The two ticks next to the message appear to show it’s been delivered. I stare at the screen a moment longer, willing them to turn blue to show it’s been read. But they stay stubbornly gray. I shove the phone back into my pocket.
Coco is curled, asleep, in her basket in the corner of the kitchen.
I return to the hall and gesture for Shaun to come in, showing him through to the kitchen, where he accepts the offer of a cup of tea. Dumping the Tesco bag on the side, I fill the kettle and flick it on, fetching two mugs down from the cupboard.
“Excuse the mess,” I say. “Only been a few days since we moved in.”
We exchange small talk about the house move while he settles his bulk on one of the high black stools against the counter. There is a whiff of aftershave surrounding him, something unsubtle and citrus-sharp that seems to fill the air between us. Close up, he looks a little older, mid- to late twenties, a faint scar curving beneath his eye.
“Obviously there’s tons of stuff that got cleared out in the house move, so many of the old boy’s things.” His eyes rove around the kitchen, over the boxes and bags and crates of food, crockery, glasses, and appliances. “Most of it’s crap, you know? Too old to use or sell on. But we were thinking there were a few things in particular that got missed by the removal men, maybe left behind or stashed away somewhere.”
“You could have just called me.”
He shrugs. “Dad thought it would be easier to do in person.”
“And did your grandad tell you exactly what sort of family heirlooms you’re looking for, or where they might be? It’s a big house, lots of rooms, plus the cellar, two attic spaces, the garage, the shed, the summer house.”
He gives a small shake of his head. “Grandpa’s not really… with it anymore. Most of the time, anyway. Dementia. He has good days and bad days, you know? Sometimes you can sort of have a conversation with him but most of the time he doesn’teven know who you are. Let alone where he might have put the old family heirlooms for safekeeping. It’s tragic, really.”
“Is that why your dad put the cameras up?” I hand him a mug of tea. “To keep an eye on him?”
He frowns. “What cameras?”
“Two inside.” I point up to the coving where the kitchen camera had been mounted. “And one outside, on a tree looking down at the drive.”
Again, he looks genuinely nonplussed at the question.
And again, I can’t tell whether he’s a very skilled actor or honestly doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“Dad never… mentioned that.” He shrugs. “But he’s the type that just gets on with stuff.”
“Oh,” I say. “Curious.”
There is suddenly a strange, charged atmosphere between us and I’m very aware that we’re alone in the house. As if to break the spell, Coco rouses herself from her basket in the corner of the kitchen. She stretches out her front legs, shakes lazily, and wanders over to park herself next to Shaun. Tongue hanging out, she stares up adoringly at him, her tail swishing a slow back-and-forth on the lino as he strokes the top of her head.
“Lovely girl,” he says, scratching under her chin. “We’ve always had retrievers too. Best dogs in the world.”
“We, as in…”
“Me and my dad. Family.” He smiles down at Coco, making a clicking noise with his tongue. “Retrievers are the best, aren’t they, girl?”
He starts telling me about his own dog, Mabel, about the litter of six puppies she’d had recently and the smallest one—Bonnie—they’d decided to keep even though the plan had been to sell allthe pups. I check my phone quickly while he talks. The message to Jeremy is shown as delivered but still unread, the two ticks still gray.
“So,” I say, trying to get him back on track. “These family heirlooms you’re looking for, can you give me any clues? Big? Small? Expensive? There was quite a lot of stuff left here.”
“Dad just said they’d probably be all together in one place.” He thinks for a moment. “And most of it might look like junk, to someone who didn’t know.”
I take a sip of my tea. “Right.”
“Like I said, it’s mostly just sentimental value. Family stuff, not really valuable to anyone else.” He reaches for his tea on the counter, the sleeve of his bomber jacket riding up to reveal a large tattoo wrapping around his wrist, a cobra with its fangs bared. “Except for one thing. An old watch.”
21
There is an unpleasant tightening in my stomach, as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Caught out in a lie. Which is ridiculous, because I’ve broken no laws, done nothing illegal. Everything in this house belongs to me, and if I decide to sell it on that’s nobody’s business but mine.
Nevertheless, my pulse kicks up a notch.
He knows.
