A week later she had had a drink with Jonathan after work and phoned Richard to say she would be a bit late. He had said he would have supper ready.
Antonia put the car in the garage at the side of the bungalow, locked it, and went along the path to the front door. She’d only had one glass of wine because of driving, but she was pleasurably relaxed. She had enjoyed parrying Jonathan’s outrageous flirting, which he did not mean her to take seriously but which had still been fun. It was unusual not to see any lights on in the bungalow, but Richard was most likely in the kitchen at the rear, perhaps stirring a pan of risotto–he did a terrific seafood risotto.
She was hoping he had finally managed to master the difficult fingering of the Paganini Caprice–he had been working at one of the adaptations for piano over the last week and it had absorbed him almost to the exclusion of everything else. Antonia, whose tastes ran conventionally to Mozart and Beethoven, and who often played pop music from the seventies, especially during a housecleaning blitz, knew the piece in a general way, mostly because it, or a version of it, introduced the South Bank Show. Still, since he had offered to cook tonight it probably meant the Caprice was finally sorted out and that he was rejoining the sentient world.
As she stepped into the porch, she heard and felt the crunch of splintered glass under her feet. Damn. Broken milk bottle, most likely. But a faint prickle of apprehension brushed against her. It looked as if the entire bungalow was in darkness, and unless Richard was absorbed in playing, when he was apt to forget everything, he hated the dark. He always said it became filled up with too many despairing memories. Antonia, who liked such things as firelight and moonlight, had always given way to Richard’s need for light, because she understood only too well about his bouts of despair and his memories.
There was something wrong with the front door, something different. The glass panel, was it? Oh God, the glass panel had been smashed–that was why there was glass all over the ground–which could only mean someone had broken in. Her mind went instantly to the silent watcher, and there was a moment when she thought–Don? And then the thought was crowded out in the desperate concern for Richard.
She could never afterwards recall if she had shouted Richard’s name as she stepped into the hall. She went straight to the music room–Richard’s beloved sanctum sanctorum where he worked and planned and dreamed–and she knew she had not cared whether the burglars might still be in there.
There was a sliver of light in the room, because the street lamp outside shone in through the big uncurtained windows. It illuminated the overturned furniture, smashed ornaments and rucked-up Chinese rug near the fire. There was a puddle of red wine on the edge of the rug: Richard sometimes had a glass of wine around half past seven. He must have done so tonight.