Prologue
Harry can't help but notice how happy she looks around him – the whole room can't help but notice it. He's danced with her for half the night, and spends the rest of it entertaining her friends, getting into their good books. He tells stories about infuriating editors and incompetent interns; he looks genuinely interested when Leo tries explaining some new Government cut to him; and when he tells Harry that Nikki 'never shuts up about you', he isn't lying – to the point where, if Harry asks, he won't be surprised if the stranger is able to tell him what brand of deodorant he uses. Weirder still, Harry finds that he isn't as disturbed by this as he probably he should be – he can imagine having a stimulating conversation about personal hygiene products with him, and actually enjoying it. He was charming, even Harry had to admit.
"He's decent," He looks towards the bar, where Daniel is buying the next round.
"Is that…no, it can't be," She grins and looks up at him, still surprised by how well the night has gone. "Harry Cunningham, was that boyfriend approval?"
"Decent does not equal approval," She tutted and elbowed him. "Where did you meet him again?"
"Party,"
"Oh, definitely not approving that," He is surprised that what he presumes must have been a drunken one night stand - as so many of her party boys (he refuses to call any of them men) turn out to be - has managed to blossom into, from what he can tell, is a fully functioning relationship. Her first functioning relationship during their friendship, he can't help but add. Being honest with himself, it isn't really the meeting place that bothers him the most – it is the idea that she is so completely enamoured with the man after only 3 months. She has a tendency to rush things, to over invest herself too quickly, and he can't bare the thought of her ending up broken over it.
"A grown-up party," She smiles as she recalls the memory. "Posh food, not a Strongbow in sight,"
"You attend those types of parties?" He nods down at her dress, which he's already pointed out, several times throughout the evening, is overly revealing.
"Har-har,"
"Who's party?"
"Someone down in the lab,"
"Hold on, why wasn't I invited?"
"Because I'm much friendlier than you,"
"Was the party thrower male or female?"
"Male,"
"That explains it," He winks cheekily.
"Don't be such a pig," He scrunches up his nose and oinks loudly, earning him a delightfully airy laugh. "Dan is the guy's brother,"
"Have you met the kids yet?"
"Last night," She describes in detail how cute they were, and relays the stories they'd told her about playground adventures. She had been surprised by how open they were to the idea of her – how accepting they were of their Dad's new girlfriend. They didn't seem to carry any resentment at all – is it even possible for a 5 and 4 year old to begrudge someone? She highly doubts they understand exactly what their parents' divorce means, and whilst they seemed perfectly content throughout the dinner, she can't help but wonder that in the future maybe they will start to see her as the evil stepmother. But she doesn't tell Harry about her niggling concern; she has a feeling he might pounce on it and convince her that it is inevitable, and put her off Dan for life. He has a tendency to do that – put her off what are perfectly good men in her eyes, she'd long ago realised, and she didn't want it happening this time. She ignores the back of her mind, that tells her that, when he does do this, the men usually turn out to be rotten, and in putting her off them, he saves her a lot of heartbreak.
"Doesn't it put you off a bit?"
"The kids?" He nods.
"And the ex. It's a lot of baggage,"
"I guess," She pauses momentarily to think, not quite sure how to convert her thoughts into coherent sentences. "It would maybe be nicer to not have that to worry about it. But they really are wonderful. And it's a bit naïve of me to think I'll be able to find a great guy without baggage, now I've left it so late." She aches inside when she thinks about the idea of not having children of her own – they haven't talked about it, it isn't really something she wants to bring up 3 months into a relationship – but she doubts he wants another child to look after. But then she looks away from her feet and sees him coming towards them, drinks in hand and a large grin etched across his face, he trips slightly, spilling some of her Bacardi and Coke down his front, causing her to giggle at his clumsiness. And the ache subsides a little. "And he's worth it,"
"He's worth it," He teases, copying her in a fake American accent, like those adverts that always come on when she forces him to sit and watch Desperate Housewives. He hates that programme. She elbows him again, harder this time, though not with enough force to wipe the grin off his face. "He makes you happy?"
"Everyday," The way her eyes light up with her face, leaves no room for doubting this statement – not even for the cynical best friend.
"I actually like this one." He mutters, reluctantly, into her ear.
"Is that approval?"
"As close as you're ever going to get,"
Chapter 1
As he drives through the empty streets, he wonders how much success he would have in lobbying for a change in the law, whereby if a murder were committed during normal working hours, the criminal would receive a lower sentence. Maybe then it would encourage the mad people, who were responsible for getting him up at 2am, to choose a more appropriate time for their crimes. He concedes that there are a few problems his plan – as he's already pointed out to himself, the people are mad, and therefore unlikely to care about any type of law – but he can iron out the creases.
There's a short wait whilst an officer, who seemed overly-cautious, checks and re-checks Harry's identity card. He curses as he reads the out of order sign on the lift; at first hoping his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him. When he finally reaches the top floor flat, he gives a polite nod of thanks to the young uniformed officer that has lifted up the tape for him to get through the doorway, and immediately finds himself face to face with a tall, lanky man, who looks no older than the officer who let him through and is wearing a heavy jacket that hangs over his small shoulders and seems to swallow him whole.
"Detective Sam Walker,"
"Doctor Harry Cunningham," He takes in how young he looks – he could have barely been past 30, if that. "What have we got?"
"Man, early forties, knife wounds." His hands shake as he reads off his notepad. Harry wonders if it is his first murder. "Laptop, phone and cash have been stolen, the lock looks forced."
"Interrupted robbery?"
"Most probably," Sam stands silently, looking down at the older man, all the time conscious that he looks too much like a school boy, who has got stuck and is asking the teacher what to do next. He wishes he could think of something to say or what to do next, but his mind has gone blank, and the years of preparation and advice now count for nothing, as his thoughts fill with images of blood, dripping out, staining everything around it; and the never ending blackness of the hole.
He yearns to be able to close his eyes and forget about everything he's seen.
"Where's the…"
"The body. Right, yes,"
Harry follows him through the modern apartment, making mental notes as he takes in the scene around him. Open drawers, their contents strewn across the floor; the knife block in the kitchen has an empty slot; and a few plates lie in pieces, as if they had been knocked off the side in a struggle. Nothing seems inconsistent with the robbery gone wrong theory. It seems to be a fairly straightforward case – he feels relieved for the young detective. Harry wonders whether it's going to be Leo or Nikki that turns up; less than a year ago, he would have placed his life savings on it being Nikki, but since Janet's exit and Dan's entrance, it's become harder to predict, and he wouldn't bet on either.
He isn't making any attempt to be quiet; as he hunts around the room for the trousers and shirt he'd lazily discarded on the floor hours before. His heavy footsteps remind him of her absence – he used to be so careful not to wake her on the odd occasion where he did have to take a call. He supposes it's a hidden silver lining to the break-up, in that he can now use the clinking coffee maker to perk himself up and the lights can be switched on, which has certainly brought down the amount of toe stubbing.
But part of him misses tiptoeing around.
Sam leads him into the living area, where a large TV is fixed onto the wall, with a cream sofa positioned below to give the perfect viewing angle. He stops at the end of the room, and when Harry looks at the sofa, he realises why. A pool of crimson liquid sits on the wood floor, nowhere to soak into, shiny in the bright modern lighting. Two bare feet stick out at the bottom.
"You don't have to watch," He says, and although he doesn't actually emit a sigh of relief, Sam's body seems to relax. Harry doesn't think for one second that this is going to be one of the worst bodies he's seen, he doubts he'll even class it as one of the bad ones – there's not enough blood and it's not the right type of situation. But he didn't miss the large gulp that the young detective took when he first mentioned the corpse, and the small drops of sweat on his neck – it must be his first murder – and he seems nice enough, so Harry doesn't want to make it harder on him that it needs to be.
He finds that he has trouble referring to the man, practical boy, as Detective, like he has done for every other case. Maybe, he thinks as he makes his way towards the sofa, he should ask to be called Harry, and then he might ask to be called Sam too.
The first thing he notices, approaching from behind, is the gaping hole near the shoulder blade of the slumped over male, as if someone had stuck a knife in and twisted it repeatedly. He places his box on the floor and measures the size of the wound; about an inch wide, consistent with a kitchen knife. The positioning of the body is the first thing about the scene that strikes Harry as not being right – if there was a struggle between robber and occupant, why had he been sitting down, with his back towards any possible attack? He must have been sat where he was when the wound was inflicted – there were no marks on the floor to suggest the body had been moved, and the shirt had no dirt on it. The back wound couldn't have killed him and there was no way he would have stayed seated with only that.
He moves round to the front, hoping to get a better look. The pool of blood he had noticed before hadn't come from the back. His head hangs between his knees, leaving the back curved over, and tiny droplets of blood drip from what Harry guesses is a neck wound. He checks for Rigour. Only just set in. Carefully, he places his hands on the shoulders and pushes gently upwards.
He yanks his hands back instinctively.
A pair of cold, brown eyes stare back at him, covered slightly by a wispy fringe of curly hair, matching their colour. The skin stretching across his slightly chubby, middle-aged face is pale, and covered in a light layer of stubble, that reaches down to the large … slice across his throat. He doesn't seem to have any other wounds – no signs of a struggle. The front of his shirt is even more sodden than the back; the once yellow stripes of his tie are a dark orange and the small part of his shirt that remains blood-free has some sort of drink stain on it, Coke maybe.
And he could probably tell you the brand of deodorant Harry is wearing.
I know, I'm a terribly person. I PROMISE I do have an ending for Lego House – but I tend to lose inspiration with things so easily. I have the attention span of a 3 year old.
Ok, so this is the FIRST story (or any piece of writing ever) that I've planned out. And it has more substance than just a long clichéd way of getting Harry and Nikki together, which is new for me. It actually has a PLOT LINE guys!
Please leave a review and tell me if you like this – and if I should continue. I will be updating everything else as well, now that I have some spare time.