Chris walked slowly up the path to the small semi-detached house, a bag of groceries tucked under one arm. His dark jacket was slightly crumpled, overdue a visit to the dry cleaner.
His eyes took in the peeling paint around the windows, the tightly drawn curtains, the overgrown garden. The house didn’t quite look abandoned, but there was no question it was in an advanced state of neglect. The person living within had long ago given up caring what other people thought.
With a deep sigh, Chris reached up and rang the bell, making sure to position himself directly in front of the sun-bleached front door.
‘Who is it?’ The woman’s voice was nervous, crackly as it came out of a small intercom on the wall to the left.
He pushed the button to speak. ‘It’s Chris.’
‘Chris who?’
He sighed. ‘Chris Delaney.’
‘Show me your ID.’
He was already reaching in to his pocket, by now familiar with the routine. He held his detective’s badge up to the glass panel.
The shadow moved against the peephole again. Chains and locks rattled back one by one, until finally the door opened just enough for him to step in. It was slammed shut the moment he was inside.
‘Hi, Mel.’ He stood inside the narrow hallway, and held out the bag. ‘They were out of pears so I got you some apples instead.’
She took the bag, scuttled down the hall. ‘Gala? You know I only like Gala apples.’
Chris bent to pick up the pile of junk mail that lay on the doormat, before following her down the narrow gloomy hall and into the kitchen. ‘Of course.’
Melanie set the bag on the table, and began unpacking, her movements quick, full of nervous energy. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Please.’
It was a small kitchen with pale blue 1970s cupboards, a square Formica table in the middle of the floor, two cheap plastic chairs tucked neatly in to the table. A blue and white checked table cloth covered the table, a small glass vase with a large faded plastic sunflower the only attempt to brighten the cold room.
He watched as Melanie scuttled around the kitchen – she was thirty-two years old, but could have passed for anything from twenty to forty. She wore a gray woolen skirt, pale blouse, baby-blue cardigan. Her shoulder-length brown hair was scraped back in a tight ponytail, her thin face free of make-up.
The kettle rattled as it boiled, and Melanie pulled two matching mugs from the cupboard, dropped the teabags in and poured the hot water, the steam rising up briefly to wreathe her face. ‘I’ve been thinking ...’
Chris looked at her carefully, knowing by her tone exactly what was coming. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. ‘You promised.’
She reached for a tea towel, and began wringing the end of it fiercely between her hands, wrapping it tighter and tighter until her knuckles were white and stretched.
Chris leaned forward, tried to make eye contact with her. ‘Mel, it’s been almost a year. The psychologist said—’
‘ I know!’ she snapped. She kept her back to him, ignoring his imploring looks. ‘And I will, I will ...’
‘But not just yet,’ he finished softly.
‘Not just yet,’ Melanie repeated. She set the two mugs of tea on the table and finally turned to look at Chris. Then, in a flash, her face changed and her eyes brightened. ‘Oh, you bought me a packet of digestives!’ she beamed. ‘You’re so good to me, Chris. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Chris smiled, his heart automatically softening at the sight of the rare, but achingly familiar smile.
Be patient, he told himself. Give it time. Just a little more time ...