‘I just,’ he says again, then takes a moment to formulate his next words. ‘I wanted to ask you. Vesta…’ He gestures towards a doorway under the stairs that she hadn’t noticed when she arrived. ‘The old lady downstairs. She’s been burgled.’
‘Oh, no,’ Collette makes the appropriate sounds of sympathy, though her thoughts stray immediately to the bagful of cash lying by the side of her bed. ‘How awful.’
‘Yes. It is. Poor lady. She came back from holiday, and… anyway, I was wondering if you’d… noticed anything. You know. Anything unusual.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry. Poor lady.’ She wants to ask more, like: is this something that happens a lot? Should I be worrying? But contents herself with saying, ‘No. No, I haven’t. Though I suppose I’ve only been here a few hours, so I wouldn’t know unusual from not.’
He looks impatient, as though she’s not being helpful. Well, what do you expect me to say? she thinks. And by the way, you turning straight up here at my door the second there’s been a burglary doesn’t exactly make me feel welcome.
‘No… you know. Someone moving around downstairs? You didn’t see anybody?’
Collette shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. Mind you, it’s hard to hear anything over the free entertainment.’ She jerks her head towards the flat next door. Hossein rolls his eyes and grins.
‘Poor lady. Is she okay? She wasn’t hurt, was she?’
He’s backing away already. ‘No. No, she’s okay. She was away. She’s just… upset.’
‘Yes,’ says Collette, and puts a hand on her door handle. It’s clear the conversation is coming to an end. This beautiful man hasn’t come to welcome her to the house, but to interrogate her about her movements; to check her out. She’s not going to get involved. She’s only here for as long as it takes to see Janine through to the end. ‘I should think she would be. Has she lost anything valuable?’
Hossein shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s a mess. And, you know, she doesn’t have much. Family things…’
A fleeting look of inexpressible sadness crosses his face. For a moment, he’s a thousand miles away. He snaps back into the room, gives her a sorrowful smile. ‘She’s still, you know…’
‘Oh, dear,’ says Collette. She knows she should offer condolences, offer to help, because that’s what civilised people do. But I’m not civilised, she thinks. Not any more. You fall asleep at the job, and before you know it…
Their attention is diverted by the sound of someone jogging up the outside steps, whistling tunelessly. It’s a semi-familiar tune, more from its rhythm than from any actual musicality. A key slips into the street door and turns. A man comes in: an unremarkable forty-something, a courier bag in one hand and a supermarket carrier in the other, looking at his keys as he wiggles them from the lock, as yet unaware of them, still whistling. Thinning hair, slightly tinted spectacles and Hush Puppies. A brushed-cotton shirt with a tiny, faded check let into the weave, like a farmer in a documentary. I know what that song is, she thinks. ‘I’m Leaning on a Lamp-post at the Corner of the Street’. Now I know I’m really back in England if the neighbours are whistling George Formby.
The man looks up, jumps and claps a hand over his heart. ‘Jesus!’
He’s instinctively raised his courier bag in front of his chest like a shield, lowers it as his eyes focus on Hossein. He glances from him to Collette and back again. ‘My God,’ he says, ‘you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry,’ says Hossein. He doesn’t sound particularly sorry.
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ The man’s eyes run up and down her, like Hossein’s before them. Differently, though. His spectacles glint with a gleeful sort of curiosity. ‘Visitor, Hossein?’
‘No,’ says Hossein. ‘This is Collette.’
She looks over at him. That’s not madly helpful, is it? ‘I – I live here, actually,’ she adds.
The eyes glint behind the specs. A likely story, they say.
‘Nikki’s room. I’ve taken over Nikki’s room, I just moved in today.’
The man’s face clouds with doubt. ‘Nobody said anything to me,’ he says.
Were they meant to? She tries again. ‘The Landlord let it to me. Roy Preece? This morning?’
This seems to be the password, the Open Sesame. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well, sorry about that. You can’t be too careful.’
He gives her one of those toothy smiles that looks like he’s practised it a lot, but doesn’t get too many opportunities to use it in real life. They’re not great teeth. Small and pointy and yellowed from lack of cosmetic care. ‘Thomas,’ he says.