The Scent of a Stalker

Another long evening of surveillance at the Clifton residence was over.

Mrs Clifton had left the satin curtains slightly ajar as usual, with the hope of enticing the supposed stalker. He had sent handwritten letters to her office, sprayed with her signature scent, detailing all sorts of heinous things he wished to do when Mr Clifton was away.

Mrs Clifton had curled the rollers through her hair and sat regally at her vanity, expectantly.

Brian had been convinced that this stalker was not only vying for Mrs Clifton’s attention but was spying on her to determine the items she used in her boudoir, to further dramatize his campaign of harassment. His colleagues, Simon, and Jen had been stationed at two outlook points to catch him, mid-peep.

The thud of car doors brought Brian from his reverie.

“Cor, I’m dying for a bacon sarnie.” Simon groaned.

“Make that two! I’m absolutely ravenous” Jen chimed in.

To Gregg’s bakers it was then. Brian was nervous that his hefty evening rates would soon be enough to dissuade the Clifton’s from funding the private investigators further. He sighed, thinking of the books to balance.

Brian’s stomach gurgled. He couldn’t wait to wolf down his sausage roll and collapse into his bed. He gazed at Earl’s Court Road, as commuters furiously burrowed to their desks for the day. Suddenly, he was drawn to a flash of red hair in an opposite café. Mrs Clifton sat sipping an espresso. Brian was shocked to see another gentleman too, who was not Mr Clifton!

Brian drifted through the sea of commuters to the doorway, camera at the ready.

“What happened to your hair?” The gentleman asked.

“Oh Will, you didn’t see me rolling it for you?”

Mrs Clinton caught Brian’s gaze.

The coffee cup smashed.