He had tidied the front room, ignored the Scotch bottle and worked late the night before, hunched over a final printout of Lupa. He sat quietly with his back to the open door, a shy hope perched patiently on his shoulder. He had left the door open so he might hear her come in and she would see him labouring there all alone. By two in the morning his throat was sore and he was shivering. By three, he cursed women in general for their lack of concern, drank a large glass of brandy, swallowed the remains of an old bottle of Night Nurse and fell asleep on the couch. He was woken by long, insistent rings and aggressive hammering on the door. When he finally blinked out into the Saturday morning light, he found two very tall police officers on his doorstep. One of them was holding a piece of paper and speaking the lines about a search warrant. The other one barged into the house and straight through to the kitchen. Out in the street, two more officers were climbing out of a white van. He was told that a full and exhaustive search of the property was to be carried out as part of their ongoing investigation into the disappearance of his wife.
What do You think about You Don't Have To Be Good?
