The girl turned and sloped off towards the bathroom. Miles realised he’d been holding his breath; slowly he released it. Thirty seconds went by, maybe more. Just waiting. He heard toilet paper being torn from the roll and moments later the cistern flushing. Was she coming out again? Had she left a towel up in her room? She might come in here to borrow Imogen’s expensive conditioner; he could see it there on the windowsill.
Finally, he heard the splatter of water hitting ceramic tiles.
Miles slipped out of the bedroom and padded along the landing. The bathroom door was ajar. He paused and listened to Maggie humming a tune he didn’t recognise. He put an eye to the doorjamb, catching a glimpse of this naked, scrawny woman through the shower screen’s frosted glass. She was rubbing shampoo into her hair, eyes screwed shut. He watched as she turned her back to the door and massaged her scalp. Look at me if you want to, he thought. Turn around Maggie, open your eyes and see me. I’m right here. But no. The lady was not for turning. He smiled. Another little joke he’d just have to keep to himself.
Miles backed away and silently descended the stairs. He headed to the front door and quietly opened it. Remembering Sinead’s bundle of post, he grabbed it from the side table with one hand, stepped over the doormat, grasped the brass knocker with his other hand, and carefully pulled the door shut.
On his way back to the car, he resisted breaking into a run. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins. He was a god: that girl was only alive because he had spared her. She would be getting out of the shower now, towelling her hair and continuing her pathetic existence for one reason and one reason only. Because he had deigned to let her life continue. She wasn’t part of his scheme. Killing Maggie would have created a whole heap of problems. There’d be no way to move the body from the house without being seen. No, that would have been a major ball-ache. He’d handled the situation expertly, just like he used to back in the good old days.
He sat in the driver’s seat, sifting through Sinead’s post; mainly marketing mail-outs, a phone bill, something else from the Student Loans Company. The last one he came to bore a handwritten address, Air New Zealand stamps and was postmarked Auckland, New Zealand. He removed a glove, tore open the envelope, and extracted a birthday card. A piece of folded notepaper dropped out and fell into the footwell. Miles reached down between his feet and plucked it up.
The card was perfunctory, simply wishing Sinead a happy birthday with love from Dad, Abby, Freddy and Sam. He paused. Was it actually Sinead’s birthday that day she’d come to see the bungalow? Surely not. He snapped the card shut and unfolded the paper. This was more like it – a handwritten letter. He scanned the lines, his eyes landing on key phrases, muttering the words to himself.
‘Dear Sinead… as you won’t answer my emails, I’m trying the old-fashioned way… you know I would have come to the funeral if I’d been able to… let me make it up to you… you are always welcome here… I’ll book your ticket whenever you’re ready… all my love, Daddy x.’
‘Too late, Daddy.’ Miles ripped the letter down the centre, placed the two pieces together, and tore through them again. He crumpled the birthday card in his palm and regrouped all the pieces of mail together in his hands. He sat there a moment, staring through the windscreen at the quiet street. He wondered what Sinead’s family looked like, if they resembled her. New Zealand – that was perfect. The southern hemisphere! If her family lived down the road in New Addington, they’d be a proper fly in the ointment, estranged or not. But they were out of sight and out of mind.
Miles got out of the car and walked over to a waste bin. He dumped the bundle of letters and started back. Turning around, he returned to the bin, fished the unused condom from his jacket pocket and flicked it in on top of Sinead’s post.
***
During the drive back to Beckenham, Miles thought he deserved a celebratory cigar. He stopped off at the wine shop, parking the car behind a lorry. While switching off the engine and unfastening his seat belt, he observed two delivery men wheeling a trolley stacked with cases of lager down the ramp, across the pavement and through the shop’s open door. Miles waited a minute before getting out of the car.
He entered the premises through the open doorway as the owner – Willoughby, he presumed – was signing an invoice on one of the men’s clipboards. Miles stood by the counter as the two men took the empty trolley back out. Willoughby’s view of him was obscured by the towering stacks of beer cans.
‘Much obliged. See you next week,’ Willoughby said. He lifted the top lager case off the stack and carried it to the fridge located nearest the shop door, spotting Miles as he passed by.
‘Sorry – I didn’t see you come in.’ He set the case down on the floor.
‘Can I help you with that?’ Miles crossed over to the refrigerators.
‘No, no – thanks, though. I’ll be with you in just a moment.’ He knelt down, ripped open the plastic packaging with his fingernails, and began pulling cans of Stella Artois from their plastic six-pack rings. ‘These won’t sell unless they’re ice cold.’
Miles opened the fridge door and loomed above the man. ‘Tell you what, pass the cans up to me and I’ll stick them in. You know – get a relay going.’
A can in one hand, Willoughby looked up at him and smiled. ‘Are you sure?’
Miles gestured for him to pass the can; the man complied and then removed another from its plastic ring. Miles slid the first can along the shelf to the back of the unit, took the next one and repeated the action. Willoughby tore out more cans and together the two of them worked quickly to fill the shelves.
‘I’m quite enjoying this, actually,’ said Miles.
Willoughby laughed. ‘Really? This has to be one of my least favourite tasks. You wouldn’t believe how many times a day this needs doing.’
‘I suppose the thrill might wear off eventually.’
Willoughby handed Miles the final can and got to his feet, brushing dirt from his palms. ‘Brilliant. Thanks for your help.’
‘Not a problem. Glad to be of service.’
‘If I remember correctly, when you were here before it was…’ Willoughby scanned the wine shelves. ‘…Gewürztraminer. Right?’
‘Correct. And I have to say, an excellent recommendation. First class.’
‘Well, we do aim to please. What are you in the market for today?’
‘Cuban cigars, actually. I don’t suppose you stock any?’
‘As it so happens, I ordered a humidor just the other day. I was going to put it over there by the counter.’
‘That’s a very good place for it.’
‘Now I do have a few supplier samples somewhere. I think I left them in the storeroom…’
‘Don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘No, no trouble. Just give me a minute.’ Willoughby headed towards the back storeroom. ‘Any chance you could just mind the shop while I pop out back?’
‘Absolutely. You go ahead.’
‘A few undesirables have been hanging around lately. Teenagers from the estate. They helped themselves to a bottle of Courvoisier and a six-pack before I chased them out.’
‘Kids today. Unbelievable. I’ll keep an eye out, don’t worry.’
Willoughby returned with an outstretched hand. ‘I’m Lucien, by the way. Lucien Willoughby.’
‘Elliot.’ Miles thought it best to keep things on a first-name basis. They shook hands.
‘Let me see what I can rustle up, Elliot. Won’t be long.’