Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

short term solution. Come the morning after a binge, your problems remained and were accompanied by a hangover which framed the issue and made it seem even worse.

This was different. If all went well, Ndidi's problem would be short term. The drink might help him get through the final hours before Isabella came home.

The house was quiet. It seemed as though there should have been a fourth knock by now. But four knocks was a lot. Most people would walk away after three, but the Superintendent had promised. Ndidi didn't believe he would go, which would leave the kind man in a quandary after three knocks and having received no answer.

Ndidi didn't touch the drink. Taking his hands from the counter, he left the kitchen and crossed the living room. Entering the hall, he wondered if he had what it took to do what the kidnappers were asking. Was he strong enough?

Then he heard his daughter. Her frightened, hurried words in the few seconds the kidnappers had given her to talk to her father, to prove she was safe.

Well, not safe. Alive.

Yes. Ndidi could do what the kidnappers asked. He could and would do anything to ensure his daughter's safe return.

A clenched fist was coming down for the fourth set of knocks when Ndidi finally opened the door.

There were three of them, cramped together on his doorstep. Ndidi's eyes shifted over their shoulders to the double driveway on which sat two cars. Identical exteriors. Dark, unmarked, police issue vehicles. The one on the left, closest to the door, belonged to Ndidi. He'd parked it there half an hour previously. He always parked on that side of the drive, like he always slept on the same side of the bed. Even now, when he had the freedom to switch it up.

Seeing someone parked in that second space still made his stomach churn—every time.

"Idrissa..." The Superintendant himself had come. He stood alongside Detective Inspector Stanton. They must have come together in the unmarked car. At the foot of the drive, blocking it, were two badged police vehicles. Ndidi guessed at least a couple of uniformed officers waited down there, in those cars, but at least one stood a little behind Stanton and Norris. Yesterday, Ndidi would have been unable to name the uniform. Now he knew Police Constable Evans.

Superintendent Norris didn't know what to say. After Ndidi's name, he had trailed off. Ndidi was unable to focus on his superior. His eyes were fixed on the blocked drive. He knew the badged cars were parked there because it was the only place that made sense. But he couldn't help but think they'd done it to block him.

Did they know what he'd done?

Then there was Stanton's car. Sat in his wife's space. Why not? Everyone at the station knew she'd run out on Ndidi and their daughter because that was the story Ndidi had told. They knew it was safe to park in the second space on Ndidi's driveway because they understood Ndidi's wife had not literally run out. Rather, she had driven away as fast as she could.

In truth, Leilani had neither run nor driven away from her husband and daughter because she loved them both dearly. Nothing could compel her to leave their side for so much as a week, let alone months or years. Not that it mattered in this case. She would never again need the space, so it was free.

Her killer had dealt with her car.

There was an awkward silence, which Ndidi failed for a while to notice. He looked from Stanton to the Superintendent.

"Why don't you come inside?"

In the living room, Ndidi offered around seats. Norris and Stanton shared the sofa, while Evans insisted he would stand, leaving the armchair for Ndidi.

"Can I get anyone drinks?"

"No, no," said Norris, answering for everyone. "But I'm sure if you want something..." he turned to look at the uniform.

"Evans, sir."

"Of course. If you want something, I'm sure Constable Evans would be happy to sort it while you take a seat."

"I'd be more than happy, sir," said Evans, this time looking at Ndidi. Although neither Norris nor Stanton was looking at the uniform, the young man resisted the urge to wink or smile at Ndidi or do anything to indicate he was something other than an ordinary police officer, just doing his job. Earlier, with the Abbie woman, Ndidi had lost his temper fast. This time, he managed to keep cool.

"That's okay," he said. "Thank you for the offer. Are you sure you wouldn't like me to grab another seat? There's plenty in the dining room. Not the most comfortable, but..."

"I'm quite sure. Thank you."

"Well, if you change your mind."

"Thank you. I'll let you know."

Ndidi took the armchair and twisted his knees to face away from Evans, towards Norris and Stanton. The latter's face was held in the perfect pose. It gave nothing away. That was something they taught you about delivering news to the loved one of a victim: don't let your face deliver your message.

Ask a thousand non-police officers a question: Which aspect of a police officer's job will he or she find the most challenging or upsetting? You will receive a wide variety of answers, but the one which appears most frequently will no doubt be: Finding and dealing with gruesome crime scenes and dead bodies.

Ask a thousand police officers the same question, and the vast majority will give the same answer as each other.

Dealing with crime scenes can be haunting, harrowing, devastating. Ndidi had seen bodies that gave him nightmares, especially in his early days. The most gruesome scene he'd ever visited had induced him to vomit by the side of the road, and he wasn't the only one.

But crime scenes weren't the worst aspect of a police officer's job.

The answer was: delivering devastating news to the parents, lovers, children of victims. To people who, more often than not, had no idea their world was about to be turned upside down when they received that fateful knock on the door.

Ndidi had delivered such