The woman on whom he landed scowled at him, disentangled herself from the wreck that was, until a few seconds before, a sunbed. She picked herself up and moved away.

Oliver lay looking up and catching his breath; wisps of smoke and a grey confetto of debris and dust filled the summer sky. He looked at the sunbed and then back towards his house. Now he could see the damage caused to his home. He lay panting. He heard a woman ask if he was OK. He couldn't reply. What he could hear the loudest was the buzzing in his ears.

​

Twenty minutes later, he was wishing the noise, people and cameras would go away. He sat just inside the ambulance, watching intently while a paramedic took his pulse. Looking up at her and then across at the crowd, he wondered what the attraction was for onlookers at a time like this. The paramedic was getting paid, but the others. Well, he presumed they'd just gathered to enjoy his misery.

​

'Never see them, one week to the next,' he whispered. 'I've only spoken with two or perhaps three neighbours in 20 years. Then… boom… they all turn up like unwanted bloody relatives, all trooping up the garden path together.' He looked at the paramedic. 'You know that nightmare… they decide to throw you a surprise party – at your place!'

 

His gaze went over the medic's shoulder, to the crowd beyond the blue and white tape. He could see her – the woman looking through the scene and straight at him.

'You were incredibly lucky. It'll never happen again. Luck like that.' She paused. 'You really should go for a check-up, you know; to make sure everything's OK.'

'No thank you,' he replied firmly. 'Everything seems to be in the right place. Luckily, I was next door when it happened.'

​

Oliver hesitated as he looked across, and then gently pulled himself to his feet. Everything seemed to ache, especially his head. 'Yes, you're right,' he agreed. 'I'll need that luck next time. Thanks for everything.'

​

He stepped gingerly from the ambulance and ambled into the space between himself, and the tape stretched across the road. She stood her ground, slightly apart from the crowd. He moved forward, looking straight at her. The gawkers watched. Some pointed at him.

 

Oliver resisted the urge to point back. She stood out among the chaos. Her hair, her expensive dress wrapped around her curves, her shoes, her legs, her looks.

 

Everything about her was 'stand out', thought Oliver.

He stopped, standing close enough for her to hear him whisper. 'You stand out like an elegantly dressed sore thumb.'

​

She smiled. 'Is that a compliment?' she asked.

Oliver nodded. 'I think so.'

​

She was about to speak when a police officer touched his arm. 'Mr Roscoe, are you OK to talk now?'

​

He looked at her and smiled weakly. 'Of course.' Then he turned to the elegant woman. She said: 'I'm glad you're OK. I'll call you later.'

​

Oliver followed the police officer. She created a path to her car and opened the back door for him. He slid into the seat before she gently closed the door again. She sat in the driver's seat.

​

'Can I just check your full name please, Mr Roscoe?'

'Oliver Roscoe.'

'Any middle name?'

​

'Yes, sorry.' He hesitated and then added: 'Montague.'

'I'll need your age and date of birth, please.'

'Er mmm,' he hesitated. 'I'm 48… And it's June 18, 1975.

The officer smiled. 'Can you tell me what you remember? No rush… in your own time.'

​

'How long do they hang about?' asked Oliver as he stared out of the window.

The sergeant turned to face him. Puzzled, she asked: 'Who?'

'The gawkers,' he said.

​

'Oh, them,' she replied. 'They'll work shifts. This lot joined by the next lot as they come home from work. They'll stand around together for a while, making imaginary reports, taking selfies, texting wild guesses about what happened.

 

Then they'll turn in for a meal and whatever, perhaps watch Corrie or East Enders, then reappear this evening to check they have missed nothing. And it's always a longer day for rubber necking in the summer.

 

People worry we'll try to sneak something or someone in or out before bedtime. Sometimes there's a trial online before we interview anyone, never mind charge them and even mention going to court.'

​

Oliver turned his head slowly to look at her. 'Bloody morons. How do you deal with morons all the time?'

'Practice,' she murmured. 'Every day… more practice. Not all of them are civvies, either. Some morons I must work with.'

​

'And some you have to interview,' added Oliver, his face breaking into a smile. 'Does it make perfect, all this practice?' he asked.

​

She pursed her lips and shrugged. 'Dunno, but I know I need to make a few notes about what happened here.'

​

'I'm not sure what happened,' he replied. 'It was a perfectly normal day. The sun was shining, the Blue Tits were nibbling my nuts, and my lovely neighbour was in her garden, hanging out her clothes. Then it all went a bit pear-shaped.'

​

'Lovely neighbour? Do you know her well then?'

'No, not at all,' admitted Oliver. 'But she smiles and waves most times she sees me.' He paused, glanced toward the sergeant, and then continued. 'She's been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise boring urban environment. Not been here long.' He frowned. 'She moved in a few weeks ago. Scottish, I believe – well, her accent is. Her name's Teresa, I think.

​

The sergeant looked at him in the rear-view mirror. He noticed, but ignored her. 'I heard the front doorbell ring.' He was staring back at her reflection in the mirror. 'I'm sorry my knowledge of the neighbour is so vague.'

The officer ignored his comments. 'What time would that be?'

​

'What time?' Oliver paused for a moment, as if deep in thought. 'Around 10. I'm almost certain of that because I checked my emails just minutes before. I remember noting the last one had only just reached me. That was 9.55. But by 10.15 I was on top of my neighbour.'

'Pardon?'

​

'It was not intentional. I just landed there when the blast hit me. She fell back on the sunbed; I landed on her.' He smiled. 'It was all quite gentle really, but I shall tell her she saved my life.'

​

The officer wrote in her notebook. 'There was no warning?'

'No, there wasn't a chance to warn her.' He remembered her slowly lifting herself up once she'd rolled him off her and onto the crumpled sun bed. She looked angry; she scowled at him and stood up. 'Is she OK? I hope I didn't hurt her.'

​

The police officer looked nonplussed. 'I meant about the blast. No smells or sounds that alerted you something was wrong. And why were you so close to your neighbour at the time?'

​

He glanced back through the window. He heard himself said: 'I popped round to look at her trimmer.'

 

What had happened, thought Oliver? Good question. Just what happened?

 

It was a normal morning; a normal waking up followed by his usual and boringly normal breakfast. He'd cleared up and tidied the kitchen, sorted a washing load, and then sat down at his desk in his study.

 

Well, he called it a study, but it was still a bedroom, really. There was even a double bed, wardrobe, and chest of drawers. Somehow, Oliver made a space just big enough to squeeze in a small desk, and it was there he sat looking out over the garden and across to next door.

​

He had answered emails and checked the online newsfeed he relied on to keep up with world events. Despite 25 years working in newspapers, Oliver no longer read one.

 

After a while, the front doorbell rang, and he hurried downstairs. That was when he first set eyes on the elegant woman, and she handed over a card and left.

 

He then made a coffee, took it upstairs, saw his neighbour in the garden and thought 'trimmer' to himself. He quickly finished his coffee and hurried downstairs again, and quickly gone next door, realising now he owed his life to a trimmer. Or was it the sunbed or perhaps his neighbour's body?

​

'I bumped into her at the supermarket yesterday and she asked me to pop round and look at her trimmer sometime. She said the trimmer had stopped working, and I guessed it was nothing more than the little plastic strimming thingy wearing away or coming off. It's a quickie job, so when I saw her out the window I went round. I think I caught her a bit off guard – she looked surprised to see me.

 

She said it wasn't a suitable time for me to call - she was just going out.' He was staring thoughtfully out of the car window. 'Anyway, surprised or not, that was when… boom!

 

Everything took off, including me because…' He didn't finish the sentence as the officer interrupted.

'Who was at the door before all that?'

'Oh, er, yes, at the door. A woman.'

'Did you know her?'

​

'No.' His thoughts trailed off as noticed a slight buzzing in his ears. He briefly rubbed his ears and then added, 'I was a little surprised that she also came to gawk.' Oliver didn't want the police officer to know how alarmed the woman at the door made him.

 

She introduced herself and simply asked Oliver to call her later, handing him a card, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, and said: 'There's something I need to discuss with you. But we must meet somewhere other than here; not at the house.'

 

She nodded towards somewhere over Oliver's shoulder. Her manner was firm and self-assured. Oliver hadn't a clue what she was talking about but kept that to himself.

​

He noticed the sergeant shuffling in the driver's seat. After a moment, apparently more comfortable, she turned to Oliver. 'You didn't know her. She knocks at your door.

 

There's an enormous explosion and then she appears at the scene a little later. Doesn't that seem a little odd?'

​

Does it to you?' he asked. 'I mean, it's your job to sort out the strange and the odd. I can only do surprised and somewhat bemused on occasions like this. If you think it's strange though, I'm happy to go with it. I was simply happy she'd knocked on my door.'

​

'Are you married?' The change of subject threw Oliver for a second or two. It didn't go unnoticed, and the police officer made more notes.

​

​'Unfortunately, yes.' He didn't give her chance for another surprise question and quickly added: 'But thankfully she left me for a Danish pig farmer. Even better, she went to live with him in Danish bacon land.

 

It's a fair distance away, but there are nights I don't feel safe. And I don't eat pork anymore.' He sighed. 'Nor Danish pastries.'

'And children? Do you have children?'

'Yes, yes, and yes.'

'Pardon?'

​

Oliver smiled. 'Three. The youngest, a girl, just starting at university next term. Her slightly older brother is supposedly working on a yacht somewhere in the Med and the oldest child, a man-boy of 22, is pretending to be an adult but having never worked for more than a few hours at a time, is living with his mother and her man in deepest Pig land.'

'You sound bitter.'

​

The buzzing in his head was irritating Oliver. He rubbed his ears again. 'So would you if you'd paid all the bills for over two decades and then, with no warning, off she goes.

 

If she was going, she could have done it years ago. It would have been more considerate and saved me stress, money, and time.' He sighed.

 

'At least my daughter comes home occasionally, hugs me, and tells me everything's OK with her life. To be fair, the boys do… but that's once a year or when they're really broke, whichever comes first in their perpetual nativity calendar.'

​

She smiled at him. 'You look forward to seeing your daughter.'

'Yes. Very much, especially because she also thinks her mother's selfish, and – as a bonus - she doesn't like the not-so Great Dane.' Oliver paused and rubbed his ears. 'Sorry, I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling.' He shrugged. 'Sorry.'

​

'It's OK. Perhaps a bit of shock.' There was more note taking by the sergeant. 'Did the woman at the door tell you who she was, or what she wanted?'

​

Oliver looked at her. 'No, she just handed me her card.'

'Do you have the card on you?' she asked.

​

Oliver heard himself lying. 'No, I think I left it on my desk.' A voice in his head asked him: Why are you lying Oliver? The card is in your pocket, and it might give you away any moment. The voice in his head sounded distinctly like his father.

​

'Anyway,' he continued. 'I'm not sure that she has to do with faulty something or other causing an explosion. Isn't this just a sequence of random events that aren't linked: a knock on the door, an attractive neighbour, a bust, strimmer, and all before an explosion probably caused by the fact my old boiler needed replacing…'

 

Oliver stopped mid-sentence. A man was tapping on the passenger side window. He opened the door and got into the back, sliding in alongside Oliver.

​

'Hi Millie,' he said towards the sergeant, who turned to face the front. Oliver glanced at her. She simply murmured 'Sir'.

 

Oliver looked at the new arrival. He was around 45, tanned, hair heavy with gel, and he was wearing a tight-fitting grey suit. Judging by the muscle tone, he'd worked out in the gym since the day he was born.

​

The senior officer extended his hand. 'Mr Roscoe, I'm Duncan Dixon, the DI in charge of this investigation.' And then he added, 'For now, at least. It might even attract the interest of someone more senior. You never know with these cases.'

​

Oliver accepted the handshake. He detected a Scottish accent. 'What cases?' he asked.

​

'Investigations like this one, Mr Roscoe. Could be a gas leak, but then again, it could be an investigation into whether something else caused a large part of your house to be ripped apart?

 

We must check; you are now officially a lucky man, I reckon, given the extent of the damage.' The detective cast his eye over the scene beyond the car.

​

Oliver, taken aback at the news, sank into the seat. Wasn't it strange that CID was on the scene of a gas explosion so quickly?

 

He stared out of the window at his wrecked house. It was upright and intact, although tatty around the edges. The tatty look was on one side.

 

That can be her half, he thought to himself. He turned toward the detective and murmured: 'It's the fashion just now, isn't it?'

​

DI Dixon was wearing a bemused expression. 'Eh?'

'Shabby chic. I think I could sell the house as a shabby chic look,' suggested Oliver, nodding towards the building.

 

'Perhaps I'll get a bit more for it.' He turned back to the window and, for the first time, noticed damage to the houses on either side. He had a moment of panic. Were his insurance payments up to date?

​

In the background, he heard DI Dixon. 'Sales features aside, it seems dramatic I know, but I must ask. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you? Perhaps even kill you?

​

Oliver turned towards the detective, repositioning himself slightly in the seat. 'Kill me? You've got to be kidding. No, I can't think of anyone. He rubbed his cheeks with both hands. 'Inspector,' he said, 'I'm just a freelance journalist with an interest in Chippendale.' He paused. 'I mean the furniture guy, not the strippers.'

​

Dixon shrugged. 'OK, well, anyone who might want to make you homeless?'

​

Oliver stared back. 'Homeless? Are you kidding me again?' Then he began nodding his head. 'Wait, you're right.' He grinned. 'There is someone who would want me to be blown up, dead and homeless.'

'Who?' asked the detective.

​

'My wife.' He nodded his head again. 'Yep, she's the one you want. Internationally renowned criminal.'

'Pardon?' The detective looked puzzled.

​

There was a brief pause. 'She now lives in Denmark with a pig farmer. She escaped in a stolen camper van via the Harwich ferry.'

'Stolen?'

​

'Well, yes.' Oliver pursed his lips. 'I registered it in my name.'

The detective shook his head. 'I doubt it's her. I really do, Mr Roscoe.' He smiled. 'And I really need you to take this seriously.'

​

Oliver shrugged. 'If you say so.' Then he added: 'But I'm struggling because it's all so far-fetched.' He clasped his hands together and looked thoughtful. 'And why do you say that, anyway?

 

This is a gas explosion. In fact, why is a detective here at all? Unless you already know more than you're letting on and the bomb idea is already a strong possibility?'

​

'Routine, sir. No stone unturned, and all that jazz.' The police officer grinned. 'By the way, there are lots of men feel like that.'

'Feel like what?'

​

'That their wife wants them dead. It's men's banter. Goes on all the time, doesn't it?'

​

'Well, in my case, I bloody mean it,' replied Oliver,' and if it hadn't been for the neighbour's strimmer, I wouldn't be here now.'

​

'Strimmer?' Momentarily, the detective was off guard. 'Ah yes, I'm with it now. The neighbour. You gave her a bit of a bruising according to the medics. You must have been quite a force, landing on her like that. I understand the sun lounger's a right off.'

​

'I must have appeared a little over-eager, I admit,' said Oliver. He caught sight of the sergeant's smirking face in the rear-view mirror. It was obvious she was no fan of DI Dixon.

 

'But I'll buy her a new sun lounger. It's the least I can do.' He watched a small smile grow on the sergeant's face.

​

DI Dixon looked out of the car window. 'You're pulling quite a crowd. And the media's all here now. Your people I understand. Local newspaper hacks, photographers, and TV guys arriving over there.' He pointed at a large van pulling up behind the three deep crowd.

​

'The blast cracked windows across the street and given they're all so well set back from the road, that's some bang. Plenty for these guys to write about and film.

 

Wait till they get wind that someone might try to kill you. News At Ten and Sky News world-wide for you, Mr Roscoe.'

 

The detective beamed at Oliver. 'Thanks for your time. We'll be in touch and the sergeant will explain about access to your house, a statement and next moves.' With that, he opened the door and got out of the car.

​

Oliver said nothing and turned to look out of the window at the scene nearby. He wondered why a day that had started so well, with a wave and a smile from next door and an elegant woman ringing his bell, was now going so badly. And as he wondered about the woman at the front door, he suddenly remembered her business card in his trouser pocket.

​

The DI was now leaning down to the driver's door window, speaking to his colleague about the growing crowd. Oliver wasn't listening. He pulled out the card, holding it carefully in the palm of his hand in the hope DI Dixon couldn't see. 'Danielle Skinner. Private Investigations.'

​

He quickly lifted his gaze to the window, straining to see the people standing at the blue and white tape line. He couldn't see her. Quickly, he slid the card back into his pocket. Hell, he thought, how bad can one day get?

​

​​