It must be at least ten minutes since the front door clicked gently shut. The roaring inside my head has subsided, so I can at least tell for sure that all is quiet in the flat. This is not good. This is not good at all. My chest and stomach are in contention to see which can clench tightest. I think I’m going to heave. Deep breath. Swallow hard. The night sounds are clear now; I can hear vehicles passing intermittently, the tyres on the wet street like waves breaking on a starlit beach. Nothing else. He must be gone. I’m going to throw up. I gulp again to quell the sensation.

Get a grip. Move. I edge forward, feet first, wriggle along the dusty floorboards until I can pull myself free from beneath the bed and sit, head on my knees, in the indifferent, insipid glow of the bedroom lamp. Streaks and clumps of dust bloom like mould across my jeans. I daren’t lift my head yet. Need to take stock. Think! Think! And listen…..

I turn my head in the direction of the corridor and entrance. Nothing. He must have scarpered. Jesus. Jesus! Get a grip, man. Are you going to throw or cry? I get to my knees, push myself to standing, and then turn to see what I already know.

My Angel is resting, her soft blue eyes staring heavenward. Grey-black mascara stains across her temple show where the last tears of her life have seeped away. Her hands lie softly furled by her sides. Her tights and panties are still clinging to one ankle, turned inside out where he couldn’t remove her second shoe. Her shirt is open and her soft, small, fleshy breasts, pink-tipped, are begging to be caressed.

My Angel, Charlotte, my little dancing minx. So beautiful, so silent and pale; she looks like a marble effigy, she seems… She is blueish. Her face and neck are swollen and bruised. Her tongue protrudes. This time I can’t stop the bile rising in my throat, and hurtle through the adjacent doorway and into the kitchenette, just reaching the sink before emptying the contents of my guts over the soiled breakfast and dinner crockery which is piled haphazardly in it. She’s a minx, but a scruffy one.

Was.

I clutch each side of the bowl and wretch again, spewing something resembling lentil soup across the Ikeaware. My eyes are watering rivulets down my cheeks, and I stay there two, three, minutes, staring at the leggy, faded basil plant nestled in the fold of the grubby net curtain, standing its ground on the small window ledge between the can of air freshener and the bottle of own-brand washing-up liquid. I wipe my mouth and eyes with the back of my sleeve, then turn fearfully to check, once again, that we are alone in the flat.

There is silence. No-one is here. I shiver, chilled through now, although sweat is forming under my hairline and across my upper lip. I tilt my head but detect no sound from the attic apartment on the floor above, nor from the ground floor flat, whose occupants, I recall, are away for the weekend. I check my watch. About one forty-five a.m. I look back at the small window and realise I cannot see past the nets into the yard below or the street beyond; which means that I can probably be seen from outside in the weak light distributed by the lamp in the bedsitting room. I step back into the shadows beside the door frame. I am shaking.

I look to the bed, to Charlotte’s body, Charlotte’s… corpse. Sweet, sexy Charlotte, my dancing angel. I’ll never see her practice her moves again. Never watch from my window across the alleyway as she stretches and spins and poses for me, teasing me with her smooth skin, her lithe limbs, the sideways flirtatious glance to the bedroom window as she runs long fingers through her hair, thrusting out her breasts in her lycra dance vest, standing provocatively hand on hip and pretending to examine her reflection in her living room window, when I know that she knows that I am here in the dark, across the alleyway, watching the show and loving every arousing second of it.

I know her as intimately as if I were her actual lover, and she is a naughty minx. Was a naughty minx. Jesus. I’m chewing what’s left of my thumbnail now and it’s sore, my thumb is sore. I wipe it on my shirt and dust from beneath the bed sticks to it. I stare at it for a few seconds. I should phone the Police. Charlotte is dead. I must call them now, while she is still warm, and tell them what I…..

But I didn’t see, did I? I only heard. I heard what happened, the words he used, his voice, his language, her cry as he struck her, the sounds as he choked her, the mattress creaking angrily as he pounded into her, his sob as he came; the vague mutterings as he cleaned up, zipped up, and left.

What can I tell the Police? Not much more. Charlotte and the bloke’s arrival back at the flat was sudden and unexpected, forcing me to scramble head-first beneath the wood-framed double bed and pray to God my breathing was not so loud as to give my presence away. I was reasonably well hidden there. Storage boxes were taking up one side, and the quilt hung down low at this side, the wardrobe side, so that – as I had realised with a surging thrill - even if they had decided to get particularly athletic with their sex, I would most probably get away with it, get to be there while Charlotte did ‘her thing’, get to experience, first hand but vicariously, the scenes I had played through countless times in my mind. I recall stifling a nervous chuckle that naughty Charlotte had tapped off and come home earlier than usual.

She often stayed out on Saturdays, arriving back at dawn or not until later the following day, still in her pulling gear from the nightclub antics of the evening before. How sweet the scent of those sweat-stained garments would be. Like when she had been at dance class; like today, the fragrant, ripe, fertile aromas impregnating her jersey lycra garb that I had breathed in so deeply this evening, that drifted sweetly like honeyed gossamer in the stale air of the small bedsit.

I had thought I had the run of Charlotte’s flat for another hour or so before I’d have to let myself quietly out. I had been entertaining myself over her panties and just buried them back in the linen basket prior to the rude interruption of her return, accompanied by…. By whom? Nothing I recognised about the geezer’s voice, and I hadn’t even had the opportunity to glance at his footwear as he’d pushed her around the flat, as things had taken a turn for the now-evident worse, and he’d called her those wicked names. Quietly at first, then raising his voice to chastise her for being ‘impure’.

No, I have nothing to offer the pigs by way of enlightenment here. It would only open a whole can of particularly ugly worms. Best I leave now, subtle-like, snick the door behind me and return to my own place, leave her to be found in due course by person or persons unknown.

Avoiding looking in her direction, I tiptoe round the foot of the bed towards the corridor and front door beyond. As is my habit, I feel my pocket for the door key I copied over a year ago, its ridged presence outlined against the denim, safely coming home with me so I can let myself in again next time. Except this time there will be no next time. I am just in the hall, and suddenly stricken, turn to look back at my Angel Minx, at her resting form, uncharacteristically still, almost alien in the small space that is her home. My eyes travel to objects around the room that I have discovered and come to love: the CD collection stacked against the bookcase; the dancing trophies which adorn the mantelpiece; the bedroom drawers which I have opened many times to tenderly explore; the linen basket full of unwashed treasures. In a small adjoining room is the bathroom, with the glorious clutter of girly shit I have wonderingly and lovingly fingered, the sanitary items I have cradled, eyes closed, imagination flaring. And then the kitchenette across the room, gloomy and unlit now, with a slightly manky fridge full of healthfood and treats, a small number of units opening to reveal yet more stuff, crammed in, and the sink unit with washing up left from this morning. So very typical of my Charlotte…. My dancing minx.

I start. Jesus! The sink, what am I thinking? It’s full of my puke. I can’t leave it like that! I look at the front door. All quiet. My watch tells me five to two. I walk back into the yellow light of the bedsitting room, and glance nervously over at the window. Now I know this gives only onto the alleyway, and that no-one can see in, that the only thing beyond is the window of my own bedroom, about twenty feet away across the back yard of my building. No other windows look out over Charlotte’s domain, this has been my privilege and mine alone for almost two years since she moved in. Nevertheless I sidle up to the window and peer cautiously out, squinting to see if I can discern movement or anything out of place… but there is nothing: except a wall, a space, and my window, darkened and awaiting my return. I move swiftly into the cramped kitchen area, turn on the hot tap and let it run, being careful not to splash and splatter my vomit around the area. One by one I lift and rinse the items in the sink, until all I’m left with are chunks blocking the plughole, so I scoop them out with kitchenroll paper and carry them through to the loo to flush away. I wash my hands at the basin and then realise my fingermarks remain on the flush handle of the toilet. There is a cleaning cloth on a small pipe beneath the sink, and some antibacterial spray cleaning fluid on the floor. I spray the flush handle and polish it up with the cloth.

And then it hits me with a God-almighty jolt. My fingerprints are fucking everywhere. I have practically lived in this flat, unbeknown to its tenant, over the past year. I have fondled all its contents, used its facilities, abused some of them too… and shed skin and hair and God knows what else bloody fibres and whatnot all over the shop. The Forensics people are going to have a fucking field day. I am screwed.

I know where she keeps all her stuff. How many times have I longed to give her a lovely surprise, clean up for her while she’s away, like Snow White awaiting the return of Seven Dwarfs? But of course, I never could. Could never leave any indication I’d been inside her private domain. I go into the kitchenette and locate polish, a duster, disinfectant, and cloths. The vacuum cleaner is a small pull-along model she keeps behind the door in the hallway. But how the hell am I going to get away with hoovering in the middle of the night without attracting the wrong attention? Downstairs are away for the weekend but I’ve no idea if the occupant of the attic apartment is at home.

Aw…. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! I’ll have to let myself back in tomorrow in the daytime after all. And then there’s the panties and other soiled clothing. How will I clean that? No washing machine in this place. Charlotte visits the launderette, as I do; which of course is how I managed to borrow her key that one time. I’ll have to take the clothing away with me and straight to the tip tomorrow. I have neither the means nor the excuse to build a bonfire in my small yard.

I’ll begin at the front door and polish my way around the flat. And remove all my traces. And his. My poor Charlotte. I look to her body once more.

What a mess, my girl, what a mess.

Victim of Love

“What the hell is going on!” I screeched with anger. I was shouting so hard that the back of my throat had started to sting. My eyes grew wider as I glared at the long line of cars in front of me. I glanced at the clock: 18:24pm. “Typical!” I said to myself. The one night I leave work early to go out, I get caught up in traffic. I was supposed to meet Ben almost half an hour ago. I’d tried to call him to say that I was going to be late, but the blasted signal on my phone was dead. Stupid phone, stupid cars. “Move! For Gods sake!” I yelled, but it was no use, we were stuck and weren’t going anywhere. I reached over to the glove compartment, fumbled around and eventually pulled out a crumpled packet of Marlboro Lights that had been stuffed away for use in emergencies. There was one left inside and I really needed to calm down. I wound down the window. Summer heat and the sound of humming engines poured into the car. I lit up and took a long drag from the cigarette.

With a cigarette in my hand, I started to tell myself to relax a little. There was no point in getting so wound up because some things in life you simply can’t control, like traffic jams, the weather and men… My mind began to drift and focus on seeing Ben. We had known each other for almost three years after meeting through a mutual friend. The attraction was immediate and I guess you could say that it was love at first sight. He was good looking, intelligent, kind and would even put up with my bad singing. Although about six months ago, our relationship had started to go rather pear shaped. We began to argue about silly little things, which turned into bigger things and eventually we decided to have a break. Well, we didn’t decide, he did. He wanted the break. I was devastated when he told me. I had fallen in love with him and was that this man could be ‘the one’. If only he’d felt the same way. Apparently he had to think through a few things and needed some space to work out how he really felt. But I knew what this really meant: “I don’t want to be with you and I don’t have the nerve to end our relationship properly.”

After three weeks of recovering, he called me this morning to ask if we could talk. Maybe he’d realised that the grass really wasn’t that green on the other side and that I was what he wanted. Or maybe he was going to tell me that he decided that we weren’t supposed to be together and that we should both move on. Either way, this was an opportunity to either finally move on, with or without him. Whatever happened, it always best that these things are discussed somewhere neutral. The George was the best neutral spot that I could think of at such short notice.

18:46pm. And I can’t get hold of him. I was becoming increasingly anxious as I thought that he may decide to get fed up and leave the pub. Surely not – he must realise that there’s a traffic jam. People were becoming increasingly impatient and I could see cars turning around in the middle of the road and heading back in the opposite direction. I wished that I had that option, but the pub that I was meeting Ben at was only a mile or two further down the road and there was no other way of getting there. Just as I flicked the end of the cigarette onto the other side of the road, the cars started to crawl forwards. Stopping and starting, moving at no more than three miles per hour, the cars were creeping forwards. As the road started to bend around to the right, I could see what had caused the traffic to stop. Blue lights whirred around as peoples heads bobbed up, to the left and right as drivers and their passengers tried to see what had happened further down the road. As we drove closer to the blue lights, I could see a Police Officer up ahead signalling traffic.

18:54pm. An ambulance and two police cars were scattered across the road, with just enough room for a car to pass through in one direction only. As the cars drew closer, I could see Paramedics and Police Officers standing over a motionless mound on the edge of the road. Although covered up, the shape of the mound resembled a body. A woman stood at the side of the road, weeping uncontrollably, with two Police Officers either side of her.

I passed the body in the road. As I left the scene, I could see in my wing mirror that the woman, still sobbing, was being lead into the back of the police car by the Police Officers.

I arrived at the pub. 19:06. Still no signal on my phone. Ben would probably be raging about how late I was. As I walked into the pub, I looked around for him. There were a few men stood around the bar drinking pints. One was reading a paper. As I looked to my left, I saw a couple, who must have only just turned eighteen, sat huddled on a sofa in the far corner. To the right, Ben was sat down at a table with an empty pint glass. Relieved that he hadn’t decided to give up and disappeared on me, I trundled over towards the table. His head was resting in both hands, eyes fixated on the empty pint glass in front of him.

“Hi. So sorry I’m late, but there was this awful accident. I think someone may have been killed. Did all I could to get here on time. Tried calling you but there was no signal. Anyway, I’m here now. Shall I go to the bar and get a round in?”

He sat there motionless, starring at the empty pint glass.

“I take it you’re a little hacked off because I was late. Look I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He glanced up at me and gave me half a smile. I sat down opposite him.

He still looked good, even though I was angry at him for leaving. He had deep blue eyes and a face that would dimple when he smiled. He must have come straight over to the pub from work. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, tie on table, suit jacket on the back of the chair. His thick dark hair appeared to be slightly ruffled where he’d been running his fingers through it.

“So how have you been? It seems like ages since I last saw you.” I asked, trying to keep things light and upbeat.

“Not bad, but I could be better.” He kept staring at the empty glass.

“Is that a hint? Would you like a refill?”

“Sure.”

I had used the bar as an excuse to be on my own for a few minutes. Things felt awkward. It wasn’t my fault that traffic had been so bad. I thought he would have been pleased to see me. It had been three weeks since we last saw each other. Well, nineteen days and yes, I had been counting. Why did he ask me to meet up with him if he was just going to sit there, hardly talk to me and expect me to read his mind?

“Yes please Miss?”

“Oh err. Pint of Kronenburg and a diet coke for me. Packet of dry roasted too please.” I was hoping that after this much time apart he’d realise that I was actually the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he’d tell me how madly in love he was with me and say that he wanted me back and would never leave again. Being more realistic, he’s probably met up with me tonight to say that he’s met someone else and doesn’t ever want to see me again. No that’s nonsense too.

“That’ll be £4.30 please Miss.”

“Oh right, yes of course. Here you are.”

I wandered back over to the table where Ben was sitting. He stilled hadn’t moved.

“Hey look, peace offering. I’ve bought you some nuts… no pun intended.”

He didn’t smile.

I placed the drinks on the table, sat down and looked at him. He just sat there, motionless.

“Ben, come on… what’s wrong?” I deliberately softened the tone of my voice. “Has something happened? Why are you being really quiet?” He looked up at me, then looked down again.

“Ben, look. Why did you ask me to meet you tonight? I told you I was sorry for being late, but that’s not a good enough reason to not talk to me. Something else is up. Are you going to tell me that you don’t want to see me again? Is that it?”

“No, that wasn’t it. Not the reason I wanted to see you.” At last, could this be the start of a conversation? Okay, enough sarcasm.

“So why did you want to see me?” I tried to be calm and patient.

“It was this.” He pulled out a little blue box from his jacket pocket. “I wanted to give you this.” Hang on a minute, I thought to myself. My heart started pounding. Finally, he’s realised that he wants to be with me and make a real go of things! I took the box from him and opened it. There inside was a beautiful diamond ring.

“It’s beautiful. I didn’t think this was why you wanted to see me!”

“I err.. think it’s the right thing to do.”

“Mum and Dad will be happy. Does anyone else know? Have you told anyone else that you were going to propose tonight?”

“No. No one.” He looked like he was in pain. The ring said that he wanted me, but body language suggested that I wasn’t even in the room.

“I thought men were supposed to be happy when they’d found the person they’d wanted to spend the rest of their life with? Don’t get me wrong, I’m over the moon about you giving me this ring, but your heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. You are hardly talking to me. Why?”

“Just take the stupid ring. I came here tonight to ask you to marry me. There you go I’ve done it. And I don’t know what to do now.”

“Hug me? Kiss me? Tell me you love me? Ask me to move in with you? Drink something? Order some food? What do you mean you don’t know what to do now?”

Another argument was brewing. I was confused. Why was he acting so strangely? I’d never seen him like this before.

“I came here to do what I wanted to do. Now I’m going to stay here and finish my drink.”

“Is this some kind of joke or silly game that you’re playing? You’ve just asked me one of the most important things a man could ever ask a woman and you don’t seem that happy about it at all. You look like you don’t even want to see me.”

“Yes you’re right. I don’t want to see anyone. Think of the ring as an apology.” And with that, I pushed closed the lid of the box and pushed the ring back towards him.

“I don’t understand you anymore.” And with that, I stormed out of the pub.

The sun had started to set and the temperature outside had dropped. What the hell had just happened in there? I was in two minds about whether or not to go home and sob into a bucket of ice cream, or go back in and try one last time to work out what the problem was. That wasn’t a marriage proposal. It was a sick game that he was playing.

I drove back home in tears. It must have been some kind of wind up. I checked my phone. No missed calls and no text messages. He didn’t love me. If he did, then he wouldn’t have decided to me for three weeks, then call me up out of the blue, ask to meet up with me, propose and then treat me so badly. It was cruel. Perhaps it was some kind of test. How badly can I treat her? How much mental torture can I inflict on a woman before they crack up? He probably wanted to see how much I’d be prepared to put up with. I didn’t sleep much that night, even after three large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

The next morning, I woke up with a heavy head, dark shadows and puffy eyes. I took a little longer to get ready for work and tried hard to cover up the state of my face with some Touche Éclat and mascara. I couldn’t concentrate at work and was half expecting an email or call or text or something from Ben, but there was nothing.

Sally came over and chatted to me for a bit about what she’d been up to last night. She was telling me about how a young girl had died following a hit-and-run last night, although most of what she said went in through one ear and straight out the other. She left the paper for me so that I could read my horoscopes.

“Aries: Cut your honey some slack, things aren’t always what they seem.”

Who writes this crap? I thought to myself. I folded the paper in half, threw it towards the end of my desk and took a deep sigh. There was a picture of Ben on the front page. I read the headline:

“Man arrested for killing a 12-year-old girl in a hit-and-run incident.

Ben Roberts was arrested yesterday after striking 12-year-old Katie Wilson in his black Audi A4 and leaving the scene of the accident in Slate Hill Road near the George pub.

Police said that the 12-year-old’s mother, who does not wish to be named, said her daughter was a "real live wire". A police spokeswoman said the accident happened at about 1800 GMT.

The saloon did not stop at the scene and left the 12-year-old’s mother crying and in a state of shock at the scene of the crime.”

Identifying Mark's

By David Steele

Detective Inspector Peter Legge listened while his car door clunked solidly behind him. It was satisfying sound and its novelty hadn’t yet worn off. It was a clunk that assured him that his money had been well placed. After years of making do with a flimsy Nissan, he had a car that clunked properly.

He picked his way to the place. Away from the road, where the squad cars were carelessly straddling the road and verges. Over the cracked and uneven paving slabs, which were now home to the year’s fresh crop of unloved dandelion heads. He strolled down a set of well worn concrete steps which doubled as an open litter bin, and into the multi-storey car park which had once been a well respected architect’s vision of a utopian future.. A cheerful yellow sign let him know that he was being watched by CCTV. Another warned him there were thieves about, and yet another told him to pay for his parking before going back to his car. The word “Before” was underlined, to make the point clear.

There was police tape here, with the traditional blue and white ribbon cheerily announcing a nearby tragedy. As a life long fan of Sheffield United, Peter had taken a dislike to those colours from a very early age. It seemed only right that the decal of the Owls should point the way to some sort of disaster for somebody. This corner of the block was sealed from the public now, and a small handful of early motorists were complaining to PCSO on picket duty that the entrance on North Street was a bloody long walk away. For his own part, the PCSO was doing his best to look simultaneously sympathetic and unmovable as he blocked the way to the thickly painted brown fire door..

Peter squeezed past them, enjoying the feeling it gave him to pass unchallenged, and letting the corners of his mouth turning up as he heard the shoppers demand to know how that man was allowed to use this entrance.

The feeling didn’t last long, though, as Peter made his way to the bottom flight of stairs and found his way blocked by a uniformed police constable, a yellow wheelie bin., and even more blue and white tape. In the stairwell beyond them, he caught his first look at the body. His eyes latched onto it, and then darted away instinctively, as if he’d made eye contact with a stranger.

“Hello, sir.” The Constable said, offering a biro without a lid. “Can you sign in?”

Peter took the clip board and noted the small list of names which were there already. Paramedics. A couple of uniformed police who he would have expected, and that was it. “No word from forensics yet?”

“Doctor Thornton.” The policeman replied, as if that was explanation enough.

“I take it the medics have been checked?”

“Yes, sir. They’re just waiting for the body to be released.”

“Best get started then.” He raised an eyebrow. “Have you got a goody bag?”

The policeman opened up the yellow plastic bin and fished out a set of shrink-wrapped overalls, which he offered without ceremony. Having placed them over his regular clothes, (resisting the instinct to use the hand rail on the stairwell so as to avoid leaving his prints there) Peter ducked under the inner cordon of incident tape and walked towards the body.

There was blood on the floor. The thick, dark kind, which seeped from still bodies long after they had finished shouting and thrashing. It left the hard tiled floor of the municipal stairwell looking like a jam tart. Albeit a thinly spread one. Cigarette ends had fused with the syrupy fluid, as had a few discarded tissues. They would all need to be bagged and tagged, but not by him, thankfully. That lovely job would be reserved for which ever fresh faced HND level trainee the good Doctor Thornton had in tow this week.

The casualty had her back to him. As with many jumpers, this one had landed on her hands and knees, leaving a jelly mould shaped body behind with the legs trapped under the bulk of the torso. Peter looked up. Eight flights of stairs – four floors in conventional terms - with just enough of a gap to fall through if you managed to avoid hitting the metal banisters on the way down.

He had seen this sort of thing before. Many, many times, but it often made him wonder about why people would choose such difficult places to jump. The car park was surrounded on all sides by hard concrete, and the open sides offered plenty of places for people to take a good run up and launch themselves into the clouds. But here, narrowly slipping through the rectangular gap of a municipal stairwell, you were just as likely to be beaten senseless by unforgiving cast iron railings as you were to hit the ground cleanly. But maybe that was the whole point.

The body had mousy hair, slightly darker at the roots, straightened to the shoulder with only a faint trace of grey. Thirty five maybe? It was difficult to tell with women. Their hair told lies. Pulling his glove tight (An unconscious nervous habit that he had never noticed in himself) Peter reached out to her neck to feel for a pulse.

His job here was simple enough. The paramedics had pronounced her dead from the start. It was his job to confirm that and to release her body. Since it was a potential crime scene, and with no immediate threat to life and limb, the medics would wait for his consent before taking her away. Without his signature it was conceivable that this girl could be stuck down here for a very long time.

He reached out with a finger and looped the hair from the left side of her neck, looking for signs of physical violence. People with their hands around a neck usually tended to overdo it a bit. Thin skin tends to bruise more easily and the marks don’t recover after the heart has stopped beating. But this neck was white and untouched. He moved to the fingernails of the right hand; the left being pinned under the weight of her chest, and probably already difficult to manipulate. Neat, tidy nails. Not manicured but unbitten at least, no sign that she had fought for her life. No evidence of desperation. Her fingers looked ordinary. Just like her hair. And her blouse.

Plain and white, man made fibre. The seams were torn on both sleeves but that was due to the force of impact. The pressure had ripped little vent holes on wither side of her shoulder blades, which was consistent with a fall of this kind. Front - leading impacts were a nightmare for tailoring, but at least it fit his original assumption. If she’d struggled or if she’d been pushed, then the chances were she would have landed face up, having fallen with her back to the drop. Her instinct – however irrational – would have been to reach up to the person that had pushed her as if that person would be able (or even willing) to help her.

He was about ready to call this one. All he needed to do was make sure there was no obvious sign of malice and he would be on his way. But to do that, he would need to turn her over and check for stab wounds. There was a lot of blood, and if it turned out that she had been ventilated, his day would suddenly get a lot busier.

He placed a hand on her left shoulder, and another on her left hip. Rolling her over was a simple matter of weight transference and she moved easily, despite the fact that her pelvis had obviously buckled.

“Do we have a time of death?” He asked to the Constable, who had been quietly looking over his shoulder.

“Paramedics got the call at half past five. But it’s a twenty four hour car park. We’ve asked the manager for the CCTV tapes.”

“Well, I don’t think she’s been gone for very long. A couple of hours at the most.” He let the woman lie on her side and stood straight, taking the weight off his knees. “I’m just going to straighten her legs out.” He said, stooping and taking hold of her ankles. “There you go, see? There’s still a good range of movement here. So she’s not been here for much longer than that.”

And then he noticed something that made him frown. It wasn’t the way the badly broken shins moved that gave him pause. Or even the way the smashed knee joints offered no resistance. The thigh bone had splintered and pushed through the denim jeans on her right hand side and this had been the cause of the blood loss. But that hadn’t surprised him either. The thing that really bothered him, or rather the things that really bothered him, were her training shoes.

Converse All Stars, in a black white and grey gingham check. Badly blood stained now, but still distinctly unusual. He’d bought a pair just a few weeks ago with Mark for –

He recoiled, sucking in air and letting the body’s feet drop. His gloved hands were on his face as he backed away, almost knocking the uniformed man off his feet in the process. “Fucking fuck” He shouted.

“What?” The uniformed officer had a strong arm on his back, holding him in place but also keeping him upright. “Do you know her?”

He didn’t answer at first. He stood there and looked through his fingers, unable to even breathe. But then he let his arms drop, and with them the breath that he had been holding. His tone was of complete resignation. “Oh,,, shit.” He said quietly. “Yes. I think I do.”

Still feeling the shock in his joints, he moved back up to the body and gently pushed the hair away from her face. It was Tabitha. Her jaw was shattered and much of her nose was flattened, but there was no mistaking it. Her eyes stared out across the blood soaked floor, still clear and green, as if she were just deep in thought. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Yes.” Peter said. “I know her. If you look you should find a Peugot 207 cc. Silver, I think. On a five seven plate. It will be registered to Tabitha Barnes.” He was removing his gloves as he was speaking, and the other man automatically offered him a clear plastic bag to throw them into, which he did.

“Is she a friend of yours? A relative, maybe? Can we get you a car?”

Peter took a long breath. “No need. I didn’t know her very well. Just a friend of a friend. Give us a hand will you?”

He let the policeman hold him steady as he extracted himself from the thin white overalls. which were so heavily marked with Tabitha’s blood.

“Have you finished?” He asked. “I take it you’re okay to sign her off as suicide?”

“Just give me the pad.” Peter accepted the clip board, and using the same cheap pen, he signed his name in the relevant boxes. He tore off the top grey copy for himself, leaving the pink and yellow copies untouched.

And then he was back up the steps, walking blindly back to his car, marching past twix wrappers and discarded cigarette packs with his eyes fixed straight ahead.

damn, damn, damn!

The car chirped, pleased to see him. It greeted him with a little flash of its indicators in a way that had made him smile all week long. But right then, he just wanted to take a lump hammer to the whole street.

He'd warned him. He'd said. ”Don't tell her, Mark. Keep it between us. Nobody needs to know.”

But no. He couldn't leave it alone, could he? High and mighty bloody Mark Barnes. Fucking Detective Chief Inspector Mark Barnes, couldn't just enjoy a good thing and keep it to himself.

Peter sat heavily in the driver's seat and rested his head on the steering wheel. Within the hour they would work out who Tabitha was. It would be national news. When the wife of a DCI takes her own life, people tend to ask questions. And how long would it be before somebody asked the right questions?

He ran his fingers over the back of his head, where the hair was still thick. Keeping his eyes closed, he struggled to make sense of the whole mess he had suddenly found himself in. They would find a note. Surely she would have left some sort of parting shot before taking her own life.

And there were Mark's kids. And...

Jenny!

The thought of what his own wife would do when this all came out filled him with a slow, resigned mixture of dread and despair that he had never felt before. It was the realisation of the inevitable. The morbid acceptance of the truly screwed.

Oh, fuck. He bunched his fingers into fists and slowly bashed the sinews at the nape of his neck.

The press will have a field day. Gay lovers exposed at CID! One wife dead, the other hounded by reporters on her way to work “Jenny – did you know your husband was gay?” “Jenny – did he ever tell you he enjoyed fucking men?” “Jenny – Did he ever ask you to take it up the ass?”

And the kids?

He fought the urge to sob. He wasn't going to get anywhere by crying. Oh, God. Why couldn't Mark have just listened?

Suddenly furious, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. As soon as the screen lit up, he held down the speed-dial button and waited for the ring tone.

He would show him. The fucking idiot. He would tell him exactly what his boy-scout honesty had done. He would tell him what a total prick, what a total, selfish, stupid arse hole he'd been. He could feel his blood boiling by the second. If he could have reached him he would have quite happily strangled him with his own bare hands.

And then the phone connected. And it was Mark.

As if someone had flicked a switch in him, Pater felt his anger drain away. And then the tears came. Real tears. For Mark. For both of them. For Tabitha.

For what could not be undone.

“Hi, Sweetie.” He said, as his throat twisted at his voice. “I've got something to tell you. Are you sitting down?”