“Would it be possible to speak to him?”
“He’s not a well man. He’s moved into a care home nearby. Was rattling around in this big old house for years, all on his own. Rather sad, really.”
“Another family member, then? Whoever handled the sale.”
“I could pass on your number to the son if you like, ask him to give you a ring?”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“Kevin’s… a busy chap though,” Jeremy says, his tone neutral. “A bit of an unusual character. So you shouldn’t hold your breath.”
We say our goodbyes and I thank him for the champagne as he returns to his Tesla. When I walk back into the kitchen, Jess is taking pictures of the bird-box camera from different angles and sending them to her brother on WhatsApp. Dom works as asecurity supervisor at the University of Nottingham and is a guy who might know about this sort of thing.
I gesture at her phone. “What did the police say?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Nothing much. Took my details, told me to call back if we notice any suspicious behavior. The lad I spoke to—who sounded about twelve years old—said it had probably been left there by the previous owner.” She points a finger at me. “Anddon’tsay I told you so.”
I relay a brief version of my conversation with Jeremy.
“Whatever it’s doing here, I don’t want it in the house,” she says, pushing the camera away from her. “Can’t bear the thought of it being in here, even if it is switched off. I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all.”
I gather up the box and its contents. “I’ll put it in the garage for now.”
“We should keep it for the time being, though,” she says. “For evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“There must be some sort of law against violating another person’s privacy.” She stands, blowing out a heavy breath. “I’m going to make the kids’ tea. How was work, anyway?”
“Same as ever.” I turn away so I don’t have to meet her gaze. “You know. Same stuff, different day.”
I stash the box on a high shelf in the garage.
11
I’m about to go back outside to check for more cameras when the doorbell rings.
I’m greeted by a tall woman in her sixties, pencil thin, dressed in a gray cardigan and skirt. My son stands sheepishly beside her, rather reluctantly holding her hand, a scuffed orange football tucked under his other arm.
“Good afternoon,” she says briskly. “One of yours, I believe?”
“Hi.” I point at my son. “Sorry, has Callum—”
“I found this young gentleman in my back garden,” the woman says. “Foraging among my geraniums. So I thought perhaps best to return him to you. I’m next door at number ninety-three.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m Adam, by the way.”
“Eileen,” she says, her face expressionless. “Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands awkwardly. Her palm is cold, the grip surprisingly firm, and I’m aware my own hand is still grubby with tree bark.
I gesture to my son, who looks as if he’s desperate to get away.
“What were you doing, Callum?” I say. “What happened?”
“Kicked my best football over.” He stares at the floor. “There was a hole in the fence so I just wanted to see if I could get through and then I was trying to find my ball but I couldn’t find it and then the lady came and I—”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she says, cutting him off. “Does it, young man?”
