“I will miss her,” he said, almost in a whisper.
I bet you will. Then you’ll have to replace her, like you did with the last one… and the one before that.
As William clattered into the kitchen in search of food, Ken slipped out. Jane watched him through the open window, crossing the yard right up until he disappeared into his studio.
“Mum, I’m hungry.” William whined. The words didn’t register. “Mum, I’m hungry. I really need something to eat.”
“What was that?” she asked, turning to him. He was about to repeat his statement for the third time when they heard a shout. It was one born of desperation and anguish rather than anger.
“Is that Daddy?” William asked with a nervous frown.
“Wait here,” she told him, putting her mug down on the work surface and heading outside. She scampered across the yard, careful not to slip on the uneven cobbles, still damp from the melting frost. They’d dry out once the sun breached the ridgeline of the house.
Converted from one of the old barns, the studio was twelve metres long, six wide and open to the roof trusses above. Ken utilised one end for his ceramic works, sculptures and standalone pieces with the other set aside for his canvas works. She gasped. These were strewn around the studio. Some were destroyed, the canvas torn and, in some cases, practically shredded. Ruined beyond repair. Other works, whether sketch outlines in charcoal or pencil or part-painted pieces were daubed in various colours or a whole tin of paint had been thrown over them. The space was in utter disarray.
Jane glanced to the far end and she could see debris everywhere. The sculptures were lying on the floor, some smashed beyond recognition whereas others lay on the floor chipped or missing sections.
“Oh, Ken… what’s happened?” she spoke softly, the damage was devastating in its level of destruction. Her husband was facing away from her. He didn’t utter a single word in reply. His shoulders began to vibrate and his head tilted forward. She realised he was crying. The sound grew and he sank to his knees, his breathing turned into loud gasps for air as the tears became sobs.
“What’s wrong with Daddy?” a quiet voice came from behind. She turned to see the children standing at the entrance. William’s mouth was open and his eyes narrowed as he looked upon them both. Rosie stood slightly behind him, to his left, peering around her brother at the interior of the studio, frightened. She shooed them back towards the main house with the promise of chocolate biscuits and fizzy drinks. Rosie came willingly but William was reticent, clearly worried about his father. Begrudgingly, at her insistence he followed on.
Once they were settled, instructing them to stay in the house, she ran back to the studio. Ken was sitting now, with his back to the wall. His composure had returned but it was still evident he’d been crying. His face was tear lined with streaks down both cheeks as he scanned the destruction. His eyes flicked to her as she entered. She stopped for a brief moment before coming to him and kneeling alongside. Reaching out, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was the first physical contact they’d shared, at least that she’d initiated, in months. Without a word, he leaned in to her and she nestled down alongside him allowing his head to fall against her chest.
They remained there in silence. Jane looked around. The double bed that Ken used both as a set for his models to pose on and as an occasional sleep pad for himself, had several different colours of paint thrown over it. The white duvet and bedlinen were now highlighted with yellow and purple. The walls, too, were not spared. Scum was legible in one place, nonce in another. Alongside the bed a pair of red high-heeled shoes lay haphazardly near one another.
She looked down at the broken, shell of the man she fell in love with, now cradling his head. Running her free hand through his hair a phrase came to mind. For better or for worse. Turning her thoughts to the note she found in the post the previous morning, she remembered it was still in the pocket of the jeans she was wearing yesterday. They were now in the dirty linen basket. Fortunately, Ken would never bother to attempt the laundry but she made a mental note to retrieve it later. Things were starting to get out of hand.
Chapter Eleven
The station was quiet. It always was on a Sunday. Eric was alone in the ops room. Pushing aside the folder on the desk in front of him, he made room for his lunch. Initially he objected but bearing in mind the limited options available, in the end, he relented and allowed his mum to make him lunch to take with him. She had a point. There was no time limit on his working day, not in a case such as this. Secretly, Eric was concerned that was one of the driving factors for why his transfer to CID was rubber stamped. The way working contracts were set up these days uniform officers could claim overtime or rest days in lieu if they were kept beyond their allocated shift. CID officers had no such recourse. If you caught a major case, then you were expected to run with it. It was no wonder CID
