Columbo

Sarah’s bedroom is as David remembers. They kissed and petted here as teenagers. The tree still taps on the glass in the wind.

David mutters, “I’m sorry.”

“We haven’t touched it, not since,” Mrs. Groom says. Her face is grey and flat, smoothed by loss. “My daughter was very fond of you, I always thought you two’d get married.”

Around him is detail; posters, CDs, a black skirt hangs on a wardrobe door like a flag.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea pet.”

Alone, David examines towers of books standing at intervals like roman foundations or standing stones. Paperbacks, spines creased and curling like bamboo or shiny as children’s building bricks, reveal nothing.

Under her bed, a solitary sanitary towel, a used condom. Papers on a shelf are a gym application, not a suicide note.

Receipts and bills on the desk reveal income and outgoings.

Six months ago, under the canopy of an all-night garage Sarah is crying as he leaves for a final time.

Without art or care, he rifles through drawers, unsure of his aim, a thief now not a detective.

Knickers, bras, make-up.

Sitting on his dead ex-girlfriend’s bedroom floor, David doesn’t resolve a fucking thing.