Every kitchen door hung open, the contents of the cupboards scattered by clumsy searching hands. Food from the fridge had been spread over the kitchen bench. The eggs had smashed on the floor to join a pool of milk and a creeping tide of water from the open freezer. Still unable to speak, Stevie moved to shut the freezer door before pushing some of the packaged food away from the flood. Picking up an empty cereal box she reached for the bin to discover it missing from its alcove. She found it in the bathroom, the stinking contents tipped into the bath.

‘Who the hell did this?’ She said as she returned to the men in the lounge room, stepping across Monty’s slashed mattress that was lying on the floor where it had been dumped.

Among the jumbled books from the shelves, a patch of carpet glistened with shattered glass and waterweed. She stooped to examine the inert goldfish.

‘DOA,’ Monty said without looking up, apparently still intent on fixing the TV. ‘Keyes and Thrummel said the flat was like this when they arrived. They accused me of doing it to destroy evidence. That Thrummel’s bloody crazy—wired as a bloody time bomb. Keyes was practically holding him back by a chain.’

Stevie rose with the fish cradled in her hand. Her eyes met De Vakey’s in silent communication. She felt hollow and empty. When she did speak, her words rattled in the heavy silence.

‘Those thugs can’t be allowed to get away with this. Did you report them?’

Monty put down the screwdriver and rocked back on his heels. ‘I’ve had a gutful of red tape, the correct fucking procedure—what’s the point of reporting them? I can’t prove they trashed the flat and even if I did Baggly would probably just sweep it under the carpet to avoid an enquiry. I’ll handle this my own way. I broke Keyes’ nose, that’s a start.’ He shook his head before saying, almost to himself, ‘I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t plant anything to link me to Michelle’s death.’ Then in a louder voice he said, ‘I asked them to collect the KP files for me, but they said they couldn’t find them.’

Stevie drew a sharp breath, coming to a standstill on her way to the bathroom with the fish.

Monty continued, ‘I arrived when they were finishing up. When I ever so politely asked about them, they said they’d never seen them. Apparently I am now being accused of negligent loss.’

‘What about your cleaning lady? Could she have tidied them away?’

Monty waved his arms around the room. ‘Yeah, sure looks like she’s been, doesn’t it?’ He dropped the sarcasm. ‘There was a message from her on my answering machine, calling to cancel because she’s got the flu.’

Stevie turned to gauge De Vakey’s reaction. He shrugged. ‘Monty’s read the files, he can give us the relevant information.’ He put a hand to each temple as if he was in pain. ‘But let’s just clear this mess up first. I can’t think straight in chaos.’

Stevie flushed the fish down the toilet and De Vakey picked up Monty’s Italian apron and tied it on. After righting the sofa he began to gather up the scattered cushions, apparently unaware of the life-size ‘David’ clinging to his middle. Too despondent to comment, Stevie grabbed a mop and bucket and hit the bathroom.

Monty’s kitchen phone rang after they’d been cleaning for about ten minutes and Wayne filled Stevie in on the latest developments: Michelle’s car in the gym’s car park and her sighting in the cafe. The promising lead from the receptionist at the gym had turned into a dead end, though interesting in another way. Wayne and Barry had traced the address on Frank Dixon’s membership card to a video store in a street just off the highway. After that it came as no surprise to hear there was no record of a Frank Dixon on police personnel files. On another tack, a couple of officers had called at Martin Sparrow’s house and been told by his mother that he was out for the day. One of the cops had parked in the street outside and was now waiting for him to return.

Stevie relayed the information to Monty in his bedroom. He’d flipped the mattress cut side down and was remaking his bed.

‘Frank Dixon,’ Monty repeated the name. ‘Another of his games.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You remember, Dixon of Dock Green —that TV show about the London bobby?’

‘Oh yes, “Evenin’ all”.’

Monty almost smiled. He went on to say that the notion of Martin Sparrow as a serial killer was ridiculous, but conceded that the cleaner’s meeting with Michelle did need investigating. When Stevie pointed out he could have been the one who stole Monty’s watch, he reluctantly agreed it was a possibility.

As for his gym membership, he told Stevie he’d stopped going to the gym several months previously after literally bumping into Michelle on the stairs. As his visits had to be on record somewhere, there was no way that Monty’s gym membership could be used as evidence against him.

Stevie breathed out a sigh of relief and dropped the subject.

***

After a couple of hours’ work, the flat was, once again, fit for habitation. The three of them sat at Monty’s kitchen table eating a take-away pizza. Monty pushed the box away, his share barely touched.

‘Still feeling sorry for yourself?’ Stevie asked, hoping for a rise; anything to jolt him out of his current apathy.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. It’s not every day I fall off the wagon, turn up at work to stare in the face of my dead ex, get accused of her murder, suspended and then have my flat ransacked. Sorry if I’m not ideal company.’

With a nerve-jangling scrape he pushed his chair away from the table.

‘I’m going for a shower.’

Stevie let out her breath when the bathroom door closed and looked at De Vakey.

‘His attitude is quite understandable, Stevie,’ De Vakey moved towards the kettle. ‘How about a coffee?’

She nodded, appreciating the stabilising influence De Vakey had brought to this harrowing situation. She watched as he made the coffee, as at home in a kitchen as he would be in a boardroom. He was probably an excellent cook too, although he did look absurd in that apron. The time was finally right to give him a serve, but he spoke before the words could leave her mouth.

‘Do you really believe he was drinking last night?’

She looked into his unreadable grey eyes. ‘Why, don’t you?’

‘He has no memory of it.’

‘Is that so strange?’ She left the table and settled herself on the nearby sofa.

De Vakey handed her the coffee, then sat down in the armchair opposite. ‘How long has he been on the wagon?’ he asked.

‘Monty was never an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was a social drinker, that’s all.’

‘Okay, I’ll rephrase the question. When did he stop drinking?’

‘About four years ago.’

‘No hesitation, you seem very sure.’

Stevie looked at the back of her hands and noticed a sticky smudge on the face of her diver’s watch. ‘He’d been in England on a course and came back temporarily for the Christmas break to see Michelle. They’d been separated for a while and he was hoping for some kind of reconciliation. I saw him at the work Christmas party, the reconciliation didn’t seem to be working and he’d been drowning his sorrows.’

The smudge looked like honey. Izzy must have been playing with her watch again; small fingerprints covered the face. After breathing on the glass she rubbed it in circular motions on the leg of her jeans. ‘I don’t know for sure, but I think he did something he felt ashamed of. He hasn’t drunk alcohol since.’

‘He must have a very strong image of whatever it was that made him so ashamed. For it to trigger instant abstinence, the image must have been very painful.’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw De Vakey studying her. Leave your watch alone, she told herself, folding her hands in her lap and tucking her legs underneath her on the sofa.