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we can refer to him as The Bastard, please?’

      Matilda sniggered. There was definitely no love lost between Adele and Robson. She had called him The Bastard for as long as Matilda had known her. It was a stark contrast to the relationship Matilda had enjoyed with her late husband. He had been dead almost two years, and she would give every single possession she owned to have him back.

      ‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Matilda asked, unable to refer to him as a bastard.

      ‘No, thank God.’

      ‘What about Chris?’

      ‘Not since he was ten. A couple of years ago, when I’d had a few to drink, I tried looking him up on Facebook.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘He wasn’t there. I thought he’d have gone in for the whole social media thing – an entire world of women at his fingertips. He’s either changed and is now a one-woman man, or he’s dead. I like to think it’s option two. More wine?’

      ‘Better not,’ Matilda said, placing her hand over the glass. When James died, Matilda had turned to drink to cope with the loss and it had got out of hand. Like she had saved Adele when she moved to Sheffield, Adele had returned the favour and helped her through the torture of losing the man she loved. Now, Matilda didn’t trust herself around alcohol. She never drunk when she was alone and only dared to have a glass or two with friends. Just to be on the safe side.

      The conversation over dinner moved on to safer territory like Matilda’s visit to her parents earlier in the day and the prospect of Adele’s son, Chris, starting a new job, hopefully, as a teacher. However, during the quieter periods, Matilda could see the loneliness in Adele’s eyes. She always said she didn’t need, or want, a man in her life to be happy, but now that Chris was out of university and would be leaving home soon, the prospect of living alone and surrounded by silence was beginning to dawn. They would have to do more things together; Matilda would make sure of that.

      Adele stuck to the wine while Matilda made herself a coffee, and they went into the living room.

      ‘Oh, I didn’t know this was out,’ Adele said, picking up the hardback copy of Carl from the side table.

      ‘It’s not. It comes out this Thursday. Sally Meagan left it on my doorstep this morning.’

      Adele opened the cover and looked at the inscription. ‘Bloody hell, she’s not going to let you forget, is she?’

      ‘As if I could anyway. I think about him every day. I drove past Graves Park yesterday and I almost had to pull over I teared up so much.’

      ‘Is there no news?’

      ‘There’s no one looking for him. The case is shelved. There have been no sightings for months.’

      ‘It’ll get reviewed at some point though, won’t it?’

      ‘Oh yes, but not by me, and not for long either. I honestly don’t think we’ll know anything until a body turns up.’

      ‘You think he’s dead?’

      ‘As much as I hope he’s still alive, yes, I think he’s dead.’

      ‘Oh God, the poor mite,’ Adele said, looking at the front cover and the smiling little boy looking up at her. ‘God only knows what his mother’s going through. Are you going to read this?’

      ‘I read the introduction. I’ve looked in the index and I’m mentioned all the time, and it’s not going to be complimentary, is it? I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of character assassination just yet.’

      ‘Why don’t you put it away, then, instead of leaving it around tormenting yourself? You’ve got a library now, haven’t you? Oh, I thought you were going to show me around.’

      Matilda had inherited thousands of books from a young man she befriended during a murder case she’d worked on the previous year. Jonathan Harkness had lived in self-induced isolation, surrounding himself with crime fiction novels to escape the reality of the outside world. When he died, he left his entire collection to Matilda. She wasn’t sure whether he was gifting them to her because she had shown an interest or it was his final act of sticking two fingers up to the police.

      At first, Matilda had been so angry she had wanted to dump them all. On closer inspection she saw some were first editions and some were signed copies. They might even be worth quite a bit of money one day. She had read a few and become hooked and promised herself she would look after the collection and even add to it when new books were released.

      Since James’s death, Matilda now lived alone in a four-bedroom house. She had ample space to turn one of the rooms into a library. She’d had floor to ceiling shelves fitted, a new carpet, and had replaced the glass in the window with an expensive tinted glass so the sunlight wouldn’t bleach the pages and spines of the books. Matilda had even treated herself to a comfortable Eames chair with matching footstool so she could sit in here of an evening and read whenever she wanted to escape from a difficult murder case for an hour or two. The irony of reading crime fiction while investigating real life crimes was not lost on her.

      ‘I’m impressed. It looks functional yet cosy,’ Adele said, standing in the doorway (shoes off, of course).

      ‘You don’t like it, do you?’

      ‘No. I do. I just think it’s a waste of a perfectly good bedroom.’

      ‘It was you who said I should keep them. What else was I supposed to do with them?’

      ‘No. You’ve done the right thing. I like it. I really do. Wow, this chair is very comfortable,’ Adele exclaimed, sitting back and putting her feet up.

      ‘It should be for the money it cost.’

      ‘I can imagine myself sitting here, glass of wine, maybe some sushi. I could actually fall asleep in this chair.’

      Matilda smiled. ‘You could book a weekend break here if you like?’

      Adele picked up the nearest novel. ‘So how is the humble pathologist represented in crime fiction then? Am I a maverick who works outside the rules to nail the killer at any cost?’

      ‘No. You’re either grumpy, moody or an alcoholic.’

      ‘Oh, not like me at all then,’ she smiled.

      By the time the evening was at an end, Adele was in no fit state to drive so Matilda said she could stay over. Adele went up to one of the spare rooms while Matilda went around the ground floor to make sure all the windows and doors were locked. As she whispered goodnight to James in their wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, she shed a tear. Every night, she cried for the man she loved who had been taken from her far too soon.

      The following morning, Matilda was woken to the unfamiliar sound of life going on in another part of the house. It had taken her a long time to adjust to living on her own after James’s death, especially as James had been a noisy bugger. She had discovered new sounds – the clocks ticking, the fridge humming, and the house settling. At first, they scared her: they were the sounds of loneliness. Now, she was used to them.

      As Matilda descended the stairs she recognized the noise straight away – Adele was on her treadmill. She went into the conservatory to see Adele running at speed; yet she didn’t have a hair out of place and there was just a hint of sweat on her forehead.

      ‘This is actually quite a good treadmill. I might have to get one myself.’

      ‘I thought you enjoyed going to the gym?’

      ‘I do. Especially when that Scottish bloke is working there. I love a man with a Scottish accent.’

      ‘You’re a tart, Adele. Are you nearly finished? I’d like to get 5k in before work.’

      ‘Almost.’

      Matilda stood back and watched while Adele slowed down to a trot. She turned the machine off.

      ‘I

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