herself with.
Harry’s thoughts were still fixed on the long, shapely legs of his client’s wife as he dug into one of the crates and came
across two framed photographs: one was of his father taken a few Christmases ago, the other of himself and Valerie. Both of
the pictures, for different reasons, made demands on his conscience.
It was over a fortnight since he’d last phoned his dad, and heknew that a call was overdue. He’d been putting it off, the way he put off anything uncomfortable. Their conversations were
always strained. His father, a firm believer in repression over expression, was of the stiff-upper-lip school of thought:
bad stuff was to be swept under the carpet, feelings never discussed. Harry still couldn’t work out whether this had been
the cause or the result of his mother’s desertion. Whatever the reason, she had walked out when Harry was five and had never
– as far as he knew – been in touch since.
He glanced at his phone, thought about it, then decided to ring later. It usually helped to have a glass of whisky to hand
when he made these calls, and it was too early to start drinking. As a salve to his conscience, however, he placed the photograph
in a prominent position on top of the bookcase.
Walking back across the room, he picked up the second picture and sighed. Valerie’s smiling face could not be so easily dealt
with. Over the past few months they’d been seeing more and more of each other, sliding back into a relationship that if not
exactly passionate was certainly easy and comfortable. They knew each other inside out, too well perhaps, and it was only
a matter of time before a decision would have to be made about their future. Did she want them to get back together on a permanent
basis? Did he? They were questions he didn’t have any answers to at the moment. Harry stared down at the photo before opening
the top left-hand drawer of the dresser and slipping it inside.
By half past twelve the unpacking was finished. He took the empty crates out to the corridor and stacked them against the
wall for the delivery company to collect next week. Then he went downstairs and unlocked the office. The pungent smell of
paint was still in the air and so he opened the windows again.
Sam Kendall arrived punctually at one o’clock. She was a small, slender girl, about five foot two in height, with an elfinface, short, spiky brown hair and brown eyes. There was a smattering of freckles across her turned-up nose. She was wearing
a pair of grey jeans and a long-sleeved black-and-grey-striped T-shirt.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I really appreciate it.’
Harry took her through to his office and gestured towards the chair. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ she said, sitting down and crossing her legs. ‘I’m fine.’
He walked around the desk and sat down too. ‘Jess has explained what’s been going on, but why don’t you go through it again
for me.’
Sam gave a nod, took a few seconds to gather her thoughts together and then started. As she recited the details, pretty well
repeating everything that Jess had said, Harry listened closely, absorbing not only her words but the careful way in which
she delivered them. Quickly he began to form an impression. She seemed intelligent and thoughtful, certainly not the type
who was prone to hysteria, attention-seeking or exaggeration.
When she got to the end, Sam delved into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out an envelope. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I got another
of those notes. This one wasn’t posted; it was pushed through the door to my flat. It was there when I got home last night.’
Harry reached across and took it from her. He sat back, pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and stared at it. Like
the others, it had been compiled of cut-out letters from a newspaper.
YOU GONNA DIE LIKE MINNIE YOU BITCH.
Glancing up, he saw the worry in Sam’s
Harry’s thoughts were still fixed on the long, shapely legs of his client’s wife as he dug into one of the crates and came
across two framed photographs: one was of his father taken a few Christmases ago, the other of himself and Valerie. Both of
the pictures, for different reasons, made demands on his conscience.
It was over a fortnight since he’d last phoned his dad, and heknew that a call was overdue. He’d been putting it off, the way he put off anything uncomfortable. Their conversations were
always strained. His father, a firm believer in repression over expression, was of the stiff-upper-lip school of thought:
bad stuff was to be swept under the carpet, feelings never discussed. Harry still couldn’t work out whether this had been
the cause or the result of his mother’s desertion. Whatever the reason, she had walked out when Harry was five and had never
– as far as he knew – been in touch since.
He glanced at his phone, thought about it, then decided to ring later. It usually helped to have a glass of whisky to hand
when he made these calls, and it was too early to start drinking. As a salve to his conscience, however, he placed the photograph
in a prominent position on top of the bookcase.
Walking back across the room, he picked up the second picture and sighed. Valerie’s smiling face could not be so easily dealt
with. Over the past few months they’d been seeing more and more of each other, sliding back into a relationship that if not
exactly passionate was certainly easy and comfortable. They knew each other inside out, too well perhaps, and it was only
a matter of time before a decision would have to be made about their future. Did she want them to get back together on a permanent
basis? Did he? They were questions he didn’t have any answers to at the moment. Harry stared down at the photo before opening
the top left-hand drawer of the dresser and slipping it inside.
By half past twelve the unpacking was finished. He took the empty crates out to the corridor and stacked them against the
wall for the delivery company to collect next week. Then he went downstairs and unlocked the office. The pungent smell of
paint was still in the air and so he opened the windows again.
Sam Kendall arrived punctually at one o’clock. She was a small, slender girl, about five foot two in height, with an elfinface, short, spiky brown hair and brown eyes. There was a smattering of freckles across her turned-up nose. She was wearing
a pair of grey jeans and a long-sleeved black-and-grey-striped T-shirt.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I really appreciate it.’
Harry took her through to his office and gestured towards the chair. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ she said, sitting down and crossing her legs. ‘I’m fine.’
He walked around the desk and sat down too. ‘Jess has explained what’s been going on, but why don’t you go through it again
for me.’
Sam gave a nod, took a few seconds to gather her thoughts together and then started. As she recited the details, pretty well
repeating everything that Jess had said, Harry listened closely, absorbing not only her words but the careful way in which
she delivered them. Quickly he began to form an impression. She seemed intelligent and thoughtful, certainly not the type
who was prone to hysteria, attention-seeking or exaggeration.
When she got to the end, Sam delved into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out an envelope. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I got another
of those notes. This one wasn’t posted; it was pushed through the door to my flat. It was there when I got home last night.’
Harry reached across and took it from her. He sat back, pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and stared at it. Like
the others, it had been compiled of cut-out letters from a newspaper.
YOU GONNA DIE LIKE MINNIE YOU BITCH.
Glancing up, he saw the worry in Sam’s
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