The knock was singular, but loud and resonant. The knock employed by people familiar with visiting the unsuspecting. Craig put down the London Literary Review and padded barefoot to the door of his SA1 apartment.
“Who is it?”
“Mister Hutchens? Police. Can I have a word?”
Craig slid the door chain into place and opened the door. A large man in a short-sleeve shirt showing thick muscular arms and a tooth to tattoo ratio of one-to-one stood in the hallway.
“What is it?”
The man held up a photograph of Clarissa Jenkins.
“Do you know this woman?”
“Yes,” he said, “she’s a friend, Clarissa Jenkins.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the man said. “May I come in?”
Craig undid the chain and opened the door.
The man followed Craig to the living room and put the picture on the coffee table next to the Review.
“What’s happened?”
Ignoring Craig’s question, the man asked, “How well do you know her, Mr Hutchens? I’d advise you to be completely truthful at this stage, as it may affect the course of my investigation.”
“Not very well,” Craig answered. “We met at a club – the Highball – on Saturday. I went back to her place and stayed the night. I don’t really know anything about her.”
“You had sex with her?”
“Yes.”
“Was it good, Mr Hutchens?” The man leaned forward.
“Look, what’s this about? And why is that any of your business?”
The man drew a stubby black object from his trouser pocket. Craig stared at the leather blackjack.
“You’re not the police, are you?” Craig glanced at the door and gauged the possibility of making a dash for it.
“Was it good, Mr Hutchens?” The man’s voice was a low growl.
“I don’t know what this is all about, but I think you ought to leave now before I call the real police.” He picked up his phone and dialled. The man’s arm snaked out and snatched the phone from him.
“You don’t want to do that, Mr Hutchens,” he said, “And don’t think about running. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Craig sat back heavily in his armchair; defeat written on his face. “What do you want?”
“Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘Groping for trouts in a peculiar river’, Mr Hutchens?”
“No, I can’t say I am.”
“That’s disappointing. I thought you might be a man of letters,” he said glancing at the Review. “It’s a quote from Shakespeare’s ‘Measure for Measure’. It means taking part in marital infidelity. That’s what you’ve been doing, Mr Hutchens.”
“Clarissa is MARRIED?” Craig’s surprise was clear on his face.
“You didn’t know?” The man also looked surprised.
“No, I…”
“Then our business is done, Mr Hutchens. I won’t bother you again.” He sighed, rose to his feet, and walked to the door, turning to look at Craig, who was still cowering in the chair. “But if you do it again, I will return. And we won’t be discussing the bard.”
