Took in the cracked patio splattered with puddles, the lawn tangled with weeds, the sprawling hedges, the wisteria that scaled the back wall of the house and leant over as if it was trying to escape into next door’s better-cared-for environment. I noticed the little organised patch I’d created two weekends ago. Dug nicely and planted with three robust, un-killable shrubs. They were looking good.
The sun emerged from behind a slab of cloud, all bright and surprising, beaming through the dust and cobwebs on the kitchen windows and casting shadows on the black-and-white tiled floor.
I spun round, wincing at the pain in my head and hip. Nobody was after me. And I would not let the flashbacks return. I was fine. I’d carry on working and forget all this ever happened. I left Mum an appreciative note and set off for work.
*
I hobbled down the corridor and into Richard’s room. My ankle had flared up in sympathy with my head, and I must have cut a pretty sad picture.
Richard was at his desk, poring over something which he hastily shoved in a drawer. He was shielded by piles of documents, all neatly stacked and aligned in rows in front of him. Each pile was topped with a tiny cactus in a pot, like a prickly paperweight. It was very strange, but we’d got used to it. He looked up at me, but his shoulders stayed low, giving him the appearance of a giant turtle. He invited me to sit opposite him in a psychologically disadvantageous lower chair.
‘Yes. Meg. I wasn’t expecting you in. And seeing you now, you’d better get off home.’
‘I’m fine. I just want to look into the Hamilton case a bit more. Can you give me some time to—’
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