Mr. Appleby was a short, overweight man in his late sixties, smartly attired and businesslike. He made Dennis add his name to a list on the table in the narrow hallway, then asked him if he needed a schedule. Dennis replied that he did, and a printed brochure was handed over: four pages of color photos of the house, along with details of the accommodation and grounds.
“Would you like the tour, or are you happy to look around by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine,” Dennis replied.
“Any questions, I’ll be right here.” And Mr. Appleby sat himself down on a chair, while Dennis pretended to be studying the schedule. He made his way into the living room, checked he wasn’t visible from the hall. Then he looked. The furniture was new-looking but gaudy: vivid orange sofa, a large TV and even larger cocktail cabinet. Magazines and newspapers had been crammed into a rack. Dennis noted that some of them were puzzle magazines, so maybe Blaine hadn’t been too wrong about Selina after all. There were no photos on display, no mementoes of foreign holidays. A mixture of ornaments, looking like a job lot from one of the bigger, trendier stores: narrow vases, paperweights, candlesticks. Heading back into the hall, he smiled at Mr. Appleby before making for the kitchen. A wall had been knocked through so that glass doors now led to a dining room with French doors leading out into the back garden. “Fitted kitchen units by Nijinsky,” the brochure said, adding that all appliances, curtains and floor coverings were included in the sale. Wherever Selina was headed, she was taking none of this with her.
The two final downstairs rooms were a cramped cloak-room/w.c. and what was described as “Bedroom 4” but was currently being used for storage: cardboard boxes, racks of women’s clothes. Dennis ran a hand down one of the dresses, rubbing the hem between finger and thumb. Then he pressed his nose to it, picking up the faintest trace of her perfume.
Upstairs, there were three bedrooms off the landing, the “master” featuring an “en suite by Ballard.” The master was the largest room by far, and the only one being used as a bedroom. Dennis slid the drawers open, touching her clothes. Pulled open the wardrobe, drank in the sight of her various dresses, skirts and blouses. There were more of Blaine ’s clothes, too, of course: a few expensive-looking suits, striped shirts with the cufflinks already attached. Would she dump them before leaving, Dennis wondered?
The other bedrooms seemed to comprise “his” and “hers” studies. In his: shelves of books-mostly crime and war novels, plus sports biographies-a desk covered in paperwork, and a music center with albums by Glen Campbell, Tony Bennett and others.
Selina’s study was something else again: more puzzle magazines, but everything kept neat. There was an unused knitting machine in one corner, a rocking chair in another. Dennis pulled a photograph album out from a shelf and flicked through it, stopping at a beach holiday, Selina in a pink bikini, a coy smile for the camera. Dennis glanced out into the hall, heard Mr. Appleby stifle a sneeze downstairs and then removed one of the photos, slipping it into his pocket. As he descended the staircase, he was reading the brochure again.
“A delightful family home,” Mr. Appleby told him.
“Absolutely.”
“And fixed price. You’ll need to be quick. I’d bet a pound to a penny, this’ll be gone by four o’clock tomorrow.”
“You think so?”
“Pound to a penny.”
“Well, I’ll sleep on it,” Dennis said, realizing that his hand was resting against his jacket pocket.
“You do that, Mr. Denny,” his guide said, opening the door for him.
When Dennis woke up next morning, he was surrounded by her.
He’d stopped at a late-opening shop and used their color copier. Decided not to stint: printed twenty slow copies. He could see that the shopkeeper wanted to ask him about the photo and the quantity, but the man knew better than to pry.
Pictures of her on his bed, on the sofa, laid out on his dining table. Even one on the floor of the hallway, left there when he’d dropped it. The original, he took to work with him, locking it in his desk. At visiting time that afternoon, there was a knock at his door. He unlocked it. One of the warders stood there, arms folded.
“You coming for a butcher’s?”
“I take it Mrs. Blaine is in the building,” Dennis commented, managing to sound calm while his heart pounded.
The warder spread his hands in front of him. “Showtime,” he said with a grin.
But, to Dennis’s surprise, Selina was not alone. She’d brought Fred with her. The pair of them sat opposite Blaine, Selina doing most of the talking. Dennis was appalled and impressed in equal measure. You’re about to leave your husband, and the last time you see him, you bring along the man who’s been keeping you warm at nights. But it was a dangerous game she was playing. Blaine would be furious when he found out, and he had plenty of friends on the outside. Dennis doubted he’d want Selina hurt: Blaine obviously loved her to bits. But Fred… Fred was another matter entirely. Killing would be too good for him. Yet there he sat, one arm slung over the back of the chair, casual as anything. Just visiting his old employer, his mate, nodding whenever Blaine deigned to speak to him, managing to keep just enough distance between Selina and him, so Blaine couldn’t read anything into the body language. Maybe he’d been explaining his fictitious jaunt “up north,” his return to Denise.
Dennis realized that he hated Fred, even without really knowing him. He hated who and what he was, hated the fact that he obviously made money yet drove a clapped-out car. Hated the way he’d put his arm around Selina that time in Glasgow. Hated that he had more money and probably more women than Dennis ever would have.
What the hell was Selina doing, wasting herself on him? It didn’t make sense. Except… except, she would need someone to take the blame when she fled, someone Blaine could take his anger out on. Dennis allowed himself a smile. Could she be so calculating, so clever? He didn’t doubt it, not for one second. Yes, she was playing with Fred, same as she was with her own, duped husband. It was perfect.
Apart from the one detail: Dennis himself, who felt he knew everything now. He realized that he had allowed his eyes to drift out of focus. When he blinked them clear, he saw that Selina had turned her head to look at him. Her eyes narrowed as she gave the briefest of smiles.
“Which one of us was that for?” the warder next to Dennis asked. Dennis himself had no doubt. She’d recognized him, maybe placed him as the man she’d seen driving past her house. She turned to say something to her husband, and Fred snapped round, glaring at the warders.
“Ooh, I’m scared,” the warder beside Dennis muttered, before starting to chuckle. But it wasn’t him Fred was looking at: It was Dennis.
Blaine himself just stared at the tabletop, nodding slowly, then said a few words to his wife, who nodded back. When it came time to leave, she gave Blaine a more effusive embrace than usual. It’s called the kiss-off, Dennis thought. She even waved at her husband as she walked away on her noisy two-inch heels. Blew him another kiss, while Fred allowed himself a glance around the room, sizing up the other women on display and rolling his shoulders, as if content that he was leaving with the classiest of the bunch.
Dennis walked back to his office and made a phone call.
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” he was told. “That property was sold this morning.”
He replaced the receiver. She was on her way… he might never see her again. And there was nothing he could do about it, was there?
Maybe not.
Half an hour later, he left his room, locking it behind him as usual. His walk through the prison took him right past Blaine ’s open cell door. Chalmers was on guard duty as usual.