Morning had broken, not. Just gone six, damson trails streaked an indigo sky, silver light glimmered on the smooth dark surface of the canal. Still waters. Chief Sitting Bull Shit. Really. What was that about? Shaking her head, she gave a thin smile, padded barefoot to the kitchen. Like the rest of the apartment, it looked as if a cluster bomb had hit. She clocked dirty dishes stacked up in the sink, crumbs and cans littering surfaces, an open pack of Ready Brek on top of the microwave. Cheeks inflated on a sigh. Why couldn’t she hack it domestically? Maybe she should hire a cleaner? Were au pairs just for families? Either way she could do with a wife. Or an Adam. Or maybe other things mattered more and she couldn’t be arsed. Nailing Olivia Kent’s kidnapper wouldn’t go amiss. She flicked on the TV, hiked the volume. No inclination or time to watch but she’d hear if the story made breakfast news. While the coffee maker did its thing, she dug out long johns, fur-lined boots, a thick navy wool scarf.
