Bumping Uglies

Chapter Five

I looked at Sophie who was fidgeting at her clothes and straightening her blonde hair like a guilty teenager. She steadfastly refused to make eye contact and was ominously silent.

"I think it best that you don't come in here," I said carefully, not wanting to cause offense. I was also getting the very real sensation that Sophie wanted to run as far from me, and this flat, as possible.

"It's good for you to keep your hands clean. Plus, I'm not sure what I will find up there," I pointed up the sheer flight of stairs that led straight up from the doorway to the living space of the flat on the first floor.

Sophie nodded absently; turning away from me, shielding her face and making to leave without replying.

"Thanks again, Sophie. That was some quick thinking," I said, trying to be jovial.

She made a noise that was somewhere between a squeak and a sob and scurried out of the open door and into the night.

I didn't think I was that bad of a kisser.

It wasn't the time to dwell on the matter; I had some good nearly-honest sleuthing to do.

My first impressions of Richard's flat were not positive. I closed the front door and flicked on a light switch, illuminating the tiny entrance hall and the flight of stairs up into the flat proper.

"Richard!" I called out on the off-chance that the guy actually was at home, though the pile of crumpled junk mail and free local newspapers on the doormat suggested that he had not been home for a while.

I scooped up the glossy litter and dug out the newspapers. They were a weekly freebie rag that was ninety percent adverts and classifieds. A small Fagin-esque army of disaffected youths rammed them through the doors of the masses in the vain hope that someone, anyone, might read it rather than use it to line their cats' litter trays.

There might not be anything inside worth reading, but at least it was pretty absorbent.

I scanned the banner on the front of both papers. The earliest was dated two weeks ago, suggesting that Richard had not been at home for at least that length of time. Either that or he was the kind of guy who would step over the post on the mat day-after-day. If that were the case, Sophie was better off without him.

Quite aside from the abandoned post, the little that I could see of the place was filthy. Muddy and stained carpet clung loosely to the stair treads with all the enthusiasm of a dog walker clutching a bagged turd, and awful woodchip wallpaper was patched with shit-brown mould and peeling away from the plaster in places.

Wherever Richard was, I reckoned it was not likely to be in the cleaning product aisle of the supermarket.

I trudged up the stairs and turned the lights on throughout.

Richard was not home and I settled-in for a thorough look around the place. It was pretty small, but even so it was most likely that somewhere within the bedroom, galley kitchen and small lounge, I would find the information I needed to track Richard down.

I discounted the bathroom; it looked and smelled pretty grim. Besides, I had seen plenty of Agatha Christie adaptations on TV. No great crimes were ever solved with evidence collected from the shitter.

I started in the bedroom. It was pretty spartan; double bed, chintz spread, free-standing wardrobe and not a hell of a lot else. I checked under the bed, in, and on top of, the wardrobe. There was no luggage and there seemed to be a section of clothes rail free in the wardrobe.

What was in the wardrobe was stylistically prosaic. High-street labels, middle market, nothing too flashy. Richard was a better dresser than me, but without really exerting himself. Perhaps, I mused, Sophie had bought all of these clothes for him.