Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

‘Sounds like an interesting story. What did he go to prison for?’

‘I promise to tell you one day.’

‘Is Jim still on about having another baby and moving out of London?’

I nod, sighing again.

‘He hasn’t given up, then?’

‘Not at all.’

‘And you’re still against it?’

‘Not against it, as such. I don’t know how I’d fit it all in. I’m torn. Work is going so well at the moment. I’m hoping for promotion soon. But Joe and Isabella are growing so fast, I don’t want to leave the gap too big. Then some days I think, why put us all under the stress of having a third?’

‘You’d find a way to cope. You’re that kind of person.’

‘As for moving out of London. Not a chance. We’ve got too much going on here. There’s the money situation too. We’re just about doing OK as we are. We’d be stretched expanding the family at the moment.’

‘Doesn’t that worry Jim?’

‘He doesn’t know. I look after the finances.’

Jim used to take care of all our admin and finances before his car accident. He was so much better at it than me. But life changed, and I had to learn to master the intricacies of everyday life. I sigh and turn back to the window. There’s an estate agent’s board erected in the garden to the left with a SOLD sign pinned across the middle. ‘Where were we? Looks like new neighbours next to Pete and Penelope?’

‘Not sure. No one’s moved in yet. Hope they’re as nice as the previous people. Over there,’ she points to the house diagonally right, ‘Tom and Alisha Davies. Tom’s a graphic designer and Alisha a lawyer. She works up in the city for some high-class law firm. Goes out early every morning, comes back late. Tom uses their studio as his office. Big office, eh? Not sure what he does with all that space. I’ve never been in there. And the family next to them have gone abroad for a year for the mother’s job, so it’s vacant too at the moment.’ She rubs her temple. ‘Like this one will be if Marc doesn’t come back.’ Anxiety cracks her voice. ‘I hope he hasn’t been having an affair. It’d kill me.’

I place a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s go and get a cuppa.’

The kitchen is unusually untidy, the sink choked with unwashed cups and dishes and the worktop cluttered with stuff that didn’t make it to the sink. ‘Shall I make some tea?’ I ask.

‘I should be making you some.’

I reach for the kettle and wash some cups as her phone beeps. She snatches it and sighs. ‘A client trying to rearrange. They do that all the time. It’s so annoying.’ Her mouth turns upside down. ‘I thought it might be Marc.’ She sighs again. ‘I’ve got another problem.’

‘What?’

‘Marc was meant to do the music for Harry’s party. We cancelled the DJ to save money. Marc said he’d put together a playlist and plug it into his speakers which will work well outside. Who can do that now? I don’t want to ask the kids otherwise we’ll get all that rap crap. This is meant to be more of a family affair.’

‘Leave it with me.’

‘You’ve enough to do. How’re you going to find time to do that by Saturday?’

‘Jim will do it. He loves his music, doesn’t he? It’s one of the things that has kept him sane since the accident. He’ll know all the up-to-date tracks to include. What else needs doing?’

‘Do you know anyone who could make an eighteenth cake at short notice? I can’t face it.’

‘Leave that with me, too. What kind of cake were you thinking of?’

‘Doesn’t have to be anything spectacular as long as it’s chocolate.’

‘Done. Tick it off your list.’

‘If you’re sure,’ she says, then continues debating why Pen would have sent her husband that text.

‘Does Marc keep a diary?’ I ask, topping the cups with milk.

‘He does on his computer, but I haven’t looked at it. Do you still want to look at his phone? I spent hours searching through it last night, but there are no clues.’

‘I’ll give it a go. You never know what I might find. Do you know the password to his computer?’

She nods. ‘I think so. Being the security-conscious freak that he is, he rotates it each month. So it’s always one of our dates of birth.’

‘Can we take a look? We might be able to see his diary on there.’ It intrigues me how much people differ. If I were her, Marc’s diary is one of the first things I would have looked at, but maybe that’s the detective in me.

We walk along the hallway to Marc’s office opposite the front door. A compact room with two planks of mahogany fixed to two of the walls. They join together in the far corner to form a desk which houses the typical paraphernalia – a computer screen, a printer, a pair of speakers, pens and a jotter. Above sit three shelves storing books and files. Sasha turns on the light to a loud bang, frightening us both. ‘I keep telling him to look at that fixing. Bulbs keep blowing, and they cost a fortune to replace.’ She switches on a lamp positioned next to a pile of computing magazines on top of a grey filing cabinet. ‘So, the password should be 7June2001 for Harry’s birthday this month. If he didn’t get around to changing it, that is. If not, it will be 1May1980 for mine.’

Attached to the opposite wall is a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard with a small ledge for pens and a wiper. The room is so small, if Marc were sitting at the desk, he could swing round to write on the board without leaving his seat. So, this is where he and Jim talk about all their “stuff”.

It’s dark without the main light on. There’s a window, but bushes growing in the neighbour’s garden hamper the sunlight. Sasha picks up a shabby tie-dyed covered cushion from the chair and