Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

cathedral basilica, the orange of its dome. The vibrant reds of the pasta sauces, even the murky greens of the Arno. She opened her eyes again. None of that compared to Tim, looking at her with concern as he took a sip from the mug.

The mug she’d used for her brushes.

‘Stop!’ cried Amy. ‘Don’t drink that!’

He spat the water back into the mug. ‘And I thought Simon was disgusting,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Has my tongue changed colour?’ He stuck it out for Amy to inspect.

Amy started to laugh. A giggle that grew out of control, until she was laughing hysterically. Suddenly Tim was laughing too, and she found his arms encircling her and his face buried into her neck. ‘What have I let myself in for, living with you?’ he muttered, as he kissed her.

She felt the cold china of the mug press against her cheek and Tim’s hot breath by her lips. ‘I needed somewhere to rinse my brushes,’ she managed to say, between laughs and kisses.

‘Once I’ve got a recording contract, you won’t have to pay a penny,’ said Tim. He leaned back, and his face was serious again. ‘I’ll even buy you some proper brush-washing pots, whatever they are called. And if they give me an advance, you might even be on your way to Florence before the summer is up.’

Amy watched as Tim reached over, grabbed his tin and started to roll a joint. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘I’m a kept man,’ joked Tim. ‘I’m having a smoke and then I’m calling in sick and later I’m going to write you a love song like you’ve never heard.’ He grinned at her and lit up, using the empty mug as an ashtray. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Amy Ashton,’ he said, merrily. ‘Just you wait.’

The police station hadn’t changed much in eleven years, on the outside at least. It had been brand new at the time, the pride of the borough. Amy remembered the smell of freshly dried paint and newly laid carpets. Back then, some of the windows still had a layer of plastic to be peeled off, as if the police were putting it off until the last minute to keep the glass from scratches, as Amy liked to do with the screen of a new phone. The trees outside, once scrawny little sticks with barely a leaf, had flourished into fine specimens, reminding Amy that time had passed.

A lot of time.

Amy took a breath and entered the revolving door, getting out as quickly as she could on the other side. She remembered disliking the doors then too. They sucked you in and spat you out like the currents of the ocean.

She’d phoned ahead and discovered that Chantel’s ex-boyfriend Jack still worked there. Amy still couldn’t believe that Chantel had ever been in a relationship with a policeman; such a contrast to Spike. And now Jack was no ordinary policeman. He was Detective Chief Inspector Hooper.

Jack hadn’t been on the case back then; it would have been a conflict of interest. It was his girlfriend, after all, who had disappeared. But he had always seemed to know what was going on. And at least Amy could rely on him to remember what had happened. The special constable on reception guided her through a corridor with heavy fire doors every few metres, which he diligently held open for her. He led her through a busy open-plan office to a large glass door. He knocked, a friendly ‘Enter’ was given in reply, and Amy found herself through the door.

Jack stood up to greet her, reaching out a tanned hand. He’d aged well. He’d been strong and muscly eleven years ago, but had always struck Amy as hungry. The last decade had filled him out with a softer twenty pounds that he wore like an expensive jacket. He smiled at her and Amy found herself feeling uncomfortable in his presence. ‘Amy Ashton,’ he said, greeting her like an old friend. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

Amy nodded. ‘Congratulations on . . . ’ She gestured around at the surroundings.

‘Thank you,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve been lucky. Take a seat. Tea? Coffee?’

Amy felt a hot drink too much of an imposition for the suddenly important-seeming DCI Jack Hooper. But she could feel the inside of her mouth drying out, as if filled with cotton wool. ‘Water?’ she requested.

Jack pressed a button on his phone and ordered Amy a still water and a cappuccino for himself. ‘I don’t think we’d even had the coffee machines installed last time you were here,’ he said, conversationally.

‘No,’ said Amy. Sweet tepid tea sprung to her memory so vividly she could taste it. ‘You didn’t.’

‘Things have changed,’ he said, with a smile. ‘And how are you?’

Amy was saved from answering the question by the arrival of the drinks. His coffee was served in a surprisingly elegant bone-china mug that looked rather vulnerable in his large hands. Amy found herself worrying for it, even as she sipped from her own, rather ordinary, glass. She took the opportunity to change the subject.

‘I found something,’ she told him. ‘In my garden. It may seem like nothing,’ she continued. ‘But I thought it might have a bearing on what happened to Tim. And Chantel.’

‘Eleven years ago?’ Jack looked surprised.

‘I’m still in the same house,’ explained Amy. ‘Where we all lived together.’

‘Go on,’ he said.

Amy pulled the ring from her handbag. She was getting tired of constantly taking it on and off a chain or in and out of her pocket, but had felt as though it didn’t look much like evidence when she wore it on her finger. At Charles’s suggestion, she’d placed it inside a sandwich bag. He’d assured her that was how the police liked to look at clues. ‘Fingerprints and DNA,’ he’d said, unperturbed when she told him she’d not only handled it constantly but also polished it. She handed the bag to Jack.

‘It’s a ring,’