Miles examined them closely: Agent Provocateur label, a UK 10, made in Bangladesh and fairly new, not faded from washing like the others. These ones were definitely for show. He stuck his nose into the crotch material and sniffed. A musky vaginal odour hit the back of his nostrils. Deep in thought, he began twirling them around his finger. These would do the trick. They looked the part and they smelled like a bitch in heat. He stuffed the knickers into his rear trouser pocket before replacing the others back into the basket.
***
Miles found a parking space near the end of the road. While walking to Sinead’s old house, he noted the scarcity of people; it was a quarter to ten and after the morning rush, which meant no witnesses passing by. The sky was overcast and he could feel a light drizzle hitting the visor of his baseball cap. He wore his new outfit of black chinos and a chocolate-brown waist-length zip- up jacket, black sports gloves and the Nike Air Max Ultras, now considerably more comfortable since he’d taken Joel’s professional advice and worn them in. Any witnesses would easily mistake him for a delivery driver or gas board employee.
He strode up the path leading to the front door. A quick glance each way showed an empty street. In the distance he heard the rumble of traffic on the South Circular. He pressed the doorbell and silently counted to a hundred while pretending to look at his BlackBerry like he was checking an order. The housemates would have left for work more than an hour ago, but this was a standard precaution. When he was satisfied he’d waited long enough, Miles took out Sinead’s keys and unlocked the door.
Pushing it gently, he slunk around to the other side and stood on the doormat, leaning back against the door to shut it with a soft click. The hallway was narrow and gloomy. He waited there momentarily, listening. All was quiet. Next to him was a side table. A small bundle of post was bound together with an elastic band; the top envelope addressed to Miss S. Woods.
Miles moved stealthily down the hallway. Immediately to his right was an inner door, halfway ajar. He stepped into the living room, quickly taking in its main features. A Nintendo games console was hooked up to the TV, a folded Metro newspaper on the arm of the sofa, a ladies’ raincoat slung over the back of a chair, and a pair of yellow Crocs dumped in the far corner. He searched through the raincoat’s two side pockets, finding only an expired train ticket, half a packet of tissues and some chewing gum. There was no cash so he replaced the items and exited the room.
He continued through the hallway and into the kitchen. Dirty plates were stacked around the sink; the green plastic recycling container was brimming with empty bottles, cereal boxes and the like. He felt a bit peckish, something that often happened when he was exploring houses. Some burglars felt the need to defecate, but he was content with a quick snack. He tried a cupboard door, but the bottom hinge was broken so he left it alone. Miles opened the fridge and perused the unappetising items on the shelves, checking the use-by date on a tub of hummus and sniffing a bowl of greyish potato salad. Disappointing. Where was the avocado, the millennials’ favourite toast topping?
A bunch of grapes was in the vegetable drawer. Plucking off a stalk, he swung the fridge door shut and studied the housemates’ photos while he chewed the grapes. What a wild social life these girls seemed to have. Virtually identical poses in each shot: standing cheek to cheek, pulling exaggerated grins, arching eyebrows, pointing a forefinger at their mouth as if they were saying ‘oops’. Sinead was notable for her absence. Her suspicions appeared to be correct: her friends did hate her.
Next he crept upstairs; gratifyingly, his new trainers made no sound. Well worth the expense, he thought. On the landing, he walked past the bathroom and on towards the three bedrooms. His gloved fingers nudged open the first door, revealing a messy room with clothes scattered on the floor and make-up dispensers on the dresser. He detected a faint smell of perfume. He surveyed the room again and decided it was not the one he was looking for. He came back out to the landing and proceeded to the next door, which was shut. Miles pushed down the handle and went in.
He immediately saw a big picture on the walclass="underline" a blown-up selfie showing Imogen and Joel in front of a pink sunset background. Bingo! He nudged the door behind him as he entered, leaving it three quarters shut. The room was clean and tidy with everything in its proper place. He sat on the cheap double bed and felt the mattress sag. He lifted the lime-green duvet; in the middle of the bed sheet was a milky white semen stain. He tried to discern where each of them slept. Most likely Joel would be nearest the door, so he could protect his princess from any intruder. He grabbed the furthest pillow and sniffed it. Perfume was the giveaway; a glass of water and a hairbrush on the bedside cabinet confirmed it was Imogen’s side of the bed.
Miles pulled out the cabinet drawer, rummaging inside amongst various beauty products and gadgets. He removed a box of condoms, extracted one and ripped open the packaging. The perfectionist in him wanted to ejaculate into the condom, but he knew that wasn’t a viable option; leaving his DNA behind would be the work of an amateur. He was far too experienced for such a schoolboy error. The wrapper would be more than adequate for his purposes. So he pocketed the rubber and returned the box to the drawer.
Miles took Sinead’s knickers from his jacket’s inside pocket. Leaning over Imogen’s side of the mattress, he checked the floor under the bed and saw a gap of about three inches. He reached down and placed the red lacy knickers underneath the bed frame, an inch away from the leg. Then he placed the condom wrapper inside them, making sure some shiny foil jutted out so it would catch the light. He sat up and relaxed, feeling rather pleased with himself. He wished he could see the look on Joel’s face after Imogen made the shocking discovery.
His smile vanished as he heard a sound from upstairs. A girl’s voice.
‘I didn’t get in till four. Just crashed out… Yeah, yeah, you know that. My head’s in pieces…’
Instantly Miles was on his toes and over to the door. The voice was getting closer.
‘What’s the time? Fuck me, you’re joking! Thanks for waking me up. Boss man’s going to kill me. Already had like two verbal warnings…’
Miles listened to her inane chatter. Maggie the druggie, no doubt. He reproached himself for not checking the loft room; that was a stupid oversight. If she came in here, he’d be forced to eliminate the girl. Back against the wall, arms poised in front of his chest, he was ready for her. Through the crack between the door hinge and its frame, he could just make her out, wearing a blue top with white spots and grey beach shorts, descending onto the landing, a phone by her ear. She was sniggering at something the person on the other end was saying. Just turn around, go upstairs and get back into bed you worthless junkie.
‘You know it, yeah… I’m not bothered, dude, I’ll find something else. Job’s boring anyway…’ She was standing directly outside the bedroom now.
His hands tensed as he listened to her conversation, his breathing slow and steady. If she opened the door, he’d grab her from behind and put her in a choke hold, get his hand over her mouth, drag her down to the floor.
‘I’m gonna grab a shower, try and take the edge off. What? Shut up. Yeah… you wish. All right. Yeah.’
She ended the call, yawning loudly and remained standing outside, less than two feet away. Picking her nose. Miles was primed; his hand was on the door handle. She had three seconds to move away, or else he’d fling open the door, advance and punch her hard in the face. One, two–