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Mr. Appleby was a short, overweight man in his late sixties, smartly attired and businesslike. He made De
“Would you like the tour, or are you happy to look around by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine,” De
“Any questions, I’ll be right here.” And Mr. Appleby sat himself down on a chair, while De
The two final downstairs rooms were a cramped cloak-room/w.c. and what was described as “Bedroom 4” but was currently being used for storage: cardboard boxes, racks of women’s clothes. De
Upstairs, there were three bedrooms off the landing, the “master” featuring an “en suite by Ballard.” The master was the largest room by far, and the only one being used as a bedroom. De
The other bedrooms seemed to comprise “his” and “hers” studies. In his: shelves of books-mostly crime and war novels, plus sports biographies-a desk covered in paperwork, and a music center with albums by Glen Campbell, Tony Be
Selina’s study was something else again: more puzzle magazines, but everything kept neat. There was an unused knitting machine in one corner, a rocking chair in another. De
“A delightful family home,” Mr. Appleby told him.
“Absolutely.”
“And fixed price. You’ll need to be quick. I’d bet a pound to a pe
“You think so?”
“Pound to a pe
“Well, I’ll sleep on it,” De
“You do that, Mr. De
When De
He’d stopped at a late-opening shop and used their color copier. Decided not to stint: printed twenty slow copies. He could see that the shopkeeper wanted to ask him about the photo and the quantity, but the man knew better than to pry.
Pictures of her on his bed, on the sofa, laid out on his dining table. Even one on the floor of the hallway, left there when he’d dropped it. The original, he took to work with him, locking it in his desk. At visiting time that afternoon, there was a knock at his door. He unlocked it. One of the warders stood there, arms folded.
“You coming for a butcher’s?”
“I take it Mrs. Blaine is in the building,” De
The warder spread his hands in front of him. “Showtime,” he said with a grin.
But, to De
De
What the hell was Selina doing, wasting herself on him? It didn’t make sense. Except… except, she would need someone to take the blame when she fled, someone Blaine could take his anger out on. De
Apart from the one detail: De
“Which one of us was that for?” the warder next to De
“Ooh, I’m scared,” the warder beside De
Blaine himself just stared at the tabletop, nodding slowly, then said a few words to his wife, who nodded back. When it came time to leave, she gave Blaine a more effusive embrace than usual. It’s called the kiss-off, De
De
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” he was told. “That property was sold this morning.”
He replaced the receiver. She was on her way… he might never see her again. And there was nothing he could do about it, was there?
Maybe not.
Half an hour later, he left his room, locking it behind him as usual. His walk through the prison took him right past Blaine ’s open cell door. Chalmers was on guard duty as usual.