Helping Sarah

Chapter 1

Sarah

It was the blue door that decided for me.

The front door of the house across the quiet street in the middle of South London was the same bright blue as Hugh Grant's door in Notting Hill, and as that had been my favourite film as a teenager, I chose to see it as a sign that I was doing the right thing in keeping my appointment with James Everett, private detective.

My best friend, Lisa, and I had watched the film more times than either of us could count, and I had even managed to make Andrew watch it once. He'd thought it silly – his word – but the parts with Julia Roberts had been endurable – also his word.

Drawing in a deep breath, I tugged the strands of my hair that had worked themselves free from my ponytail behind my ears and pushed the thoughts about my husband from my mind.

The memories already took up too much of my time and energy, and I would have to talk to Mr Everett about Andrew soon enough. The pain could take over my mind then, when there was a reason for the memories to be there and I couldn't avoid them.

Instead, I focused on the house before me. It was one of those narrow, terraced houses typical of London, squeezed in between its neighbours with an iron railing to the side of the few tiled steps leading up to the front door. The blue paint could probably use a fresh coating, but it wasn't shabby, and it was in a better state than my own front door back in Cambridge.

That definitely needed a fresh coat of paint after I had scrubbed off the graffiti. I just hadn't had the time yet. Not with a three-year-old around who would be eager to help, but more likely to knock over the paint can or decide that small, grey handprints would look lovely on the white staircase walls.

The state of my front door didn't matter anyway. My neighbours had all seen the ugly words sprayed across it, and fresh paint wouldn't stop them from looking askance at me.

I walked up the few steps to where a plaque beside the door informed visitors that Everett Investigation resided on the third floor and pushed open the blue door. Behind it was a narrow hall with a closed door to the right and a carpeted staircase. And no lift.

Twisting to look all the way up to the top, my eyes closed on a sigh. I never had gotten back my figure from before Charlie was born, and a bit of exercise would do me no harm, but I took the steps slowly since my physical fitness was a long lost memory buried beneath a pickle and cheese craving, preferably on rye bread with a good smear of mayonnaise beneath it to hold the cheese on the bread. I had no wish to arrive at my appointment sweaty and out of breath.

I needed James Everett to take on my case, and for that I needed to make a good first impression. Or at least not a wheezing, red-faced, hair plastered to my neck impression.

Ever since my call to the private detective yesterday morning, I had worried if hiring him was the right thing to do, or if it would be better to keep trying to get the police to do something.

Only, Detective Inspector Murphy of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary hadn't exactly been forthcoming when I'd called about Lenny's latest visit. Which ought not be a surprise as that had been his reaction all the other times I had talked to him too.

The police officer's sigh when I'd asked what the police were going to do about Lenny had been the proverbial drop that had made me look up James Everett's telephone number.

Growing up, I had always been taught that the police were there to help anyone who got into trouble, that I should never hesitate in calling them. That was the lesson the police constable who had visited our primary school had instilled in us while handing out stickers. He'd just forgotten to mention that apparently that didn't apply to the wife of a drug addict.