Still half asleep I stretch like a cat, clinging to the remnants of my dream. You were so close; the man I fell in love with but that's become so remote.
My hand slips onto your pillow. I feel only emptiness and give a start. Fear reaches for my throat. No use telling myself I should be used to your absence by now. I turn on the light and with it the last sweetness of the dream evaporates.
DCI Thomson wandered through the flat. "Crime scene", he corrected himself. Keeping the distance was vital. A flat was a place where people lived, cooked meals and ate crisps in front of the TV; not the correct term for a place where two bodies had been found. Crime scene sounded neutral, sterile, was something you could distance yourself from. And that, as he'd learnt in his long career, was crucial.
Something here bothered him. No good! It was his job to investigate two deaths – there was no room for distraction. Yet the flat looked so familiar, could have been his own. The victim's were approximately his and Rose's age. Even the nightie and morning gown the female victim was wearing reminded him of something.
Reflectors emanated cold, white light. The CID worked silently. There was fingerprint powder everywhere, the switches were still taboo.
(To be continued)