Zigic slowed as he entered the village, coming up behind two women on horses who ambled along past the row of stone-built cottages and the primary school before they reached a paddock where a couple more animals stood with their heads poking over the fence, watching the traffic going by. The dog walkers were out in force enjoying the evening sun and the beer garden at the Prince of Wales was already full. The temptation to stop in for a cold beer tugged at him, but he resisted. Turning into the lane he saw people dotting the allotments opposite his house and that exerted a pull on him too. He’d wanted an allotment ever since they moved in eight years ago, but knew it was a pleasure that would have to wait until he retired, no chance of his having the energy for it while he was still working.
He pulled onto the gravel driveway, catching a glimpse of the back garden through the side gate as he locked the car. Anna was out there on a wooden lounger, Emily playing in the shade of a large parasol. The blinds were all drawn in the front windows, an attempt to keep the house cool, but it felt painfully symbolic as he let himself in. The rooms were close and quiet, the boys moving around upstairs. He went out to the garden.
‘You’ve had a long day,’ Anna said, eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses as he bent to kiss Emily. ‘I’ve already fed the boys.’
‘Did you eat?’ he asked.
She nodded slightly. ‘There’s salad in the fridge for you.’
He hadn’t expected a rapprochement when he got home but he’d been tentatively hopeful of a thaw. He’d read too much into her initiating sex this morning, he realised now. It was satisfaction, not intimacy, she’d wanted. The chill between them remained in place and would do until he gave ground.
Something he couldn’t imagine doing.
Not on this.
He went back into the house, headed upstairs to shower off the long day in the field and the stuffy hours he’d spent in the office trying to find some shape in the case developing in front of him. A task made all the harder because at any given moment, a quarter of his brain was working out how to contain and absorb the fallout from an ostensibly minor act of violence against his family.
Minor on paper. Dealt with in an instant. Apologies and embarrassment; genuine, heartfelt regret.
It wasn’t enough though.
Because ‘sorries’ didn’t free anyone except the person giving them out.
Zigic ran the shower cold over his body, gritting his teeth against the shock of it, stood there until it drained all the heat from his skin. The rest of it, deep in his muscles and bones, was going to take more cooling though. Wouldn’t go anywhere until this was settled one way or another.
Dressed, he lingered in the doorway to the boys’ room for a moment, watching them playing with their Lego. A new pirate ship kit that Milan was acting the foreman with, trying to sort the pieces into some order before they started building it, while Stefan held a dinky pirate figure in each hand, making them argue over who ate the last yoghurt in his gruffest pirate voice.
Zigic went and sat on the floor with them, letting Stefan’s pirates fight it out across his shoulders while he helped Milan separate the light-brown pieces from the beige ones. Every now and again Milan would bend lower over his work and his dark curled hair would part, revealing a small bald patch on his crown.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The flat smelled close and stuffy, old cigarette smoke heavy on the air, a vague hint of dirty washing from the pile in the bathroom. They’d flown home from St Kitts on Friday and spent the weekend crashed out at Billy’s place, recovering from the flight and the epic session that had taken them from Thursday night in the bar on the beach to Friday morning breakfasting on Bloody Marys at the airport. Somehow it seemed logical to deal with the punishingly early start by pulling an all-nighter. She couldn’t remember whose idea that was but neither of them had the common sense to disagree.
Then staying at his seemed preferable to coming home and dealing with the mess she knew she’d left here.
She opened the windows throughout the flat, letting in what scant breeze trickled up Priestgate, carrying traffic fumes and engine sounds, an occasional warning call from the station as a high-speed train passed through without stopping. The washing went in the machine, the sweetly rotting contents of the fruit bowl went into the bin and she showered thinking about what to make for dinner.
Looking at the near bare shelves in the fridge, she decided Billy was right about going out to eat. Or ordering in.
This place was starting to feel less like home, she realised, as she stared out of the kitchen window at the workers trudging towards their cars and the bus stops on Bourges Boulevard. When she’d signed the rental agreement three years ago, she’d wanted to be in the city centre, with the constant thrum of activity around her. But somehow, gradually, the traffic noise had started to grate on her, and the grim utilitarianism that filled her view only increased the sense of isolation she was feeling here. It was an ugly building to draw up to every night after work, still looked like the office block it had been, cold and impersonal. She’d ignored it – or maybe just hadn’t noticed – when she’d been single, out drinking, coming back in the early hours with nothing in mind but a shower and her bed.
Billy
