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Authors: Michael Robotham
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the living room. The TV is casting flickering shadows.
‘I was just passing by.’
‘Nobody just passes by this house unless they’re driving a tractor.’
‘Or riding a horse,’ adds Charlie.
‘I needed somewhere to crash for the night. Is the sofa-bed available?’
Julianne looks at me dubiously, wondering if Charlie and I have cooked this up together.
‘I’ll get some blankets and bedding,’ she says, and then to Charlie. ‘I thought you were going out?’
‘Change of plan.’
‘Well, I need to talk to your father, so scram.’
Later when the sofa is made up and the house is quiet, Julianne makes herself a mug of peppermint tea and sits cross-legged in the armchair opposite, prepared to listen. ‘Were you sitting outside again?’ she asks. ‘I hoped that you’d grown out of that.’
‘I was about to call. It’s been a strange day.’
‘What happened?’
‘Do you remember Ronnie Cray?’
Julianne stiffens and goes quiet. I am used to such silences. They come with separation.
‘She wants me to look at a case.’
‘You told me you’d stopped doing that.’
‘I have. This is different. Someone has used my name to inveigle his way into an investigation. A former student, Milo Coleman, has set himself up as a criminal profiler.’
‘Let him do it.’
‘He’s compromised the investigation. Leaked confidential details.’
‘Which has nothing to do with you.’
‘He used my name. He’s telling everyone that he trained under me.’
‘Tell him to stop.’
‘I did. I don’t think he was listening.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You’re going to do this, aren’t you?’
‘I’m going to review the investigation – to see if anything has been missed.’
There is a long pause. The cottage seems to creak as it settles down for the night. Julianne slides her legs from under her and cinches her dressing gown tighter around her narrow waist. ‘Is this about that mother and daughter who were killed in North Somerset?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do the police know who did it?’
‘Not yet.’
She has stopped at the door, leaning her hand on the frame. ‘Do you have any pyjamas?’
‘No.’
‘What about a clean shirt for tomorrow?’
I shake my head.
‘Give me your shirt. If I wash it now it will be dry by morning.’
‘You really don’t have to—’
‘Off.’
I stand and try to unbutton the shirt, but my left hand is shaking. Julianne steps closer and finishes the job. She also unbuckles my belt.
‘I’ve been here fifteen minutes and you’re trying to get into my pants.’
‘In your dreams.’
If she only knew …
Some days I wake and feel as though my life doesn’t fit me any more. It pinches like a pair of shoes that are a size too small or rides up the crack of my arse like ill-fitting underwear. Is it possible to outgrow a life? I’ve heard people say it of a job or a relationship. And it’s one of those excuses people use when they’re cheating on their partners. ‘I’ve outgrown you,’ they say. ‘I need more space.’
I have heard all of these pathetic self-justifications and glib explanations. I feel trapped. It’s not you – it’s me. Things aren’t like they used to be. You deserve better. I feel suffocated. You’ve changed. You left me before I left you. You work too much. You don’t listen to me. I’m tired of having to do everything around here. You’ve grown fat. I don’t fancy you any more. Sex isn’t fun. You were never there for me when I needed you.
Some men will tell you that adultery is about meeting a need. It’s not really their fault. It’s biological. Monogamy is easier for a woman. The male sex drive is greater. Men eat when they’re hungry, sleep when they’re tired, fuck when they’re frisky – simple needs for simple minds.
‘It didn’t mean anything,’ they’ll say. ‘It was nothing – a one-night stand. Over before it started. I was drunk. We didn’t kiss. I don’t love her like I love
‘I was just passing by.’
‘Nobody just passes by this house unless they’re driving a tractor.’
‘Or riding a horse,’ adds Charlie.
‘I needed somewhere to crash for the night. Is the sofa-bed available?’
Julianne looks at me dubiously, wondering if Charlie and I have cooked this up together.
‘I’ll get some blankets and bedding,’ she says, and then to Charlie. ‘I thought you were going out?’
‘Change of plan.’
‘Well, I need to talk to your father, so scram.’
Later when the sofa is made up and the house is quiet, Julianne makes herself a mug of peppermint tea and sits cross-legged in the armchair opposite, prepared to listen. ‘Were you sitting outside again?’ she asks. ‘I hoped that you’d grown out of that.’
‘I was about to call. It’s been a strange day.’
‘What happened?’
‘Do you remember Ronnie Cray?’
Julianne stiffens and goes quiet. I am used to such silences. They come with separation.
‘She wants me to look at a case.’
‘You told me you’d stopped doing that.’
‘I have. This is different. Someone has used my name to inveigle his way into an investigation. A former student, Milo Coleman, has set himself up as a criminal profiler.’
‘Let him do it.’
‘He’s compromised the investigation. Leaked confidential details.’
‘Which has nothing to do with you.’
‘He used my name. He’s telling everyone that he trained under me.’
‘Tell him to stop.’
‘I did. I don’t think he was listening.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You’re going to do this, aren’t you?’
‘I’m going to review the investigation – to see if anything has been missed.’
There is a long pause. The cottage seems to creak as it settles down for the night. Julianne slides her legs from under her and cinches her dressing gown tighter around her narrow waist. ‘Is this about that mother and daughter who were killed in North Somerset?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do the police know who did it?’
‘Not yet.’
She has stopped at the door, leaning her hand on the frame. ‘Do you have any pyjamas?’
‘No.’
‘What about a clean shirt for tomorrow?’
I shake my head.
‘Give me your shirt. If I wash it now it will be dry by morning.’
‘You really don’t have to—’
‘Off.’
I stand and try to unbutton the shirt, but my left hand is shaking. Julianne steps closer and finishes the job. She also unbuckles my belt.
‘I’ve been here fifteen minutes and you’re trying to get into my pants.’
‘In your dreams.’
If she only knew …
Some days I wake and feel as though my life doesn’t fit me any more. It pinches like a pair of shoes that are a size too small or rides up the crack of my arse like ill-fitting underwear. Is it possible to outgrow a life? I’ve heard people say it of a job or a relationship. And it’s one of those excuses people use when they’re cheating on their partners. ‘I’ve outgrown you,’ they say. ‘I need more space.’
I have heard all of these pathetic self-justifications and glib explanations. I feel trapped. It’s not you – it’s me. Things aren’t like they used to be. You deserve better. I feel suffocated. You’ve changed. You left me before I left you. You work too much. You don’t listen to me. I’m tired of having to do everything around here. You’ve grown fat. I don’t fancy you any more. Sex isn’t fun. You were never there for me when I needed you.
Some men will tell you that adultery is about meeting a need. It’s not really their fault. It’s biological. Monogamy is easier for a woman. The male sex drive is greater. Men eat when they’re hungry, sleep when they’re tired, fuck when they’re frisky – simple needs for simple minds.
‘It didn’t mean anything,’ they’ll say. ‘It was nothing – a one-night stand. Over before it started. I was drunk. We didn’t kiss. I don’t love her like I love
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