Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

A strange bed. A naked man. And a few hours to kill before the explosives arrived. The day was looking up.

Jaq stretched, savouring the smooth cotton sheets against her skin. Snowflakes danced through a web of ice on the sloping attic window. In the dawn glow she could just make out the layout of the unfamiliar room. Two doors: one of solid oak with tongue-and-groove panelling, brass hinges and a sturdy lock; the other a flat, sliding panel leading to a modern shower room carved from a corner of the attic. A pine bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, a leather sofa and a couple of metal stools tucked under a bench that divided the bedroom and kitchenette. From outside came the faint swishing and rumbling of a distant snowplough. Inside, the gurgle of a fridge, creaks and sighs of an old house waking up and the steady, slow breathing of the man beside her.

Jaq breathed in: musk and liquorice. And a faint whiff of nitroglycerine. Her scent on his body.

She slid backwards across tangled sheets and ran her eyes over the golden curls decorating the pillow, down the ridge of his spine to the curve of his buttocks, sturdy thighs and powerful calves. Definitely a skier. One foot hung over the edge of the bed while the other was tucked under a leg forested in fine bronze hairs. A tall, blonde skier. Athletic. And much too young for her.

She grinned as she reached for the quilt◦– curved appliqué ridges between her fingers, uneven stitching, not machine-made◦– and gently covered him. He stirred but did not wake.

The room smelt of pine resin with a hint of lemon. Clean and tidy. Well, at least it had been before last night. Her eyes followed the trail of clothes across the oak floorboards. Her coat and hat hung on a wooden peg near the entrance door, but her long boots had toppled over and lay at angles to the pashmina snaking across the floor, coiled around a scarlet bra and matching thong. There was no sign of her dress, but on the chest of drawers in the corner she could see his clothes, neatly folded on top. When had he folded his clothes? While she was asleep? Certainly not as she was undressing him.

The guy from the karaoke bar. Nossa . What had he done to her brains last night? She’d known he was trouble the moment she heard him sing.

Karaoke. What had she been thinking of? She loathed office parties, but her boss at Snow Science had insisted on it. Team building, Laurent said, a bit of fun. Laurent was a pillock.

She slid down the bed, covering her head at the memory of Laurent’s excruciating impersonation of Charles Aznavour. Carapau de corrida . He’d insisted on the drinking games afterwards. Sheila and Rita had the sense to refuse but Jaq could never resist a challenge.

And then the man with the golden curls took to the floor.

The moment he opened his mouth, Jaq was hooked. His voice emerged an octave deeper than she expected. He sang with authority and passion, the pitch and cadence perfectly controlled. His voice rumbled right down the small stage, across the wooden floor, up through the soles of her feet, tugging at the tight knots that held her together, unravelling all the cords of restraint with the song. An old Russian lullaby. One she knew so well.

Had she stared too hard? Clapped too loudly? Was that why the singer with the deep voice and lopsided smile singled her out afterwards? She wouldn’t have danced at all if Laurent hadn’t made such an arse of himself. Sitting too close. Breathing too hard. Whispering in her ear. Escaping to the dance floor was intended to put some distance between them; Jaq always danced alone. Laurent followed her, his manbag on one shoulder, lurching and gyrating, arms outstretched in invitation to an inappropriate waltz.

The stranger interposed himself, moving between Jaq and Laurent, a subtle, sinuous barrier, increasing the separation until the drunken Frenchman found another target for his amorous attentions. Jaq danced on for a few tracks, just for the joy of the music, and then made her escape.

And there he was, outside the bar ahead of her. Waiting. Something in his eyes gave her pause, drew her in. She could have walked straight past. What was it that held her? Made her stop? The gentleness of his touch as he helped her with her coat? The deep voice bidding her lahko noč , goodnight? Had she imagined an inflection, an upturn, a question? There was no mistaking the smouldering fire she glimpsed before he hooded his eyes and turned away. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her with such honest desire. A very long time. And, oh, meu Deus , how she had missed it.

‘Wait!’ Her lips found his, and there was no mistaking the interest with which he returned her kiss. Gentle, searching, increasingly confident. Hot lips and strong arms. She remembered him asking but had no memory of her reply, or how they ended up at his place.

Time to face the morning after the night before. Careful not to touch him, her detailed inspection must have registered. He brushed the curls from his face and wrinkled his nose. His eyelashes fluttered, and his breath became shorter, shallower.

She slipped out of bed and wrapped the pashmina around her. Where was her bag? Dropping to her hands and knees, she spotted it under the bed frame and took it to the bathroom. The scent of lemon behind the sliding door hit her like a wave. She sat on the toilet and grasped the edge of the sink. How much had she drunk last night? When the dizziness passed, she took stock. Clean towels neatly folded on a rail, a shower, sink and toilet spotlessly clean. Had he expected company? She opened the glass cabinet above the sink. Soap, cut-throat razor, shaving mirror, shampoo, cotton buds, toothpaste, one toothbrush, dental floss. A large box of condoms, somewhat depleted after last night, but no sign of a permanent female presence. Just one tidy man.

Jaq reached for her bag. Despite her love-hate relationship with handbags, her party clothes lacked sensible pockets, and this was the least-bad option. Black with silver buckles, the fabric was lighter and thinner than leather but textured, tough and waterproof. It could be carried by the arched handle like a briefcase or, releasing three ingenious hooks, clipped onto a bike as a pannier. When carrying a laptop or other heavy tools, two wide adjustable back-straps unfurled so that she could take advantage of the padded, contoured panel for extra comfort against the spine. The pleated sides, held in shape by concealed Velcro strips, made it capacious enough for most outings. It even had two parallel zips, designed to slot over the handle of a rolling suitcase, but also perfect for carrying a snowboard.

She rummaged inside the bag for her phone, encountering ticket stubs, café receipts, coins, a set of Allen keys, a socket wrench, Maglite torch, penknife, comb, sachets of hot chocolate. Ouch! She caught her finger between the pincers of a Vernier calliper. No blood, just a scratch, but she continued her search more cautiously: hydrogel plaster, crêpe bandage, latex gloves, paracetamol, ibuprofen, neodymium magnet hook, PTFE tape, thermos flask, duct tape, ball of hairy string, condoms, fuse wire, superglue, paper clip, Blu Tack, ball of rubber bands, sandpaper, a fold-up kite, Slovenian–English dictionary, an unposted letter, multiplug, catapult, USB stick, fluorescent highlighter pens, snow goggles, earplugs, spare socks, tissues, tampons, a silver propelling pencil, tube of mints, a packet of dried apricots, a tuning fork and a green marble.

Like the Tardis, the bag was bigger on the inside.