Free Eye Contact by Fergus McNeill

jumps out – you know what to look for.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’
    ‘I’ll see if there’s anything new from Forensics, and then I’m done for the day.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Mendel grinned. ‘Firth said you were in early this morning. Go home and put your feet up, eh?’
    ‘That’s the plan,’ Harland smiled. But it wasn’t. His smile faded as he turned and stalked away down the corridor.
    Harland parked two streets away and walked. Dennel Road was mercifully quiet but he still hesitated as he approached the building. He checked his watch, but he wasn’t early – it was time. Taking one last look around, he mounted the steps quickly and pushed open the heavy door.
    There was an oppressive stillness about the empty waiting room. He sifted through the pile of women’s magazines on the table until he found the token men’s car monthly, then retired to a chair to wait.
    He thumbed through the dog-eared pages for a moment, vaguely taking in the same pictures he’d glanced at last time. One of the adverts mentioned a forthcoming motor show and he realised that it was three years out of date.
    He tossed the magazine back onto the table in disgust. Posters on the opposite wall made accusing references to a range of mental illnesses. He was thinking of walking out – just for a cigarette perhaps – when the sound of footsteps brought him back to his surroundings.
    Jean stood in the doorway, holding open the glass door.
    ‘Graham.’ The usual professional smile. ‘Would you like to come through?’
    Just a rhetorical question to begin with, he thought as he rose to his feet, willing his body language to be calm. They hadn’t started yet. It didn’t start until they were in the room.
    The sound of her heels echoed along the bare corridor as he followed her, silently admiring the movement of her hips. Any distraction was welcome, however brief. All too soon, she was pushing a brass key into a lock, opening the door marked ‘Private’.
    He followed her into the small room. She sat down by the window, leaving him to close the door behind them.
    ‘Take a seat,’ she said, unnecessarily.
    ‘Thank you.’
    He sat down carefully, trying to relax but unable to find a comfortable position. At least he’d avoided folding his arms or crossing his legs this time. There was a box of coloured tissues on the small table beside him. For other people.
    He forced himself to meet her steady gaze, catching her assessing him from behind her dark-framed glasses for just a moment before she smiled again and asked the first question.
    ‘How have you been this week?’
    Always that same opening gambit.
    He shuffled slightly in his seat.
    ‘It’s been quite good.’
    He knew that he was expected to say more, that she would sit patiently, quietly, until he did.
    ‘I’ve been keeping myself busy,’ he began. ‘Putting in some extra hours at work. We’re investigating a new case and that’s occupied my mind. I think that’s helped.’
    ‘Helped in what way?’ she asked.
    He hesitated.
    ‘Well, it’s given me something to focus on, to distract myself . . . And I haven’t lost my temper with anyone this week . . .’ He smiled, looking up to find her staring at him impassively. How quickly she diverted him from what he’d planned to say.
    ‘I’ve been sleeping better too,’ he admitted.
    ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘No unwanted dreams?’
    ‘None.’ That, at least, was a relief. Long hours, enforced by the dread of an empty house, were taking their toll. He looked up again, found her gaze on him.
    ‘Really,’ he shrugged. ‘No dreams at all.’
    She nodded and gave a slight smile.
    Light from the window behind illuminated her hair. She was wearing it down this week. He preferred it down. She had to be in her late thirties, early forties – close enough to his own age – an age when too many women embraced the lie that shorter hair would make them look younger.
    ‘As your sleep pattern improves, you’ll