Willoughby recognised him, but his expression didn’t change. He hesitated, then came to the door and unlocked it. He pulled the door open fractionally.
Miles said, ‘Sorry, I thought you were open until eleven.’
‘Only on Fridays and Saturdays. We close at ten thirty during the week.’
‘Ah, right. My mistake. I meant to pop in earlier, but my mother rang for a chat and then the ten o’clock news came on and I completely lost track of time. My fault entirely.’ Miles half-turned away from the door.
Opening the door wider, Willoughby said, ‘Not to worry. It’s only just gone half past. What can I do for you?’
‘Another one of those fine Cubans, if I may.’
Willoughby opened the door fully. ‘No problem. You’d better come in, though, so I can lock this.’ Miles ducked under the shutter and into the shop.
Willoughby closed and relocked the door. ‘If you’re not careful, the drunks and druggies come knocking when you’re trying to cash up and get home for the night.’
‘I can imagine. Right pain in the backside. Rather like myself – a bloody nuisance.’
‘No, no. I don’t mind someone like yourself. A regular, that’s different.’
Miles smirked. Of course Willoughby didn’t mind people like us disturbing him after hours. But people from the estate, the blacks, the homeless – they would just have to bugger off and wait until tomorrow. Miles watched the vintner as he moved along the dimly-lit shop floor; the only light sources were the overspill from the back room, the refrigerators and the display light in the brand-new humidor.
‘Ah, excellent – the humidor’s arrived.’
‘Yes, it came the other day. Help yourself.’ Willoughby lowered the shutter a bit further.
‘Thank you. Let’s have a look, shall we.’ Miles went over and opened the humidor’s transparent lid.
Willoughby walked round to the far side of the counter, raised the flap, closed it and then went and pressed some buttons on the cash register. The machine whirred and began printing out a long till receipt. Miles’s eyes flicked from the cigars to Willoughby, who was occupied with checking figures on the receipt as it spooled out into his hand.
‘How’s business then? Picked up at all recently?’ Miles asked.
‘I’d say it’s slow and steady. I can’t complain, though. The bank holiday weekend was fairly busy. People are starting to notice us here now.’
Miles examined a couple of the cigars. ‘Glad to hear it. And I’m sure you’ll be getting a lot more passing trade in the summer.’
‘Absolutely. No, I’m not too concerned at the moment.’ Willoughby ripped the printout from the cash register and looked over at Miles. ‘Right. I should probably crack on, or I’m never going to get out of here.’
Miles closed the humidor lid and approached with his chosen cigar. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Actually, the register has shut down for the day so I won’t be able to ring it up. The card machine’s offline as well.’
‘I’ve got some cash on me.’ Miles’s hand went inside his coat.
Willoughby pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Tell you what; pay me next time you’re in. I can run it through the till then.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, that’s fine, honestly. Too much faff trying to sort it out now.’
‘Well, as long as you don’t mind.’
‘Not a problem.’ Willoughby looked shattered.
Miles put the cigar into his right-side coat pocket. Leaving his hand inside, he gently rolled the garrotte between his fingers.
‘I’ll just get the door for you.’ Willoughby swung back the counter flap and moved through to the customer side.
‘Could I trouble you for one other little thing?’ asked Miles.
Willoughby halted. He twirled the set of door keys in his hand. ‘Sure.’
‘I’ve got my eye on the Martelclass="underline" a half bottle.’ Miles pointed up at the brandy on the second shelf down from the ceiling.
Willoughby turned round and saw where Miles was pointing. It was too high up to reach. ‘Just a moment,’ he said with a trace of weariness. He strode across the shop and picked up a knee-high wooden block with three indented steps and then returned to the spirits area. Willoughby placed the block next to the shelves and stepped up. Miles padded closer, looked to his right and saw the cash register drawer open. The notes were separated in narrow trays and clear plastic bags stuffed with coins were in square-shaped compartments. He couldn’t quite guess the total amount, but it didn’t look like much: two hundred, three, tops. The safe might have the week’s takings inside – or it might be empty.
A bottle clanked against another. Willoughby was removing a half-bottle of brandy from the shelf and bringing forward the next bottle to take its place. Miles clenched the garrotte in his palm, retracted his hand and let it rest by his side. Willoughby was walking backwards down the steps. All Miles had to do was catch him off balance.
As Miles raised his arms, something in the top corner of the shop caught his eye. Above him was a white plastic ball with a central black square and a red dot. Of course. A security camera, pointed right at him. It hadn’t been there last time. But it was there now.
‘There you go.’
Miles turned to see Willoughby handing him the Martell. The moment had passed. Miles put on his best grateful grin, took the bottle with his left hand and surreptitiously returned the garrotte to his pocket with the right hand. ‘Much obliged. Might just help me get some sleep tonight.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’ll swing by tomorrow and settle up with you.’ Miles strode to the door; Willoughby followed and unlocked it.
Miles said, ‘I was going to mention getting some cameras in here to help you out with those shoplifters.’ He nodded towards the white ball. ‘That one looks expensive.’
Willoughby held the door open. Any residual charm had now gone; he obviously just wanted Miles out of his off-licence so he could lock up and go home to bed.
‘Well I wanted the best. It’s a motion sensor alarm system, with video storage on a memory card, and also on the Cloud.’
‘A worthwhile investment. You really can’t be too careful. Goodnight.’ Miles ducked under the shutter and out onto the pavement.
30
The bedside lamp woke Sinead from a deep, dark sleep. No dreams, just a blackness that receded gradually, leaving her confused and disoriented. Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the intense glow; her retinas were burning and she instinctively clamped a hand over her face. She heard something close by. Footsteps were creeping along the carpet. Then a creaking sound, followed by a dull thud.
‘You disappoint me, Sinead.’
The voice was familiar, but Sinead was acclimatising slowly, her head groggy with sleep. ‘Who’s there?’ She squinted into the harsh light of the lamp which shone directly into her face. ‘Elliot?’ she said. Sinead rubbed her eyes. She could make out a figure five feet away, sitting in the armchair which he had moved closer to the bed. She looked over again and identified Elliot. His face was sinisterly half-lit and he was mumbling. Sinead tried tuning in.
‘I had your money. Really, there was no reason for me to ever come back here… Except you seemed to promise so much more.’ He chuckled softly.