At eight-thirty that evening Raemon Dort poured himself a large glass of Bowmore nineteen fifty-five whiskey from the half empty bottle. It sat alongside various bottles of other expensive whiskeys, liquors, and two impressive Waterford cut glass decanters. All displayed on a large antique silver footed tray on top of a nineteenth century drinks cabinet. Everything in the apartment was quality antique and laid out with taste and elegance. The telephone rang. Dort glanced at the number and let it go over to voicemail.
"Raemon, it's me." The female voice said, sounding fraught. "I'm sorry I made you angry the other night. Please let me talk to you, I really miss you. Call me when you can." She hung up.
Raemon sniggered and shook his head. "Fuck off," he muttered under his breath, then settled into his luxurious, comfortable leather sofa. Pressing a button on the remote control, a giant flat screen TV lit up with a sea of color and noise. He zapped through the channels - Big Brother - The Voice - Dancing with the Stars - Pawn Stars - Storage Wars - Dr. Oz, Oprah repeats. He finally settled on the BBC's "Antiques Roadshow', finished off his whiskey and ran a bath. The telephone rang a second time, and again he let it go to voicemail.
"Raemon , it's me." She now sounded more desperate. "Please call me. I just wanted to talk, that's all. I know you are busy all the time but just for a few minutes okay?" She paused for about ten seconds in the hope he would pick up. He did not. Dort could hear her sobbing quietly on the other end of the line. Finally, she hung up.
Dort sniggered again. "She'll never learn," he muttered. He topped up his glass once again and waited for the bath to fill while watching an eighteenth-century cabinet being valued at ?20,000. In the bedroom he stripped naked and headed for the bathroom, stopping once again to top up his glass.
The water felt good as he relaxed into the large tub and closed his eyes.
At ten o'clock the next morning a key was inserted into a shiny lock and Dort's front door opened. His middle-aged cleaning lady quickly removed her coat and looked around the apartment. There was not a lot to do - just the usual dusting and light cleaning. Dort was unusually neat and clean for a man living on his own.
Peering into the bedroom she saw Dort's clothing lying on the bed, which apparently had not been slept in. She changed the sheets and pillow cases once a week and made up the bed in classic hotel fashion. This was the first time he had not slept in his bed. She did not really like him, but he was always polite enough to let her know on time if he was out of the country or had other arrangements. This was the first time she had encountered something unexpected.
In the small kitchen, she removed a bucket from under the sink, took out the cleaning cloths, a squeegee and cleaning chemicals stuffed into it, then filled the bucket with hot water. Within ten minutes, the kitchen was clean, then she started on the living room.
The antique furniture she dusted down with an old-fashioned ostrich plume, something Dort had picked up on his travels, then wiped all the bottles and decanters clean with a damp cloth. After vacuuming the dark brown lacquered floor, she refilled the bucket with clean water and detergent and headed for the bathroom. The door was half open, but she suddenly stopped dead when she noticed Dort still lying in the high rimmed Victorian white enamel steel bath. She could just see the hair on the top of his head, and at the far end, his feet, although something did not look quite right.
"Mr. Dort?" She said quietly, then hesitated, waiting for a reaction, there was none. "I'm sorry, I did not realize you were home."
Still no reaction. She knocked gently on the door. "Mr. Dort, are you asleep?"
Silence. There was not a ripple on the water. She cautiously went into the bathroom. At first she thought was a joke and giggled. But when she looked closer, she screamed.