Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

for updates when a car pulling up outside Pen’s Parlour catches my attention. I watch a small woman get out with a cockerpoo as, concurrently, the door to Pen’s Parlour opens, and ginger-haired Tom slips out to the side – dogless, again. I watch him walk to his house opposite, tucking his shirt into his jeans, and shake my head.

Sasha waves off her client and beckons me towards the house. I take my bag and the cake and follow her in. Stormzy is blaring out from the kitchen.

‘The cake?’ she says, managing a smile.

‘Don’t hold out for any masterpiece.’ I lift the lid and give her a peek.

‘You made it yourself,’ she gasps.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ I say, faking a hurtful face. ‘Nightmare! I left it a bit late and couldn’t find anyone to make it. I’ve got some decorations and candles to go on the top.’

She kisses my cheek, thanks me profusely for saving her the trouble and nods towards the stairs. ‘Sounds like the boys are in the kitchen, so pop it in my bedroom. It’s the coolest room in the house. I’ll make room in the fridge later. I had a Tesco delivery this morning, and it’s full of party food.’

I climb the stairs to her room, a large double at the front of the house. As I enter, I nearly drop the cake in fright. Harry’s walking out of the en suite.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. I was using the toilet.’

Strange, I think, he didn’t pull the chain. And why did he come in here to use the toilet?

‘Let me take that for you.’ Smiling broadly, he reaches out to empty my arms.

I pull the cake out of his reach. ‘No problem. This is something for your mum.’

He glances around the room, and his eyes stop at a chest of drawers. On top of it lies some bottles of aftershave and a silver dish containing a few odd coins. He shifts them both aside. ‘Here, put it on there,’ he says and politely excuses himself and darts off downstairs.

I poke around the bedroom. I don’t know what I’m snooping for, and nothing strikes me as out of the ordinary. It’s your average couple’s personal space painted plain white. Towelling dressing gowns hang from hooks on the back of the door. A peace lily plant grows in the corner next to the window. I walk over to Marc’s bedside cabinet. Books scatter the surface, along with a photo frame turned face down. I lift it up. It’s of Sasha and Marc on their wedding day, laughing in love as the light from the day’s brilliant sun creates a halo above his head. I can see why she can’t bear to look at it at the moment. There’s one of those placemats with his name on it. The last resort type of gift you buy for the kids to give to their dad on his birthday when they are still too young to choose a present themselves, and you’ve run out of ideas. It has a picture of a young Harry, Hannah and George in the background, overwritten with:

Marc

A born warrior, you are sincere

People appreciate your honesty and straightforwardness

Ouch! It must hurt her looking at that too. I open the drawers but find nothing out of the ordinary – a couple more books, a packet of tissues, a phone charger.

What is the story here? There is one; I know. And I will find it. But something tells me it’s not going to make good reading.

Wardrobes with sliding doors line the walls leading to the en suite. The ones on the left are open. Shirts, jackets and trousers hang neatly below a shelf of jumpers and tops. Marc’s side, I guess. I check inside the jacket pockets but find nothing. Ties and belts dangle from hooks on the inside wall.

There must be something.

Below the clothes sits a rack of shoes and trainers, and a row of boxes covers the carpeted floor. I bend down and open them in turn, only to find folded scarfs, hats and gloves. The box at the bottom is pine green with a gold logo. I remove the lid to find a black pair of polished brogues and a mini shoe cleaning kit. I lift the shoes out and shake one in each hand. Worth a try? Jim’s voice disturbs my thoughts. “You need to keep out of their business”, but it’s overridden by Arthur’s “No stone can be left unturned in this game”. Out falls a small plastic pouch containing at a guess, a couple of grams of coke.

Marc? Coke? Or is this what Harry was really doing in here?

Sasha’s voice crescendos up the stairs. ‘Eva! Are you OK up there?’

I stuff everything back where I found it and dash into the en suite.

She enters the bedroom as I flush the loo. ‘You in here?’

‘Just using the toilet,’ I say, walking out past the wardrobes. ‘I think Harry sussed me. He was in here when I got up here. I should have left the cake downstairs.’

‘What was he doing in here?’

‘Using the toilet.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t say the kids’ loo’s blocked again.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Another thing Marc was meant to be fixing. We’ve got a problem with all the blasted loos in this house. They’re forever getting blocked. Actually, it’s a problem with the whole estate. Marc reckons it’s the cheap sanitaryware the builders sourced when these houses were built.’ She sits on a patchwork throw at the end of the bed, huffing and puffing. The throw is quilted and beautifully crafted in patterns of blue. Squares of stripes and spots, checks and stars are stitched together and bordered by cobalt blue piping. She stretches back on it with her hands facing the tufted headboard. ‘I called Marc’s friend, Oli, in Thornton Heath. The one he met up with on his way back from that interview. He was reluctant to split on Marc, but I got it out of