Free The Dead Side of the Mike by Simon Brett Page A

concept of freedom.’
    Steve Kennett nodded but said nothing. Charles felt they were nearer to a sexual context than they had been all evening. Equally, he didn’t want to pursue any sexual disadvantage, or perhaps to make trial of the existence of any sexual advantage. He wanted to continue to know this girl, not to end their acquaintance on some dislocating rebuff to an ill-timed advance. He was relieved when Steve broke the drift of the conversation by offering him another drink.
    â€˜I’m afraid the answer is yes. As usual. But only if you are sure I’m not keeping you from anything.’
    â€˜Yes and no. You are keeping me from something, but it’s something I am not looking forward to, and the idea of having a bit more Dutch courage before I face it is very appealing.’
    His expression was only of mild enquiry; if she didn’t want to tell him more, that was her privilege. But she supplied the explanation. ‘Andrea’s mother is coming down tomorrow to pick up her things. I feel I should go through them before she arrives. It’s not a task I relish particularly.’
    â€˜No. I can see that. If it’s a task that could more easily be done by two, I’d be more than willing to . . .’ He hoped the offer wouldn’t be thought of as presumptuous, of him muscling in on a private grief.
    She didn’t take it that way. ‘Very sweet of you, but it really won’t take me long. Just shove all the clothes into a suitcase without looking at them. It’s the small things that I’m more worried about. Knick-knacks on the dressing table, oddments in old handbags, that sort of thing. Those are the ones I’m really going to have to look at, and I’m not sure that I feel strong enough for that. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be many breaks for weeping.’ She spoke as callously as she could, but she was not relishing the inevitable emotions that this sifting through of her friend’s belongings would cause.
    â€˜Well, mine’s a good offer . . .’
    â€˜Which I just might accept. Let’s finish this drink and I’ll see how strong I feel. Maybe two of us, with constant alcoholic fuel, could swan through it unaffected.’
    â€˜Who knows? We might also find an explanation of the inexplicable.’
    â€˜You mean a note or something like that?’
    â€˜It’s possible.’
    â€˜I doubt it. We’d be following a path that’s already been scrupulously trodden.’
    â€˜The police?’
    Steve nodded. ‘They’ve been through everything. And apparently found no expression of intent. They were very thorough. I gave them the key and they did the lot while I was at work on Monday. And, bless their little hearts, they put everything back exactly where they had found it. If I’d been here, I’d have asked them to leave it all in neat piles to save me the unappealing chore I have to do tonight.’
    â€˜Well, you never know. We may find something. At least looking for it gives us an objective other than maudlin sentiment.’
    â€˜True.’ Steve drained her glass. ‘Okay, let’s start. In half an hour we’ll have a break and reward ourselves with another glass of wine.’
    They were finished well within the half-hour. The clothes were packed in a couple of suitcases and the other oddments filled a cardboard box that had once contained cans of ravioli. A whole young life fitted into two suitcases and a cardboard box that had once contained cans of ravioli.
    They were both struck by this thought, but both resisted the slide into anger or depression. ‘Thank you,’ said Steve. ‘Having you here did make it easier.’
    â€˜My pleasure. I’ll get the drinks. Sit down.’
    She didn’t even make a token remonstrance, but sank into a chair, looking drained. Maybe a few tears would have made the ordeal less painful.
    But when he came back into the