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Authors: Adam Creed
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not to feel bad about this. Marie has never asked him for help. They coped with the murder of their parents in different ways: Staffe went off the rails, but put his money into property and then joined the force. Within a few years Marie had blown her inheritance on travel, drugs and bad relationships before falling pregnant with Harry. The father, an out-of-work session musician, lasted less than a year.
Staffe picks a meticulous way through the suitcase, putting the clothes in one pile, her books and trinkets in another; it is not until he gets right to the bottom that he finds what he wants. A building society passbook shows that she has less than two hundred pounds. Her bank account is overdrawn. There is also a clutch of unpaid bills and he commits the billing address to memory – 26d St John’s Road, Peckham. But there is nothing which bears the boyfriend’s name. No joint names on any of her domestic contracts.
He sighs and goes to the window, looks up and down Shooters Hill to check she is not on her way back. He surveys her gypsy life in miniature and kneels by the small stack of books: Virginia Woolf, Angela Carter and Toni Morrison. He flicks through the pages and on the inside cover of Beloved he finds what he wants. Inscribed in a self-consciously flowery hand is the name. Paolo Di Venuto, Summer 2007. Despite his taste in books, Di Venuto has a penchant for roughing up his women.
Downstairs, a door slams and Staffe leaps up.
‘Will!’ calls Marie from downstairs.
‘Shit,’ he says to himself, quickly repacking the case as best he can in the order he recalls. Papers first, then books and clothes. He drops her bras and knickers and the hooks and eyes snag on each other, catch on his watch-strap . His hands begin to shake and he makes a mess of the penultimate layer, finishing off with singlet tops and a denim skirt.
She is coming up the stairs and Harry is clattering about in the room below.
‘Will!’
He closes the suitcase, struggling with the lock as he hears her padding along the hallway. He slides the case back by the side of the bed and rushes to the window, begins to open it as the door is pushed open.
Marie frowns, hands on hips. ‘What the hell!’
Staffe knows his only option is to fight fire with fire. ‘For Christ’s sake, Marie. Those roll-ups of yours stink the place out. Can’t you smoke outside?’
‘This is our room. I’d appreciate …’
‘I’d appreciate it if you smoked outside. OK!’
‘If you don’t want us here, there’s other places I could go.’
Staffe knows this is a lie. If there was anywhere, she’d be there. ‘Look. You can stay as long as you want. You know that.’ She is wearing a short-sleeved, Amnesty International T-shirt and he can see where the foundation make-up has faded, failing to cover her bruises. He walks across to her, trying to be cool. He puts his hands on her shoulders. She feels fragile. He kisses her on her forehead and says softly, into her hair, ‘I’m sorry I came into your room. I won’t do it again.’
She wraps her arms around his waist and he pats her back, the way he remembers his mother doing when they wouldn’t go to sleep.
*******
Marvitz Builders Merchants, where Karl Colquhoun worked, is closing up for the day when Staffe gets there. Johnson should have done this visit, but Staffe needs a personal favour from his sergeant and this is his idea of recompense.
Staffe has brought a photograph of Karl Colquhoun but there was no need. The foreman of the timber section knows why he is there as soon as Staffe shows his warrant card.
‘I was expecting a visit,’ he says.
‘Do you usually shut at this time?’
‘This weather, there’s only one place builders’ll be. They get rained off in winter and sunned off on days like these. My boys’ll be with them, no doubt.’
Staffe looks around the deserted bays, piles of sawdust and chippings all over the floor, the smell of resin sweet in the thick
Staffe picks a meticulous way through the suitcase, putting the clothes in one pile, her books and trinkets in another; it is not until he gets right to the bottom that he finds what he wants. A building society passbook shows that she has less than two hundred pounds. Her bank account is overdrawn. There is also a clutch of unpaid bills and he commits the billing address to memory – 26d St John’s Road, Peckham. But there is nothing which bears the boyfriend’s name. No joint names on any of her domestic contracts.
He sighs and goes to the window, looks up and down Shooters Hill to check she is not on her way back. He surveys her gypsy life in miniature and kneels by the small stack of books: Virginia Woolf, Angela Carter and Toni Morrison. He flicks through the pages and on the inside cover of Beloved he finds what he wants. Inscribed in a self-consciously flowery hand is the name. Paolo Di Venuto, Summer 2007. Despite his taste in books, Di Venuto has a penchant for roughing up his women.
Downstairs, a door slams and Staffe leaps up.
‘Will!’ calls Marie from downstairs.
‘Shit,’ he says to himself, quickly repacking the case as best he can in the order he recalls. Papers first, then books and clothes. He drops her bras and knickers and the hooks and eyes snag on each other, catch on his watch-strap . His hands begin to shake and he makes a mess of the penultimate layer, finishing off with singlet tops and a denim skirt.
She is coming up the stairs and Harry is clattering about in the room below.
‘Will!’
He closes the suitcase, struggling with the lock as he hears her padding along the hallway. He slides the case back by the side of the bed and rushes to the window, begins to open it as the door is pushed open.
Marie frowns, hands on hips. ‘What the hell!’
Staffe knows his only option is to fight fire with fire. ‘For Christ’s sake, Marie. Those roll-ups of yours stink the place out. Can’t you smoke outside?’
‘This is our room. I’d appreciate …’
‘I’d appreciate it if you smoked outside. OK!’
‘If you don’t want us here, there’s other places I could go.’
Staffe knows this is a lie. If there was anywhere, she’d be there. ‘Look. You can stay as long as you want. You know that.’ She is wearing a short-sleeved, Amnesty International T-shirt and he can see where the foundation make-up has faded, failing to cover her bruises. He walks across to her, trying to be cool. He puts his hands on her shoulders. She feels fragile. He kisses her on her forehead and says softly, into her hair, ‘I’m sorry I came into your room. I won’t do it again.’
She wraps her arms around his waist and he pats her back, the way he remembers his mother doing when they wouldn’t go to sleep.
*******
Marvitz Builders Merchants, where Karl Colquhoun worked, is closing up for the day when Staffe gets there. Johnson should have done this visit, but Staffe needs a personal favour from his sergeant and this is his idea of recompense.
Staffe has brought a photograph of Karl Colquhoun but there was no need. The foreman of the timber section knows why he is there as soon as Staffe shows his warrant card.
‘I was expecting a visit,’ he says.
‘Do you usually shut at this time?’
‘This weather, there’s only one place builders’ll be. They get rained off in winter and sunned off on days like these. My boys’ll be with them, no doubt.’
Staffe looks around the deserted bays, piles of sawdust and chippings all over the floor, the smell of resin sweet in the thick
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