The Killer Next Door(70)

She points. Collette nods and goes to scoop it up. ‘Gosh, it’s heavy,’ she whispers.

‘Gonna need to be,’ replies Cher. ‘The Landlord’s no Tinkerbell.’

She grabs one end as they emerge from the alley, and they start to make their way back. ‘I still don’t understand about the T-shirt,’ says Cher.

‘Ugh,’ says Collette. ‘Carbon monoxide.’

‘You what?’

‘Gas.’

‘From the boiler? She’d’ve smelled that, wouldn’t she?’

‘No. It’s a by-product of burning stuff. That’s why those sorts of things are always on an outside wall. So they can have a vent to let it out. You know there’s always a British family that dies in a holiday rental in Cyprus every year? It’s that. You can’t smell it, you can’t see it. And if you don’t let it out, it builds up and kills you. But you’re asleep by that point, because it knocks you out. You never know anything about it. You know. Like those people with the cars and the hosepipes.’

‘So he was…?’

‘Yes. Looks like it. Hard to think he was doing anything else. Another old lady dead in her bath.’

‘Christ,’ says Cher. They pause at the edge of the pavement and look up and down the road. They only have to cover a short distance, but being spotted now could be their undoing. The street remains quiet. Not a light in a window, not a curtain moving. Three o’clock, the dead zone. They set off for number twenty-three. ‘Fucker,’ she says. ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’

Collette doesn’t speak. She’s not so sure, but then, she doesn’t have as much history with the Landlord as the rest of them. Cher’s injuries are still fresh, on her body and in her mind, and it’s clear that she sees Vesta as some sort of granny figure. She’s entitled to feel some rage.

They hurry past number twenty-five and into their own alleyway. Once they get behind the gate, they let go of the plastic and take a moment to breathe. ‘So how long were you in care?’ asks Cher.

‘Oh, on and off, you know. Just a few weeks at a time. The longest was maybe a couple of months. My mum wasn’t a great coper, you know? Sometimes it just all got too much and she’d check me in,’

‘Yeah, I know,’ says Cher, but she feels disappointed. She’s never known a living adult who’s had her experiences. Had hoped that she’d finally found one.

‘It’s shit, though, isn’t it? I was scared stupid all the time. How about you?’

‘Since I was twelve.’

‘Wow,’ says Collette. ‘How about your family?’

‘My mum’s dead,’ says Cher. ‘When I was nine. I lived with my nanna and that was okay. She was nice.’

‘And your dad?’

The sort of question Vesta asks. Cher doesn’t mind it from her. She comes from a world where people know their dads. She reminds Cher of Nanna, all kindness and cake and the confusion of the honest. Collette has seemed like she’s from a wider world. Maybe not. Cher shrugs. ‘Who knows?’

Collette gives her a sympathetic look. She had so many dads and uncles growing up that she forgets that some people have none at all. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, lamely. ‘It’s tough.’

Cher feels a surprising surge of rage. Great, she thinks. Fucking sympathy. That’s all I need. She picks up her end of the sheeting. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We haven’t got all night.’



In the area outside Vesta’s kitchen, Hossein has done what he can with a broom to clear away the worst of the slurry. He and Thomas stand in the doorway, looking out for their arrival, and wait as they manhandle their burden down the steps and dump it on the concrete. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ says Thomas. ‘Very good.’

‘Damp proofing,’ says Collette.

So it won’t be permeable, then.

They unfold it and lay it out. Even doubled over, it covers most of the flagstones. Collette checks her watch. It’s taken less than an hour for them all to turn from victims and rescuers into conspirators. ‘I’ve got the shed open,’ says Hossein. ‘That lock didn’t take more than a couple of bashes with a brick. It must’ve been there for decades.’

‘It has,’ says Thomas. ‘Vesta says she doesn’t remember it ever being open.’

‘What’s in there?’

‘Nothing much. A rusted up old lawnmower and some plant pots. And an armchair that looks like it’s been mouse metropolis for many generations. With an ashtray.’

‘Where is Vesta?’ asks Collette.