The Killer Next Door(18)

She wonders about putting on more make-up and dismisses the thought. ‘We’re all girls together,’ she tells the cat, who blinks his jade eyes to show that he’s listening. ‘We don’t need slap.’

She heads for the fridge. The supermarkets have become a lot more canny about tagging their branded goods, but the own-brand equivalents don’t seem to matter to them in the same way. Apart from sherry. Sherry, the old tramp’s standby, often has a big black bold alarm strip round its neck. But Cher has yet to develop a taste for the grown-up things: olives and sherry and vermouth and red wine. Her favourite drinks of all are neon blue, but they’re surprisingly hard to nick.

In the fridge, along with the cheese slices and the ketchup, she has a bottle of Sainsbury’s own-brand Irish Cream, just a couple of inches taken off the top. She snatches it up, along with a bar of chocolate and a multi-pack of meat-flavoured Golden Wonder crisps, and heads down the stairs where her knock is greeted by silence. But she feels, as much as hears, that movement has stopped behind the door. She knocks again and listens. Gerard has turned his music off, which must mean that he’s gone out. He never stops with it, from when he gets up in the morning until eleven on the dot each night. The only times there is silence is when he goes out. Weird bugger, thinks Cher. Far too much time locked up in there, if you ask me.

She hears Collette call out to ask who it is. She doesn’t sound friendly. She sounds like she might have had one visitor too many already today.

‘Only me,’ she says. Then, when the announcement is met by silence, adds: ‘Cher. From upstairs.’

‘Oh.’

She hears the sound of the snib being slid off the Yale lock before the knob turns. Not taking any chances, then. I did that to her, thinks Cher, ruefully.

The door cracks open, and Collette peers at her. Cher brandishes her gifts and flashes her a wide smile. ‘Peace offering.’

‘Oh,’ says Collette. ‘Thank you. But really, there’s no need. I’m not offended. Don’t worry.’

‘All right, then,’ says Cher. ‘Housewarming present.’

‘I – no, really, I’m okay. I don’t need anything. You don’t have to…’

‘Oh, come on,’ says Cher, ‘I’m doing my best, here.’

‘I’m really tired,’ says Collette, and her face looks for a moment as though it might crumple into tears. ‘Really. I should just go to bed.’

Cher’s not taking no for an answer. She stopped taking no for an answer when she left the Wirral. ‘It won’t even start to get dark for a couple of hours. Call it a nightcap.’

Collette sees that she’s not going to get away with rejecting her and reluctantly lets the door swing open. Walks ahead of Cher into the room and stands in the middle of the carpet, looking around as if she doesn’t know what to do next. ‘Sorry. It’s a mess.’

She’s clearly been sleeping again – or lying in bed, at least. The duvet is thrown to one side, and there’s a deep indentation in the thin pillows she’s piled on top of each other. On the floor, there’s a small pile of clothes.

‘That’s okay.’ Cher reassures her, ‘you should see mine. And I’ve been here months.’

‘It’s not – it doesn’t help that the place is full of Nikki’s stuff,’ says Collette. ‘I don’t really know where to put anything. I can’t help feeling she might want it all back, some day.’

Cher looks around at her former friend’s familiar belongings. Waste not, want not, she thinks. If Nikki doesn’t want it… ‘Well, anything you want to send my way…’

Collette whirls round, looks shocked. ‘I can’t do that! It’s someone else’s stuff!’

Cher shrugs. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it? If she comes back, I’ll give it her.’ She waves a hand at the sweatpants, the emerald green vest top Collette is wearing. ‘And anyway, it’s not like you mind helping yourself, is it?’

Collette blushes, looks at the floor. ‘I’ll get them laundered,’ she says. ‘It’s just till – you know. All my clothes are dirty. I’ve been travelling. It’s just till I…’

Cher dismisses the protestations with a cackle. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell if you don’t. So… We having a drink, or what?’

Collette springs into life like a clockwork doll, starts bustling about, pantomiming busyness. ‘Of course. Yes. Let me just…’ She picks the pile of Nikki’s clothes off the single armchair, drops it against the wall behind. ‘I don’t know where the glasses live, I’m afraid.’