How Good Do We Have to Be? by Harold S. Kushner

Author:Harold S. Kushner [Kushner, Harold S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Good and Evil, Philosophy, Religion, Psychology, Psychopathology, Self-Esteem, Bible, Religious Aspects, Good & Evil
Publisher: Little Brown & Co
Published: 1996-09-08T06:59:57+00:00

Cold

AT NINE o’clock the next morning, when CID and Forensics arrived, Frank was still asleep. He had tidied the front room, ignored the Scotch bottle and worked late the night before, hunched over a final printout of Lupa. He sat quietly with his back to the open door, a shy hope perched patiently on his shoulder. He had left the door open so he might hear her come in and she would see him labouring there all alone. By two in the morning his throat was sore and he was shivering. By three, he cursed women in general for their lack of concern, drank a large glass of brandy, swallowed the remains of an old bottle of Night Nurse and fell asleep on the couch.

He was woken by long, insistent rings and aggressive hammering on the door. When he finally blinked out into the Saturday morning light, he found two very tall police officers on his doorstep. One of them was holding a piece of paper and speaking the lines about a search warrant. The other one barged into the house and straight through to the kitchen. Out in the street, two more officers were climbing out of a white van.

He was told that a full and exhaustive search of the property was to be carried out as part of their ongoing investigation into the disappearance of his wife. It was suggested that he might find it more convenient to vacate the premises for the duration of the search. He was also informed that they would be removing his vehicle and computer for forensic examination. Blue and white tape was wound between the gateposts and a tow-truck pulled up outside. A small crowd gathered in the street. Nesrine watched from her upstairs window.

Frank had pulled on his coat to cover himself before opening the door. The weight of the parcel still in the coat pocket rested lightly against his thigh. It would be best to let it stay there, he thought. He indicated his naked legs beneath the coat and said he wasn’t dressed yet, and the officer said, ‘That’s easily remedied,’ and escorted him upstairs.

From the children’s room, where he was dressing, Frank could hear something heavy being dragged through the hall. Out in the back garden, two men were climbing into white body suits. He heard a dog bark and van doors slamming. It’s a bloody liberty treating a man this way, he thought. Anyone would think he was a suspect. The whole thing was an outrage.

The phone rang.

‘Can you hear me? Frank? Frank, can you hear me?’

It was his father, Lance. Something was going on and he didn’t understand. The police had just rung him, for goodness’ sake. They had asked all kinds of questions, unpleasant questions, questions he wasn’t too sure how to answer. At first he wondered whether it wasn’t the police at all but the press; perhaps one of Frank’s plays was going to be on the television. But no, it was the police

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