So here I am on another goddamn sympathy call to the family of the deceased. The only difference is that this time, it's just me and Mendrick.
Is that good or bad?
Moving on. Jennifer Waters obviously came from an OK family - I mean, look at her house! Neat garden, smooth tarmac garden, new paintwork, clean Volvo on the drive.
Mendrick bangs on the door (he doesn't do things by halves, that guy. Although his tap on my door was uncharacteristically gentle. I won't follow that train of thought. It leads me where I don't want to go...).
Anyway, the door's opened by a woman in her late thirties, blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail, grey roots showing through her dye, manicured fingernails resting casually on the doorhandle, stylish clothes. She's too thin.
I don't like her.
Mendrick does all the official stuff - gives our names, shows our warrant, offers his sympathy and asks if we can go in. The woman nods sharply, and I take great pleasure in scuffing my muddy boots all over her cream carpet.
The lounge is wide and spacious, with a glass coffee table, two large leather sofas, and an enormous great goddamn flat-screen TV that's on. Honestly. I hate those people who don't even turn their goddamn TVs off. It's like people who leave the toilet seat up. They make me angry.
And angry is something I don't want to be right now.
She doesn't offer to make us tea. Not that I really like tea, but it's nice to have it offered. Can she tell by my glare that I don't like her? Probably.
'Mrs Waters,' Mendrick begins, but the woman sucks in a deep breath and glowers.
'Ms Jameson, if you don't mind,' she says crossly. 'I broke up with Kevin last month.'
Aha. Now, that's interesting. Split parents? Nice.
'I'm sorry, Ms Jameson.' Well done, Mendrick. I'm on the verge of replying to her in the same 'I'm-too-posh-for-you' voice, and I have a feeling that wouldn't go down all too well right now. But Mendrick- he just stays cool as a cucumber. I think-
Shut up. No one cares what you think. Least of all me. I don't want to think about Jennifer, or this guy Kevin, or some psycho axe-murderer, but least of all do I want to think about Mendrick.
And I don't want him to know that I'm thinking about him, (because I'm not thinking about him), I'm thinking about not thinking about him, (which is entirely different), because if I was thinking about him, (which I'm not), but if I was, then, (well), it'd be...
...It'd be different.
(I wonder if he's thinking about me?)