Crime/Thriller Short Story Competition - Winner

Reception buzzes through.
‘An Inspector Davis to see you, Cameron.’
I pause, frozen. Thinking: I know what this is about.
 ‘Will I say you’re unavailable?’
‘No.’ No point in that. ‘Send him through.’
I’m expecting someone imposing. Authoritative. But Davis is small and diffident, with lank, thinning hair. He smiles damply at me from behind large round glasses.
‘Mr Stuart…’ He shakes my hand.  ‘I shan’t keep you long. I wished to ask a few questions about…’
‘Sorrel Day?’
‘Ah… correct, yes… Sorrel Day.’  He releases my hand and, as I sit again, looks at the painting on the wall behind me. It’s a painting that attracts attention. It depicts a gravestone with a magpie sitting on it. The background sky is a foreboding black-red. The grass a dry, lifeless grey-green. The overall tone is one of bleakness, of despair – except for the magpie itself, whose black and white wings are vibrant and alive. Its eye is bright and gleaming, looking out hungrily, as if enjoying the bleakness around it. It’s not a pretty picture but I like it. And I’m proud of it.
I painted it.
Most people offer some comment on the painting. But Davis’s eyes flick away and instead he simply sits down at the chair in front of my desk, where he brings out a notebook.
‘I was questioned about Sorrel some six months ago,’ I say. ‘After she… disappeared. Has there been some development?
Davis hesitates. ‘No. Sorrel is still missing. But we’re reviewing matters. Seeing what we might have missed. And your name… keeps coming up.’
I nod. ‘Shall I tell you everything I know about Sorrel, Inspector?’
He looks surprised. Was he anticipating resistance? But he leans back, and clicks his pen.
‘Yes. That would be a good idea.’
* * * * *
It’s about ten months since I met Sorrel Day. I’m the branch partner at Turner White – dealing mainly in criminal and family law – and she was looking for legal advice. She had turned up without an appointment and I rarely accept those. But I had just settled a three-day proof and had time freed up.
So she was ushered in to my office. And I… noticed her.
She wasn’t tall but she carried herself straight, and poised – as if walking on tiptoes – so it seemed she was. Her hair was a choppy caramel bob, curling just under her chin. She was wearing a lemon silk dress. And her face… well I want to say it was beautiful. That’s the sentence I want to write. But when I describe her, she won’t sound that way. Her forehead was perhaps a little high. Her mouth was slightly big. And her hazel green eyes perhaps too wide set. But her face was more than the sum of its parts. And what I haven’t mentioned is her skin, so perfect and clear. Like a flower you just wanted to touch. So I’ll just go with beautiful. She was, really.
She smiled at me. A sort of sly, conspiratorial smile, like she knew what I was thinking and was fine with it.
‘I’ve heard I’m in… safe hands… with you, Mr Stuart,’ she said. She lingered slightly over that phrase safe hands, and pressed my fingers with hers. Her voice was like a soft breeze.
‘I… hope so.’ I said. I removed my hand and sat down. ‘So… please tell me the problem.’
Her case was a standard one. A stalking ex-boyfriend – a Mr Liam Shankland. They had split up three weeks back, but Shankland wouldn’t accept it. Kept phoning, visiting, harassing. I took details, promised to write a warning off letter, and to raise court proceedings if necessary. The meeting finished, we shook hands, and she left.
And I tried to get her out of my head. It wasn’t just inappropriate. I had a wife and twin four-year-old girls. And I loved them – really, I did.
But later, after six, I left to go home. It was dark and drizzling. As I approached my car, I saw another car with flashing hazards, across the street. I hesitated, then walked across. There was a woman with her back to me at the boot. She turned. And it was her.
‘Oh… Mr Stuart! My car has a flat… The RAC can’t be here for another hour… Could you… please help… I’m so… useless at these things…’
Of course I helped. I got the spare out, jacked the car up, changed the tyre. She was grateful. She gave me a little hug, and she smelled of peaches and cinnamon. And when her cheek touched mine…
Then she stepped back, but not too much. Her hand was still on my waist. ‘I wonder… I think I’d really like a drink after this. Will you… let me buy you one? To thank you?’
I looked at her in the rain, at how her skin glowed in the half light. I looked at her face, that smile, at how her coat opened slightly to reveal that yellow dress that now clung damply to her breasts. And I could still smell the peaches and cinnamon.
I think back to the responses I could have made.
‘Sorry, I must go…’
‘I’m married, with children.’
‘That’s inappropriate, Ms Day.’
‘I know a place.’
Well you know which option I chose.
* * * * *
‘So you admit… you had an affair?’
Davis looks surprised. Disappointed?  Was this information he thought he would have to tease out of me?
‘Yes. We had an affair. It happens. We had a good time. She got me into painting and wine appreciation and…well, other interests. But we broke up about three months later. Haven’t seen her since.’
He considers this.
‘Things end well?’
I shrug. ‘What affair does?’
‘Indeed…’ He nods. ‘But would you say yours ended… particularly badly...?’
And again, I think back.
* * * * *
It was two weeks after that first night when he arrived at my office. It was just as I was leaving. He lurched up to my door. Gaunt unshaven, and very drunk. I knew without being told who it was.
‘Liam… Shankland...?’
He smiled. ‘Yeah… Surprised to see me...?’
‘I... I must warn you…’
‘Shut up. I’m not going to hurt you. Just some friendly advice. I was in your position, once. Used by her. Then dropped. There’s loads of us. Think you’re special? You’re not. She takes an interest, then gets bored. Leaves you in the gutter. She’s… bad news.’
And he walked off. I never heard from him again.
I didn’t believe Shankland. Sorrel and I were inseparable. She became everything. Soon I stopped caring about whether my wife would find out. That blowout, when it happened, was sudden and quick. I missed the twins’ birthday party – just clean forgot all about it. I got back late and they were still crying upstairs. I couldn’t even be bothered to think of excuses. Just headed out again and checked into a hotel. And I never went back.
The family became a foggy memory. It was only Sorrel who mattered now. And I was happy now. Really, truly and properly happy, for the first time ever. Sorrel and I were together. We would always be together.
Except of course, we weren’t.
It just stopped. Like she switched off a light, and left me in the darkness.  Her number initially rang out. Then I was blocked. I refused to believe it. After five days in limbo I just turned up at her flat. She wasn’t in, so I waited outside. All day. She finally turned up, after midnight, got out of a taxi, and looked at me.
‘Oh… you! I’d forgotten about you!’ And she laughed. And walked past me, into her flat, and closed the door in my face.
* * * * *
‘So you took it badly.’
I shrug. ‘I was unhappy. But these things happen. I accepted it.’
‘Really? Her neighbours reported you shouting outside her flat for days. Screaming. Begging. Saying you wouldn’t let her leave you. And four weeks later she disappears. Credit cards haven’t been used. Possessions all left. No note, no word. Just… vanished. Any idea why?’
‘No. None’
He looks at me levelly.
‘Did you kill her?’
‘No.’
‘I think you did!’ He’s not calm now, oddly. He stands up, shaking, and points at me with a trembling finger. ‘I think… you murdered her! I think…’
But I’ve had enough. I stand up myself.
‘I tell you what I think,’ I say, interrupting him. ‘I think you’re not an inspector.’
He stops talking. His mouth stays open, gaping.
‘I’ll guess who you are,’ I say. ‘You were Sorrel’s next… victim. And now she’s left and you can’t accept it. My best guess? She met some rich Yank and is staying in some Manhattan penthouse now. Or maybe a rich Arab.  Someone like that.’
He tries to speak. But no words come. Then he sits, and puts his face in his hands. And he starts crying.
‘You killed her!’ His voice is muffled by his hands and his tears. ‘I know you did… The police don’t care. But we… loved each other. We did…’
I let him sit there, crying, for a few more minutes. Waiting for him to finish. And finally he gets up. ‘This isn’t over,’ he whispers, as he leaves. But it is. We both know that.
* * * * *
Afterwards I look at my picture again. I am so grateful to Sorrel for teaching me about art. She really did bring out my creative side.
Up close, you can make out words marked on the gravestone, which you couldn’t from where Davis was standing. The words read: One for Sorrel.
I remove the protective glass. I like to do this sometimes. I like to touch the picture. It’s a ‘mixed media,’ where different materials are used alongside the paint. I stroke the feathers of the magpie – carefully plucked locks of Sorrel’s hair. I brush my thumb over the soil earth – tiny fragments of her bones. And that black-red sky…well, you can guess that, can’t you? I promised Sorrel that she’d always be with me. And I kept my promise.
We were special, Sorrel and I. And this painting is my lasting tribute to her.
My final gift for Sorrel.