a special occasion. He poured the wine, allowing himself a generous glass, then swirled it around before inhaling deeply. Notes of pepper, dried berries and chewy tannins hit him immediately.
‘Wow.’
Sarah leaned through the doorway. The apron was gone, revealing a slinky black dress. ‘I told you it’d be worth the wait.’
‘You certainly are. The wine isn’t bad either.’
Sarah chuckled. ‘You old charmer, you.’
‘So, what is it? Did I forget something or are you after something?’
They both knew it was the latter. Morton’s memory was virtually infallible – for things he considered important anyway.
‘Just a second.’ Sarah disappeared back towards the kitchenette. Morton heard the clang of cutlery as dinner was served, and she reappeared a minute later. After setting the plates down and lighting a candle in the centre of the table, Sarah sat down and took a sip of wine. Morton looked on expectantly, his food untouched.
‘You know you keep saying no to retiring,’ Sarah began but was cut off.
Morton flared up. He couldn’t help but raise his voice. ‘How many times do we have to discuss this? A man doesn’t hit fifty and immediately lose his marbles. I’ll keep going until they won’t let me any longer.’
‘Whoa! Slow down. That isn’t where this is going. And don’t let that get cold.’
Morton bit his lip sheepishly. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘So you should be. As I was saying, you’re not giving up anytime soon, and the kids have long since flown the nest. I’ve been thinking – if you’re not on the scrap heap just yet, then I’m not either.’
Morton took a bite of the steak, chewed and then swallowed. ‘You want to go back to work?’
‘Back? I’m not sure I got a great deal of work done in the first place.’ Sarah gave him an accusatory glare.
‘Hey! That took two to happen. It wasn’t all my fault.’
‘I want to go back to university,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know what I want to study yet, but lots of people our age are going back to it.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s only part-time, and we can definitely afford it. I’ve been talking to the admissions officer at Brunel, and she told me I could qualify for any one of a number of master’s programmes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I know I’m too old really, and that I probably won’t go back to work after, but it would be great to get out and learn something new.’
‘Sarah... I said yes. Twice. I think it’s a great idea. You don’t need to sell me on this. What do you fancy studying?’
‘I was thinking that I might look into journalism or maybe criminology. Speaking of journalism, have you seen today’s paper?’ Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Morton sighed. ‘Don’t tell me. I’m in it.’
‘No, but your victim is.’
‘Where’d you hide our copy of The Impartial ?’ Morton rose, as if to go look for it.
‘It’s in the recycling box in the kitchen–’
Morton stomped off to find his newspaper.
She called after him: ‘David! Leave it! You haven’t finished your steak yet.’
But he was long gone. He found the newspaper right at the bottom of the recycling box. Sarah was always so predictable. It wasn’t his first time to the media circus rodeo.
He flattened the newspaper out on the sideboard, and flipped quickly through the pages. He didn’t have to look too far. Ellis DeLange’s death had warranted a two-page spread on pages eight and nine. Morton ignored the blown-up pictures of Ellis which compared her picture at twenty-five with the most recent picture they could find, as the reporter had come to the same conclusion Morton had. Ellis had not aged well.
‘Damn!’ Morton exclaimed. Two paragraphs in, Morton spotted his worse fears.
‘Ellis had allegedly been abusing pentobarbital. More commonly thought of as the drug which will put down a sick dog, pentobarbital can be abused to induce euphoria.’
Sarah appeared behind him, and lightly touched his arm.
‘They