The Killer Next Door(4)

She dismisses the thought, impatiently. Get over yourself, Collette. And so what, anyway? A dirty old man getting a thrill: it’s not like you’re not used to that, is it?

The Landlord stops for a rest on the small landing outside the front door, one hand leaning on the wall, and stares down at her. She shifts the Adidas bag further up her shoulder, giving herself a chance to surreptitiously pull her scarf over the open neck of her shirt. She’s as modestly dressed as the heat of the day will allow, but she’s suddenly uncomfortably aware that her clothes are clinging damply to her skin.

He takes a couple of breaths before he speaks. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone yet, you see,’ he says, clearly believing that he is offering an explanation for something.

She stands and waits, unsure how to respond. The bag is heavy and she wishes he would just move on to their destination, so she can drop it on the floor and shake out her arm.

‘They usually start coming round the next day,’ he says. ‘Or in the evening, anyway. After the advert goes in. Not, like, an hour after. You caught me on the hop.’

‘Sorry,’ she says, not sure why she’s apologising.

He takes a key from his cardigan pocket, whirls it by the tag around his index finger. ‘Luckily I was here anyway,’ he says. ‘Had a bit of admin to deal with downstairs. Thing is, it’s not ready. I was going to get a cleaner in to deal with it, but I thought we had all day.’

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ says Collette. ‘I’m good with a bottle of Flash. There’s a hoover, right? In the house?’

He has wet lips. They smack together, a nasty shade of blueish pink. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘We’ve got one of those. But it’s not that.’

He turns to fit the key into the front door. It’s a heavy door, two panels of glass patterned with etched ivy leaves allowing light into the hallway beyond. A graceful door, made to match the aspirations of a Victorian on the way up, not the security needs of a run-down rooming house. ‘It’s the last tenant, you see. She skipped out on her rent and left her stuff behind.’

‘Oh,’ says Collette.

‘Must’ve wanted gone in a hurry, is all I’m saying,’ he says. ‘Because she’s left pretty much everything. I kept it all for as long as I could… but I’m not a charity.’

‘No,’ says Collette. ‘Of course not.’

‘So it’ll need clearing out. Just so you know.’

‘Mmm,’ she says, uncertainly. ‘I was hoping to move in today.’

‘Well, that doesn’t give me much time to check out your references,’ he says, smugly. ‘Does it?’

‘No,’ she says. She wishes he hadn’t followed him into the hall. It’s airless in here, even with the door open. The smell from his clothes bursts over her in gusts as he reaches round and pushes it to. She peers into the gloom and sees a stained grey carpet, a Utility table piled with post and a payphone attached to the wall. Haven’t seen one of those in years, she thinks. Wonder how much he gets out of it each month?

A drop of sweat works its way loose from beneath the bag strap over her shoulder and trickles down into her cleavage. From behind the door to her left, to her surprise, she hears the strains of a violin playing some classical air. Not what she’d expected to hear in a place like this. If she’d thought about music at all, she’d have put her money on hip hop. ‘But I really don’t want to have to spend money on a hotel, if I can manage it,’ she says.

‘Haven’t you got anyone you can go and stay with? In the meantime?’

She’s got her story all lined up and ready to go. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve been living in Spain for the last few years. I’ve sort of lost touch with a lot of people. But my mum’s in the hospital and I want to be near her. And, you know, you come back and you realise you don’t really know anybody, any more. You know how people move around, in London. I lost touch with my school friends, and we never had any other family. It was just Mum and me…’

She stops, and, just as she’s practised in countless mirrors over the last few years, turns big, hurt eyes up to look at him. This look has helped her though more awkward situations than anything else. ‘Sorry,’ she concludes. ‘You don’t want to hear about my problems.’

Lying is easy. It’s so, so easy once you’ve got into the swing of it. Just say what you’ve got to say confidently, keep it as close to the truth as you can get away with, then look vulnerable and find an excuse to duck out of the conversation as quickly as you can. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, people will just go along with whatever you tell them.