attacked his car with the hose as if it were a dog that had rolled in fresh cow-shit. Every time she thought heâd finished, he pushed the button for an extra wash. There was a lot of fumbling underneath, the hose poised just so to get the full effect. It looked highly suspicious, forcing her to seriously consider what he was eradicating. She switched off the radio, and found herself watching with a professional eye. Water was the enemy of forensics. Critical trace evidence could easily be washed away. Fibres might remain â if you were lucky. Then she pinched herself, jolting back to the present. Youâre not in the business any more, she told herself, you walked away, left it all behind.
Twenty-five minutes later, he waved her in and drove off. Probably a wannabe BMW driver, she concluded with a smile, as she got out and fed the meter.
Jen lived in Bristol Road, in an annexe of her parentâs Regency townhouse. She represented the new breed of stay-at-home older children who ate into their parentsâ pensions. While Helen fled from her home environment at the first opportunity, Jen chose a rent-free roof over her head the size of a football pitch, her washing done, meals when she wanted them, and all the freedom because Jenâs parents were fond of travelling. At the present time, they were whooping it up in Cuba.
Helen parked on the gravelled drive. Loud music was belting out from Jenâs side of the house. Helen walked in and was greeted by George, the familyâs bearded collie-cross. As she squatted down to pat him, he stuck both muddy paws on her chest and licked her face. Not much of a guard-dog, she thought fondly, stroking his hairy head.
âTell George to bugger off,â Jen called from a small galleried area that had been converted into a kitchen. The rest of the annexe was open-plan, which meant that guests could as easily sit on the large double bed as on the sofa. The idea was that certain spaces had their own distinct functions but Jen was so pathologically untidy, everything seemed to meld into one big mess. The bathroom was the only sane bit, tucked at the other end of the gallery with proper doors that locked.
Helen gave George an affectionate shove, crossed the obstacle course that covered several hundred square feet of floor, and went up the two steps to the kitchen.
âWhat do you reckon to this?â Jen said, holding out a soup ladle. Pink-faced, she was wearing denims and an old sweater that failed to conceal her voluptuous build. Her long blonde hair was unceremoniously pinned up on top of her head.
Helen sniffed it. âWhat is it?â
âChicken Gloop.â
âSounds dodgy.â
âOh ye of little faith. Go on, give it a try.â
Helen tasted it. âFunnily enough, itâs quite nice. What else are we cooking?â
âIndustrial-sized quantities of Beef in Beer, Georgeâs favourite,â Jen regarded him affectionately as he trotted into the kitchen and slumped down near her feet. âWhat is it with dogs? They always park themselves in the most inconvenient places.â She gave him a gentle nudge with her foot.
Helen knelt down and stroked his soft, fluffy coat. George gave a contented grunt and closed his eyes.
âNo, you donât,â Jen said, clapping her hands, âCome on, up Georgie boy, youâll have to go in the parent-pad.â George twitched his hairy eyebrows, got up with great reluctance and threw Helen a reproachful look.
âWhat do you want me to do?â Helen said as Jen carted George away.
âSaved you a special job.â Jen had a wicked light in her eyes.
âWhatâs that?â
âMake a start on the onions.â
âWow,â Jen said, goggle-eyed.
Helen flinched at Jenâs too obvious enthusiasm.
They were taking a well-earned break. Helen was beginning to wonder whether sheâd ever recover. God knows how many onions sheâd peeled, but the
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