‘What is it?’ Cis asked. I read and reread the message as she waited for me to explain myself.
‘Darren says that Beryl – one of our neighbours, she lives just across the street from us – has one of those video doorbells.’
‘Oh?’ Cis said, her eyes lighting up. ‘So, there might be footage of O’Neill’s house.’
‘There’s a chance, but some devices only start recording when they detect someone nearby, so we can’t be sure we’ll find anything useful. Also’ – I couldn’t help but scoff – ‘Fran, of all people, told me she managed to break it while walking Beryl’s dog. And Beryl? She’s flipping clueless about where the footage is sent. She doesn’t even have the app on her phone. Darren mentioned he’s attempting to reach her son, citing high police importance, as he seems to be the only one capable of accessing the video.’
‘Christ alive. Even in the suburbs, we’re always being watched, right?’ Cis muttered, her gaze scanning around to spot any cameras that might be observing us while I tried to ignore that she had taken the Lord’s name in vain.
‘And don’t you feel much safer?’ I said flippantly, resting a hand on my stomach, which had begun to feel queasy again. I couldn’t help but let out a small guttural belch that was luckily covered by the loud blaring of Cis’s phone ringing, which she instantly snatched out of her pocket and slapped against her face. I tried to make out the tinny voice on the other end of the line before she gestured to me to turn around and head back to the house. Cis being Cis meant she went straight into power-walk mode, whereas I was staggering pathetically behind her, hoping the nausea would pass.
A member of the forensic team spotted us as we approached Mr O’Neill’s. He motioned us to suit up and enter the house. Theo, who I identified by his name tag (they all wore them, for obvious reasons), led us up the stairs. The house aroma hadcompletely shifted from the scent of pensioner to sterile liquids and fresh-out-of-the-box polyethylene.
‘The attic was padlocked, so we used the bolt croppers,’ Theo said to us as he waved to the ladder for us to ascend. ‘Can see why he didn’t want anyone getting in.’
I clambered up the ladder first, lifting the small compartment door to the side as I raised my torso up onto the flooring and scooted my legs up. I offered a hand to Cis. But Action Woman easily yanked herself up like it was nothing.
‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it stinks to high heaven up here,’ Cis exclaimed, causing me to yet again grit my teeth at her blasphemy as she carefully began to tiptoe around the attic. Only a small, cheap bulb illuminated the space from total darkness.
‘It’s mould,’ I heard one of the forensic team say. ‘Lots and lots of mould.’
At first, I found nothing particularly odd about the attic, but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I made out countless cardboard boxes sprawled all across the space.
I took a step forward, trying to avoid the attic insulation as Theo scurried up the ladder and joined us.
‘Now I’m going to guess, there is a lot of paperwork he didn’t want people to see,’ he said, ‘not many people lock their attics.’
‘There I was, imagining Mr O’Neill as this kind old recluse, like that crotchety man from that balloon house film,’ Cis said. She turned around to check on me, giving me the thumbs up in the form of a question, to which I replied in kind. I took a glance at one of the boxes.Finances 1988–1990was etched in pen on the side, along with furry green mould that reached across the cardboard.
‘I read about this,’ I said as I began to open up the box. ‘Successful businessman, lost it all and then set up a community foundation to give back.’ I yanked out a very 80s-looking folderand began to drift through the pages of invoices, receipts, correspondence.
‘Ah yes, businessmen and their guilty consciences,’ Cis remarked.
‘Huh,’ I said to myself, as my perusing was cut short by an End-of-Year Report 1988. ‘What kind of company goes under when they’re making far more money than they’re spending?’
‘That’s just a successful business,’ Cis commented.
I flicked over to the next page. A letter with the very clear and unmistakable House of Commons insignia at the top, with the subject line ‘Our Burgeoning Partnership’, from an Abe Clark. The next page was even more surprising: a handwritten letter whose legibility had been worn away over time, but at the top, the letterhead was the Office of the Metropolitan Police. It was only as I held the paper to the light that I could make out just one phrase in what was quite frankly terrible handwriting:
They’ll never suspect a thing, I promise.
A feeling began to creep over me – a feeling that could be best described as dread. As if I had just waded into the deep end before I really knew how to swim.
I felt my throat begin to clench and my stomach to convulse as I crouched down to take a closer look. My stomach lurched, and I found myself charging back down the ladder again to try to expel the kebab and what else was left in my belly.
‘Oh Jesus!’ I shouted.
Yes, I know, I know.
‘Outside! Outside!’ I heard one of the forensic team members call after me.
NINE
FRAN
Next time, I would think ahead, I told myself. Next time, I wouldn’t act on impulse. Next time, I’d confront the old bastard the minute I got in the door, before he decided to scramble up the stairs, desperately trying to get away from me, still gripping onto the groceries he was in the middle of unpacking. This was something that, next time, would be very important to avoid. I made a strong mental note in my head, before realising that my mind had yet again drifted off mid-conversation in a situation that I had also rushed into without much thought for the consequences.
‘This is such a lovely cup of tea,’ I said to Mrs Cohens as I took another polite sip. It tasted like arse. Clearly, the woman did not know that the perfect length of time to brew a cup of tea was three minutes. Five minutes in, it started to taste like lukewarm stewed brown water. If you liked brewing it any more than that, then you probably also liked strangling puppies and watching badger porn.
