A shaft of early morning light peeped through a chink in the bedroom curtains, crossing the delicate contours of Jo Soulsby’s face. Her eyes flickered uncertainly and slowly blinked open. She lay on her back for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling the effects of an extreme hangover and dreading the day ahead.
Jo showered quickly. But no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t wash away the nightmare of the previous night. Her flight from the Quayside was classic behaviour, given the circumstances. Hadn’t she explained it in very simple terms to a number of patients over the years? Words like ‘emotional’ and ‘trigger’ sprang to mind. She was in trouble and knew it. Trouble brought on by scars of the past, unresolved issues that had festered deep within her psyche, waiting to explode like a loaded gun. She had everything she’d ever wanted: a successful career, a wonderful life, a family she adored. Right now, she wished her sons were around to help her put her own problems first for once instead of helping others understand theirs.
Walking past her rumpled bed, she resisted the temptation to climb back under the covers. She still had a job to do, couldn’t afford to bury her head in the sand. She sat down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The image didn’t please her. Her eyelids were red, a bruise just visible on the left side of her jaw. She applied make-up to mask it and put on smart clothes: a crisp white blouse, pinstriped pencil skirt, thick grey tights and a black boxy jacket. Lastly, she added a black leather belt around her waist, attached to which was a key pouch with a thick silver chain dangling from it.
Jo checked her appearance in the mirror, then padded barefoot down a wide staircase, across an Afghan carpet of muted shades of green and rust she’d bought on holiday years back. She circled the drawing room, turning off lamps left burning from the previous night. She opened the curtains, replaced an abandoned decanter on the sideboard and lifted a half-full tumbler of whisky from the floor beside the sofa.
By the time she re-entered the hall it was empty.
In the kitchen, Jo put on the kettle and sat down waiting for it to boil. It was a good-sized room with a four-oven Aga, a table large enough to seat eight, and all manner of paraphernalia she’d accumulated over time. If she was honest with herself, the house was far too big for her needs since her sons had left home. She’d seriously considered downsizing but somehow never managed to gather enough enthusiasm to pack up her stuff and move on. What would be the point? She didn’t need the money and could do without the hassle. Besides, the neighbours were nice. She felt safe here. It was a proper home, providing a haven from the outside world at the end of a shitty day at the office. Once that solid front door was locked, nothing could touch her.
Jo skipped breakfast altogether. In the hallway, she slipped her feet into sensible court shoes, then instinctively reached up for her brown woollen overcoat. Finding it missing brought her nightmare flooding back. She found it on the back of the sofa where she’d dumped it the night before and carried it to the cupboard under the stairs. Reaching inside, she drew out a roll of black plastic bags, tore one off and placed the coat carefully inside. Then she gulped down a last mouthful of coffee, drew the telephone towards her and keyed a number.
It had to be done . . .
‘This is Criminal Profiler, Jo Soulsby. Please put me through to DCI Daniels.’