty mixed up as well: compassion, concern, but also still a touch of anger. Fareeda had said one
thing that made sense. “You don’t understand.”
She was bang on. And until Bev did, she’d leave the girl in peace. Tomorrow she’d make it her business to try and get her head round the issue. Drifting back to bed she swallowed a
yawn. Nothing else on the books, was there? Apart from nailing the Sandman. Easy sodding peasy.
From behind a horse chestnut tree on the opposite pavement, a dark figure watched the house. The trunk wasn’t wide enough to conceal the observer completely. Had Bev
glanced out, she might have spotted the outline of a body, the glow of a cigarette. The watcher thought the risk worth taking. When the bedroom light was turned off, the observer emerged from
behind the tree, padded over the road. Gloved hands carried a package which they carefully placed on the step. Late Christmas? Early birthday? Either way the cop was in for a surprise.
WEDNESDAY
14
Bev’s nose twitched, a lazy smile spread across her sleepy face. Proper coffee. Was there a better smell in the universe first thing? Arms above her head, she stretched
full length in bed cogitating. Cut grass? Sweet peas? The sea? Suntan skin? Chips and vinegar? Bacon sarnie? Strawberries? Bread baking? Candy floss? Dark chocolate? Rive Gauche? Yeah yeah yeah:
point taken. But dark roast Kenyan came pretty damn close. Eyes wide, she bolted upright. However pukka it was, coffee didn’t brew itself.
Almost tripping over the duvet, she was halfway downstairs before last night’s events fell into place: the caffeine fairy had to be her house guest Fareeda Saleem. As Bev entered the
kitchen, the teenager peeked through long glossy black hair, then pushed a mug across a work surface. Service with a shy smile.
Bev winked. “Could get used to this.” Her Snoopy jim-jam bottoms were at half mast; she hauled them up with one hand, concerned gaze covertly raking the teenager’s damaged
face. “How you doing, kid?”
“Fine.” Knee-jerk response. Touchy subject. Far as Bev could see the swelling on her bottom lip had gone down a fraction overnight, bruised eyes still resembled over-ripe damsons.
Emotionally she seemed to be holding it together, and was evidently keen to change tack; two slices of bread were on standby for the toaster. “Ready for breakfast?” Given the crumbs and
buttery knife on the table she’d already had a bite. Kids!
“Definitely get used to this.” Bev flashed a smile, grabbed the coffee. “Give me five mins, yeah?”
It was nearer ten when she came down suited, booted and abluted. On the basis she still looked like an extra from Shaun of the Dead , she’d opted for a sharp blue skirt suit.
Hopefully some sartorial edginess would rub off on its wearer, unlike the hastily applied slap that just about concealed two broken nights’ sleep.
Bev paused at the door, loath to disturb Fareeda who stood at the sink gazing through the window, miles away. The girl wouldn’t be admiring the garden; nothing there to write home about,
even when it wasn’t ink-black outside. It didn’t
his offer of a life in London. A boil wash had done the trick on the cotton. Shame it didn’t work on lingering emotion as well.
She sighed ran both hands through her hair, picturing Oz’s face: sculpted cheekbones, full luscious lips, dark chocolate eyes like deep limpid pools. Chick-lit? Dick-lit more like. Mills
and Bev. She gave a lopsided smile then flushed the loo, washed her hands. Quick glance in the mirror confirmed she looked like shite. Tough. Given what she’d witnessed tonight, it
wasn’t the worst look in the world.
Back on the landing she heard a noise from the spare room. She pressed an ear against the door heard Fareeda’s stifled sobs. She reached for the handle, pulled back at the last second,
knew further probing tonight would be futile. Fareeda was on a psychological knife edge. Bev was pretty mixed up as well: compassion, concern, but also still a touch of anger. Fareeda had said one
thing that made sense. “You don’t understand.”
She was bang on. And until Bev did, she’d leave the girl in peace. Tomorrow she’d make it her business to try and get her head round the issue. Drifting back to bed she swallowed a
yawn. Nothing else on the books, was there? Apart from nailing the Sandman. Easy sodding peasy.
From behind a horse chestnut tree on the opposite pavement, a dark figure watched the house. The trunk wasn’t wide enough to conceal the observer completely. Had Bev
glanced out, she might have spotted the outline of a body, the glow of a cigarette. The watcher thought the risk worth taking. When the bedroom light was turned off, the observer emerged from
behind the tree, padded over the road. Gloved hands carried a package which they carefully placed on the step. Late Christmas? Early birthday? Either way the cop was in for a surprise.
WEDNESDAY
14
Bev’s nose twitched, a lazy smile spread across her sleepy face. Proper coffee. Was there a better smell in the universe first thing? Arms above her head, she stretched
full length in bed cogitating. Cut grass? Sweet peas? The sea? Suntan skin? Chips and vinegar? Bacon sarnie? Strawberries? Bread baking? Candy floss? Dark chocolate? Rive Gauche? Yeah yeah yeah:
point taken. But dark roast Kenyan came pretty damn close. Eyes wide, she bolted upright. However pukka it was, coffee didn’t brew itself.
Almost tripping over the duvet, she was halfway downstairs before last night’s events fell into place: the caffeine fairy had to be her house guest Fareeda Saleem. As Bev entered the
kitchen, the teenager peeked through long glossy black hair, then pushed a mug across a work surface. Service with a shy smile.
Bev winked. “Could get used to this.” Her Snoopy jim-jam bottoms were at half mast; she hauled them up with one hand, concerned gaze covertly raking the teenager’s damaged
face. “How you doing, kid?”
“Fine.” Knee-jerk response. Touchy subject. Far as Bev could see the swelling on her bottom lip had gone down a fraction overnight, bruised eyes still resembled over-ripe damsons.
Emotionally she seemed to be holding it together, and was evidently keen to change tack; two slices of bread were on standby for the toaster. “Ready for breakfast?” Given the crumbs and
buttery knife on the table she’d already had a bite. Kids!
“Definitely get used to this.” Bev flashed a smile, grabbed the coffee. “Give me five mins, yeah?”
It was nearer ten when she came down suited, booted and abluted. On the basis she still looked like an extra from Shaun of the Dead , she’d opted for a sharp blue skirt suit.
Hopefully some sartorial edginess would rub off on its wearer, unlike the hastily applied slap that just about concealed two broken nights’ sleep.
Bev paused at the door, loath to disturb Fareeda who stood at the sink gazing through the window, miles away. The girl wouldn’t be admiring the garden; nothing there to write home about,
even when it wasn’t ink-black outside. It didn’t
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