Strachan was still sitting on the chair in front of the fire. There were no flames now, only a few white embers glowing white, the same colour as his funeral sackcloth.
He hadn’t moved for the last two hours, just sat there staring into the dying flames.
A sharp rap on the door.
Strachan hoped it wouldn’t be the neighbours coming to offer their condolences and commiserations. He couldn’t stand any more reminders his mother was dead.
Another sharp knock.
Go away, leave me alone. I don’t want to be with anybody. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are. I don’t want to feel your pain.
A double knock, more impatient now.
Slowly, Strachan stood up and stumbled to the door. He looked through the small square of crinkled glass in the centre and immediately recognised the old hat and slightly hunched posture. A waft of tobacco smoke confirmed his identification. What did the man want?
He opened the door.
‘Good evening, Strachan.’
Danilov stood outside his door, smoking one of his roll-ups, water dripping off the brim of his battered trilby.
‘A naked woman has been found near Soochow Creek screaming my name.’ The inspector brought the roll-up to his mouth, the end flared a bright, intense orange, and he blew a long draught of smoke up to the sky. ‘We have work to do. Let’s get going.’
Strachan took one look back at the house. Inside, it was quiet and empty. The clock ticked on. His father’s picture still sat on the mantlepiece. His mother was not beside the stove.
‘Come on, man, what are you waiting for? I want to get to the hospital before those fools scare the living daylights out of her.’
What was he waiting for?
Nothing. Not any more.
Without putting on his hat and coat, Strachan closed the door and followed Inspector Danilov to the waiting car.