and reaching for another chunk of naan bread with the other, Frost made out a shape, a figure crouching behind the pampas grass on the front lawn of number eight. Had it, had he, or had she been there all along?
Frost watched as the front door was suddenly flung open by a man in what looked like nothing more than a silk dressing-gown. He was tall and athletic, no older than thirty, his receding hairline lending him a noble air. Even from this distance he looked to Frost like a right stuck-up toff.
Lurid red light now seeped out, gently bathing the neat lawn and the shrubbery in its glow. A young couple, fully dressed, emerged from the hallway, and stood for a moment with the man in the dressing-gown by the open front door. Much to Frost’s surprise, both then kissed the toff goodnight, and hurried down the path towards a small sports car, an MG, which was parked with two wheels on the pavement, on a sweep of the close, just a couple of cars away from Frost’s Cortina.
Frost attempted to slide down in his seat, but it was not easy with the curry perched on his lap.
He heard the sports car drive off slowly. Carefully pulling himself up, he returned his gaze to the house. It took him a moment to regain his focus, partly because the front door was now closed and one of the upstairs lights was out. Yet he could still see silhouettes downstairs, behind the curtains. Seemed like people were dancing, slowly.
Moving his gaze to the front garden, he realized he had now lost sight of the crouching figure, if indeed someone had actually been there. Perhaps he’d been imagining things. This curry was certainly powerful stuff. He was sweating profusely.
Then something made him look in the rear-view mirror, just in time to catch a glimpse of a person passing around the side of the Cortina. Frost quickly leant over and flung open the passenger door.
There was a shriek of pain – or was it surprise? Female, anyway. Frost watched as a slightly built woman, with long straggly hair and clad in dark clothes, began sprinting away to the middle of the close and towards the narrow public alleyway that ran between the two central houses.
Before he had time to even contemplate giving chase, Frost was acutely aware of a damp, burning sensation in his lap. ‘Flaming arseholes!’ The vindaloo was everywhere, the dish upturned.
Frost leapt from the car and into the middle of the road as if possessed, brushing away the lumps of meat and sauce. By the time he looked up the woman was long gone and the close still and deathly quiet.
Monday (1)
Denton Union Canal at 7.25 a.m., Monday morning, was deserted. Vanessa Litchfield found herself increasing her pace along the rutted and rubbish-strewn towpath. There was black, stagnant water to her left and the notorious Southern Housing Estate to her right. It was barely light, the sky blanketed by heavy, hunkering clouds.
She usually ran through Denton Woods but twice now she’d come across the mad old tramp who lived in the railway carriage. He gave her the creeps, so she thought of trying the canal again. During the summer the stench from the canal had got so bad that she was unable to breathe. Now in the autumn the empty towpath was not as smelly but the looming menace of the Southern Housing Estate was still there.
In charge of PE at St Mary’s School for Girls, Vanessa was a fitness fanatic. Each morning she embarked upon a six-mile jog before a hearty bowl of Alpen. Then she spent her day supervising the girls in the gym and on the playing fields.
This morning she would not have any appetite for the Alpen. At the loneliest stretch of the canal, between the two road bridges, she saw something floating in the foul, still, dark water.
She stopped, suddenly out of breath and gasping with horror. But there was no mistaking it. A man was floating face down towards the far side of the Denton Union Canal. She could clearly see the back of his head, his arms and his legs, encased in drab, sodden
Frost watched as the front door was suddenly flung open by a man in what looked like nothing more than a silk dressing-gown. He was tall and athletic, no older than thirty, his receding hairline lending him a noble air. Even from this distance he looked to Frost like a right stuck-up toff.
Lurid red light now seeped out, gently bathing the neat lawn and the shrubbery in its glow. A young couple, fully dressed, emerged from the hallway, and stood for a moment with the man in the dressing-gown by the open front door. Much to Frost’s surprise, both then kissed the toff goodnight, and hurried down the path towards a small sports car, an MG, which was parked with two wheels on the pavement, on a sweep of the close, just a couple of cars away from Frost’s Cortina.
Frost attempted to slide down in his seat, but it was not easy with the curry perched on his lap.
He heard the sports car drive off slowly. Carefully pulling himself up, he returned his gaze to the house. It took him a moment to regain his focus, partly because the front door was now closed and one of the upstairs lights was out. Yet he could still see silhouettes downstairs, behind the curtains. Seemed like people were dancing, slowly.
Moving his gaze to the front garden, he realized he had now lost sight of the crouching figure, if indeed someone had actually been there. Perhaps he’d been imagining things. This curry was certainly powerful stuff. He was sweating profusely.
Then something made him look in the rear-view mirror, just in time to catch a glimpse of a person passing around the side of the Cortina. Frost quickly leant over and flung open the passenger door.
There was a shriek of pain – or was it surprise? Female, anyway. Frost watched as a slightly built woman, with long straggly hair and clad in dark clothes, began sprinting away to the middle of the close and towards the narrow public alleyway that ran between the two central houses.
Before he had time to even contemplate giving chase, Frost was acutely aware of a damp, burning sensation in his lap. ‘Flaming arseholes!’ The vindaloo was everywhere, the dish upturned.
Frost leapt from the car and into the middle of the road as if possessed, brushing away the lumps of meat and sauce. By the time he looked up the woman was long gone and the close still and deathly quiet.
Monday (1)
Denton Union Canal at 7.25 a.m., Monday morning, was deserted. Vanessa Litchfield found herself increasing her pace along the rutted and rubbish-strewn towpath. There was black, stagnant water to her left and the notorious Southern Housing Estate to her right. It was barely light, the sky blanketed by heavy, hunkering clouds.
She usually ran through Denton Woods but twice now she’d come across the mad old tramp who lived in the railway carriage. He gave her the creeps, so she thought of trying the canal again. During the summer the stench from the canal had got so bad that she was unable to breathe. Now in the autumn the empty towpath was not as smelly but the looming menace of the Southern Housing Estate was still there.
In charge of PE at St Mary’s School for Girls, Vanessa was a fitness fanatic. Each morning she embarked upon a six-mile jog before a hearty bowl of Alpen. Then she spent her day supervising the girls in the gym and on the playing fields.
This morning she would not have any appetite for the Alpen. At the loneliest stretch of the canal, between the two road bridges, she saw something floating in the foul, still, dark water.
She stopped, suddenly out of breath and gasping with horror. But there was no mistaking it. A man was floating face down towards the far side of the Denton Union Canal. She could clearly see the back of his head, his arms and his legs, encased in drab, sodden
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