The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths by Harry Bingham Read Free Book Online Page B

enough. I’m lucky to have this man, who does these things for me. Who is this patient.
    I say, ‘Do you remember when we first came here? What a pain I was?’
    ‘Not a pain, exactly …’ Buzz’s gallantry kicks automatically into gear, then hits the Hill of Truth and loses momentum fast. ‘But not easy, no.’
    ‘I was wearing this.’ I touch the base of my neck at the join of my collarbones. My gesture includes both necklace and dress.
    ‘I know. I remember.’
    I’ve realized what it is I’m meant to say. The thing I was missing before.
    ‘I missed you,’ I said. ‘Four weeks. It felt like a long time.’
    Buzz’s eyes melt and he says, ‘Me too.’
    When we get home, we do have sex. First once, fast and energetically, because we both need it. Then we chat a bit, and Buzz makes tea and brings it back to bed, and then we have sex again, but slowly and properly, and I no longer feel weird at all, or no more than always.
    And when he’s done, and his eyes are drooping, and I think I’ve done everything that a supergreat and perfect girlfriend is meant to do on evenings like these, I sit across his thighs, bouncing gently up and down.
    ‘You haven’t told me what happened to the Hayley Morgan thing.’
    ‘Bloody hell, Fi. Really? Nothing’s happened with the Hayley Morgan thing.’
    I consider that response, but think it deserves another bounce. ‘ Something must have happened.’
    ‘Fraud Squad stuff, isn’t it? They’ve interviewed everyone at the superstore, checked if anyone is driving a Jag when they ought to be driving a Fiesta, that sort of thing.’
    ‘What about SOCA?’
    SOCA: the Serious and Organized Crime Agency, which handles major league fraud, among other things.
    ‘SOCA? It’s not big enough for them. You know that.’
    I give an annoyed grunt, which coincides with another bounce, which hurts Buzz enough that he lifts me off him, making a noise in the back of his throat which tells me I need to behave.
    ‘Sorry, love.’
    ‘Do you ever sleep?’
    ‘When I was at YCS, my work day started at four a.m. I had to set the alarm for two forty.’
    ‘What’s YCS?’
    He doesn’t want an answer to that question, though. He wants to be allowed to get some rest without me annoying him. I turn the lights off and give him a kiss. ‘Sleep well, old man. I missed you.’
    ‘I missed you too.’
    It feels like the truth, both ways round.
    I think about wearing a bikini on white Floridian sands. Buzz in red shorts chasing a ball, like a golden retriever after a stick.
    I do love Buzz. Love him the best way I am able, which might not be a very good best. And I wonder, not for the first time, if he is simply mistaken about me. If he would not be happier with someone else.
    His snores deflect the question. I snuggle down beside him and go to sleep.

9.
    The office, Monday morning. The normality seems strange. I feel like I’ve been away a million years. Most people have hardly noticed I’ve been gone.
    Bev Rowlands, says, ‘ Fi! How was your course?’
    ‘It was fine. Quite fun, actually.’
    ‘God, I’d never do anything like that,’ says Bev, then starts telling me about an outdoor training course she did once where she had to climb up some rope netting strung between two pine trees.
    I don’t quite understand the point of the story, but say ‘gosh’ anyway.
    As we’re chatting, DCI Jackson walks past and says, ‘Well done, Fiona,’ but doesn’t stop.
    The morning briefing is full of busy nothings. Huw Bowen’s manslaughter case, the one I initially wanted, has turned dull. No new murders. No proper assaults, no good ones. A presentation from some traffic officers about various pre-Christmas campaigns they’re running. A talk about cost-cutting and the correct use of community support officers.
    When I use the Ladies, I notice that the mirror has streak marks and the soap dispenser nozzles are gummed up. I use paper towels to remove the streak marks and do a basic job on the