Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

She didn’t trust him to have her back when the shit came down, and that was a problem in a close team. Nevertheless, she’d nudged Stacey in the direction of making her feelings known. Life was too short not to go for the things that mattered. Of course, Stacey had said nothing since. They’d gone out for a meal a couple of times since the MIT disbanded, but Stacey had stolidly avoided talking about Sam. However, she had changed her hairstyle to something much more flattering and her clothes had definitely become more interesting than her standard uniform of beautifully tailored business suits. She was wearing more make-up too, emphasising the dark brown of her almond-shaped eyes and giving a palette of colour to unlined skin that looked surprisingly healthy considering how little daylight it ever absorbed. For the first time since Paula had known her, Stacey looked like a woman who thought she deserved to be loved.
    Now, as they climbed the stairs, Paula said again, ‘Did I interrupt something? Was that Sam’s voice I heard in the background?’
    Behind her, Stacey sighed. ‘He was at my place for dinner. OK? That’s all. Same way you’d come to my place for dinner.’
    Paula smiled triumphantly, knowing Stacey couldn’t see her face. ‘Stacey, I’ve known you, how many years? And how many times have I been to your place for dinner? That would be a big fat zero. We always eat out, remember?’
    ‘You could have come if you’d wanted to.’
    At the top of the stairs Paula turned and pulled a face at Stacey. ‘You are such a liar. Look, I’m actually glad you’re seeing him.’
    ‘Dinner. I didn’t even cook,’ Stacey said firmly. ‘I had it catered.’
    ‘It’s a start.’
    Stacey looked around the landing, her lips pursed, hands on her hips. ‘So where is this computer? And who is this woman?’
    Paula pointed to the cubbyhole door and gave Stacey the key points. She was done by the time Stacey was settled in front of the laptop. Stacey swung round in the chair and stared at Paula, frowning. ‘You’ve taken in a teenage boy? You?’
    ‘What? You mean, as in “the lesbians”?’
    ‘No,’ she said impatiently. ‘You know I’m not like that. I mean you, as in, never shown any interest in parenting.’
    Paula rubbed her tired eyes. Just what she needed. A discussion on her maternal instincts, or lack thereof. ‘I’m not parenting, for fuck’s sake. I’m taking in a stray. For the time being. Besides, Elinor’s the one doing the hands-on. Look at me. Here I am. Not on a sofa with Torin. OK?’
    Stacey turned back to the screen and pressed the power button. ‘Fine. So long as you remember the prime directive of mispers. If in doubt…’
    ‘Think murder. I know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, can you shove over enough to let me at that bottom drawer? Apparently that’s where all the paperwork is.’
    Stacey obliged but there was still barely room for Paula to crouch beside her. She opened the drawer and found it almost filled to the brim with folders, envelopes and loose papers. ‘You’d be better taking the whole thing out and sitting down on the landing with it,’ Stacey muttered, her head already in what she was doing. ‘It never ceases to amaze me – how can you not password your computer? Especially when you share your home with a teenage boy? Are you listening, Paula?’
    ‘No, I’m not.’ Paula finally wrestled the drawer free of its runners and backed out of the room. She took it through to Bev’s bedroom and sat on the edge of the rumpled duvet. Unlike Nadia Wilkowa, Bev wasn’t a neat freak, which made Paula feel a little better about her own untidiness. She’d seen enough of the mess left by lives cut unexpectedly short to have learned the lesson of what’s left behind but it still hadn’t been enough to make her change her ways.
    But at least Bev was careful with the paperwork. The top folder contained birth certificates for her and Torin, plus her marriage certificate and the divorce decree. The next envelope held National Insurance numbers, National Health Service numbers, a note of blood groups and Torin’s red record book from babyhood. A folder of bank statements and another of credit card bills. Bev was one of those people who paid off her balance dutifully every month.
    Then came the passports. Wherever Bev was, it wasn’t abroad. At least, not by conventional means. There was a will leaving everything to Torin and granting