on his sofa, watching some documentary about the ancient Egyptians, trying to take his mind off Greg Barker. Something was niggling away at him and he couldn’t think what. As much as he wanted a glass of something strong he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night Morgan had found him in a drunken state, contemplating suicide. Instead he’d come home, showered and shaved. Rooting through the cupboards, he found an old bottle of Cindy’s moisturiser and had lathered his face in that. He’d then gone downstairs for some bin bags and done what he’d been putting off for three years.
First of all he cleared everything except the anti-wrinkle cream: he kept that, God knows he needed it. All the dusty shampoo bottles, hair dyes, make-up, face wipes, sanitary towels – he binned the lot, filling two bags. He took them downstairs and put them in the garage. Next, he went into the master bedroom they used to share. It was so dusty in there he grabbed a T-shirt and wrapped it around his face. Dragging her large suitcase off the top of the wardrobe, he opened the doors and began to fill it with her clothes. There were so many it filled the case and another five bags: who needed so much shit? Then he dragged them to the garage; he would take those to a charity shop.
Going back upstairs, he’d bagged all her underwear, then her shoes. He was exhausted by the time he’d finished running up and down the stairs and sweating, his hand throbbed, but it felt good. He then set about dusting, polishing, hoovering and changing the bedding. The windows were open wide and the sound of the heavy rain lashing against the glass soothed his heart while he worked. Even as a kid he got excited when it rained; he loved it.
By the time he’d finished cleaning, the room smelt much nicer, not as stale. When his days off put in an appearance, he’d give it a coat of paint and really freshen it up. Get rid of the ugly pink and yellow flowers.
Three hours it had taken him and another shower, but now as he lay in his lounge watching the television he felt so much better. As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He loved Cindy, of course he did, and he always would, but it was time to move on. He was still alive; he realised that he should be thankful. He also realised that if he ever plucked up the courage to ask anyone on a date it wouldn’t be much fun bringing her back here to the shrine of Cindy. There was one more thing he needed to do though.
Standing up, he went around the house collecting the framed photos of them on various holidays and their wedding day. These he wouldn’t bin. He found a large box in the garage and put them inside. He wasn’t wiping out her memory; he’d never do that: he’d loved her and she’d been his entire life. They would be there on the days he wanted to remember her, but hopefully those days would get fewer and fewer as he moved on with his life.
As he walked up the stairs to go to bed he looked up at his loft hatch, thinking he could store the photos up there tomorrow. And then it hit him like a brick: the murder weapon Morgan had found was up in the loft. Through that tiny door that she’d had to squeeze through. There was no way on this earth that Barker had managed to climb up there: he wouldn’t fit, he was a big guy. It was impossible. So, either he had an accomplice who could fit or he didn’t kill the Potters.
He rang Morgan. It rang out, looking at his watch, he saw it wasn’t that late. He tried again; this time it went to answerphone. Not once this week had she ignored his calls. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what but all his years in the police had taught him to trust his instinct. He ran into his bedroom and dressed, then realised he didn’t have a car.
He phoned Amy.
‘What now?’
‘I need a lift, can you pick me up?’
‘Ring a taxi.’
‘Amy, now.’
He ended the call and phoned the duty sergeant’s office: no answer. He thought this was probably just as well until he actually got to Morgan’s to see