Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(46)

Lamp base in hand, he moves towards the door. Easing the handle down as quietly as he can, he opens the door and steps out into the dark hallway. He looks towards Lizzie’s bedroom. There’s a dull glow from the nightlight just outside it, but her door is closed and there’s no light showing from beneath it. She must still be sleeping. That’s good. He can’t let anyone hurt her. Has to find the intruder.

He grips the lamp base tighter. It’s feeling heavier. He chased down his fair share of criminals back in the day, but it’s been years since he’s done anything that strenuous and he’s not as fit as he used to be. Turning, he glances the other way along the hall, and that’s when he sees it.

The loft hatch is open and the ladder pulled down.

There’s a light on up inside the loft.

Raising the lamp base as if it’s a baseball bat ready to strike, Philip pads as softly as he can along the hallway towards the hatch. He can hear the person moving around up there. There’s the sound of boxes being dragged across the boards. What the hell are they doing? What kind of burglar goes in a loft?

His heart’s pumping. The squeezing across his chest is getting worse.

Holding tight to the lamp, he grips the loft ladder with his other hand and starts to slowly climb. His palms are sweaty, and fear makes his movements jerky, awkward. But it’s not just fear he’s feeling, not any more. It’s anger too. How dare someone break into his house? Invade his space and his privacy? He’s going to show them what’s what.

The anger helps him heave himself up the last few rungs of the ladder. He launches into the loft space, lamp raised like a bat, ready to fight, charging in the direction of where he last heard movement. He lets out a war cry.

Lizzie screams and drops the box she’s holding.

Philip stops. Lowers the lamp base.

His heart’s pounding – he can feel it in his chest and his temples. The tightness is stifling. He feels light-headed. Sick. Can’t speak. He doubles over, waiting for his body to calm. Praying for it to recover.

He hears footsteps coming towards him. Feels Lizzie’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

Philip doesn’t answer. He needs to get his breath. He focuses on his inhale and exhale for a few breaths and then straightens up a bit and looks at Lizzie. She’s in a short cotton nightie, blue, teamed with a pair of old faded Converse. Her hair is down, her face make-up free. She looks about ten years younger than her true age, maybe more. Right now he feels as if he’s a hundred.

Lizzie looks down at the lamp base. ‘What’s going on? Were you going to whack me?’

‘You didn’t turn on the hall light.’ There’s an ache deep inside his chest. He presses his hand against it, tries to rub the discomfort away. Wheezes. ‘Your bedroom door was closed.’

Lizzie looks concerned. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘But I thought you were a burglar, creeping around up here, moving things about . . .’ His chest is easing a bit and his breathing is coming easier, steadier. Straightening up fully, he looks around. Last time he was up here the boxes and containers had all been neatly stacked against the far wall. Now they’re scattered and chaotic. ‘What are you doing up here? You never come in the loft.’

Lizzie’s eyes widen. She looks at the boxes as if only now seeing the mess she’s made. ‘I’m sorry, love. I needed to find something and I wasn’t sure where it was.’

‘But it’s the middle of the bloody night. You couldn’t wait until morning?’

‘I wasn’t sleeping. Thought I may as well have a look.’

It sounds plausible, but they’ve been married a lot of years and she’s always hated lofts. She’s always made a big song and dance about the height of the ladder and spiders and dust. He’s the loft guy, always has been. It makes no sense that she’s willingly come up here now. ‘Did you find it?’

Lizzie smiles, gesturing to the box at her feet. ‘Just this minute.’

Philip looks down at the box. The top is folded over so he can’t see the contents inside. ‘What is it?’

Pulling the flaps back, Lizzie lifts a square silver-coloured metal trunk out of the box. ‘It’s my old field kit.’

He recognises it now. Remembers it sitting in the utility room of their old house, always ready to be taken to the car and off to a crime scene when Lizzie got an out-of-hours call. He runs his hand across his bald pate. Frowns. ‘I didn’t know you kept it.’

‘I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t part with it and they never chased me.’

Philip looks at the kit. He’d always had the impression Lizzie was pleased to leave her job. Yes, he’s pretty sure she’d said she wanted to leave when he retired. He’d struggled with an enforced life of leisure and had envied the way his wife had taken to retirement, seemingly walking away from her career without regret or a backwards glance. But if she’d kept the kit, maybe he’d been wrong about that. Perhaps she had missed it, and that’s why she’d held on to the metal trunk, squirrelling it away up here in the loft without him knowing. He can understand that. He knows how it feels to want to keep a bit of your old life in your new one. Reaching out, he gives her arm an affectionate rub. ‘Retirement is tough. Old habits die hard.’

He feels her tense beneath his touch. A frown creases her forehead before she looks away. He’s not sure what that’s about, but he can guess, so he stays silent. Doesn’t want to ask. It’ll probably make things worse. Better not to talk about it. Lizzie made it clear earlier she was worried about him getting involved in the murder case. She’s probably still conflicted.