‘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.
But she couldn’t stop her mind from flying back to the event she and Monty never discussed. It was as if by never mentioning that night, they could pretend it had never happened. His shame could fade with time and she could stop yearning for something she could never have. Now, here was this stranger dredging it all back up again. She threw him a sharp look.
‘So you think that he really can remember what happened last night and is just conveniently blaming the alcohol? You’re way out of line, mate.’ She flung her hand in his direction. ‘And for God’s sake take that fucking apron off!’
De Vakey looked down at his torso and chuckled, making the down-turned corners of Stevie’s mouth lift slightly. After removing the apron he sat back down and returned to business. ‘I appreciate your loyalty to Monty,’ he said, ‘but it’s time to think outside the square. Maybe he hadn’t been drinking last night, but maybe someone wanted it to seem as if he had.’
Stevie stared at him for a moment. She didn’t need to hear another word. She sprang from the sofa and rushed to the bathroom, pounding on the door.
‘Monty! Get your arse out of there!’
Monty appeared dressed in nothing but a sulphur-yellow towel and a thick blanket of steam. He stood and gaped as Stevie hauled the bag of rubbish from the bathroom, wet hair sticking up on his head like exclamation marks.
De Vakey spread newspaper over a portion of the carpet. He seemed to know what Stevie was doing, although Monty had no idea.
‘James got me thinking about your presumed fall from grace,’ she said as she hefted the garbage bag and tipped out the contents. Empty jars, cans and cartons clattered onto the newspaper. De Vakey reacted quickly with more newspaper to protect the carpet. Monty pushed a beer can back with a bare foot then knelt down to examine it, holding the towel around his waist secure with one hand.
He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe I did this.’
‘Maybe you didn’t,’ Stevie said, sniffing at another empty can.
Monty followed suit. ‘Sour beer, what are we supposed to be looking for?’
De Vakey handed him an empty carton of tomato juice, its corner cut for pouring. Most of the juice had leaked onto the floor, but a few drops still remained in the bottom of the carton.
Monty put it to his nose and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, has it gone off? I can’t tell.’
‘Considering the amount of chilli you use, I’m amazed you can taste anything.’ Monty was usually sharper than this. Stevie was surprised to have to spell it out for him. ‘Jeez, Monty, don’t you see? You were probably drugged!’
Monty stared open mouthed from one of them to the other.
‘Was this a new carton last night?’ De Vakey asked.
Monty squinted at it as he tried to remember. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it was already open. I took it from the fridge.’
De Vakey ran his finger around the carton’s cut corner, ‘I’m no connoisseur but this juice looks a bit darker than it should.’
Monty looked into the carton and shrugged. ‘Yeah, maybe it is, I was busy with other things last night, I didn’t notice.’
‘These days, because of date rape, an additive is put into Rohypnol tablets to make the liquid they’re put in turn blue in order to alert the drinker,’ Stevie said, examining the dregs in the carton for herself. ‘It doesn’t show in dark drinks though, so I’m not sure if it would dramatically alter the appearance of tomato juice.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But if it was drugged, it would have to be by someone who knows your drinking habits, right?’
‘They’re no secret, it’s common knowledge I’m on the wagon.’
‘Keyes and Thrummel?’
‘I never met them before today, but I suppose word gets around.’ He sighed. ‘But let’s just get me in the clear first before we start pointing any fingers.’
Stevie put the carton on the coffee table. ‘I’ll bag this up and send it to the lab for tests. I think this’ll go a long way to getting you off the hook. Has anyone been in your flat recently?’