120
He kept a good distance behind, so as not to alert her to his presence. He had eventually found his tongue and responded to her concern for his cut finger, before taking the job from her—a simple boot reheel—promising to have it ready first thing tomorrow as recompense for her kindness and sympathy.
After she left, he’d remained at his workstation for a silent count of twenty, then switched off the shop lights, flipped theClosedsign and hurried out, locking the door behind him. Experience had taught him not to dawdle during this process—you risked losing your quarry among the crowds of shoppers, if you were too cautious. You just needed enough time for her to clear the immediate vicinity of the shop.
He scanned left and right, before spotting her a hundred yards away, idly window-shopping. Her crisp navy suit and smartly tied-back hair made her quite distinctive among the loafers and driftwoodthat usually populated this place. Tired of daydreaming, she moved off again. And he went with her, as always at a discreet distance.
She meandered slowly homeward. She had finished work for the day—she really did look smart and professional—but clearly had no one to rush home to. She stopped to look in various shop windows, to buy a copy of theBig Issue, but she looked like she was killing time. As if she was waiting for something to happen. Or someone to come along.
They passed through Bedford Place, then through Portswood to the cheap flats that lay near the university. Though she was well turned out, she clearly wasn’t well-off, living among the detritus of the city. This was in character too, he thought to himself, suppressing a smile. You grow older, but you don’t really change.
He stopped abruptly. He had momentarily lost himself to memory and inadvertently had walked too close to her. She had stopped at a door—not ten yards from him. If she turned round now, she’d see him. So he upped his pace, thankfully clearing her without exciting her interest. Crossing the street, he chanced a backward look—just in time to see her enter a sorry-looking flat.
Hugging the corner of the street, he found a decent vantage point behind a hedge. He watched with interest as the lights came on up on the first floor. He didn’t know whether to stay or go. The working day was coming to an end and workers would be filling the streets soon—he couldn’t risk being spotted or, worse, reported. But, as always, she made the decision for him, appearing now in the first-floor window.
There was no way he was leaving now. He had the perfect vantage point—to watch her, to admire her, to drink in every detail of her life. She made no attempt to draw the curtains; she just looked down onto the street below. Looking for hope. Looking for love.
Looking for him.
121
“Why did you lie to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked you to your face if Roisin had ever had her locks changed and you denied that she had. But that wasn’t true, was it, Bryan?”
Roisin’s awkward ex-boyfriend attempted to usher Helen toward a quieter part of the garage, but she stood her ground.
“Why did you lie?”
Bryan shot a look at his fellow mechanics, who stared with undisguised curiosity at the strikingly attractive woman who was now hauling their apprentice over the coals. Was that something resembling respect in their eyes?
“Because of Jamie,” he eventually murmured.
“Who’s Jamie?”
“Roisin’s ex. Before me, I mean. He used to live with her. Stillhad his key. I... I found out he’d been coming round, letting himself in, you know...”
He didn’t need to elaborate. Roisin needed affection and clearly wasn’t picky where she got it from.
“So you made her change the locks.”
“I couldn’t stop her seeing him, if that’s what she wanted. But I wasn’t having him thinking he could come and go as he pleased, letting himself in at any time of day or night.”
“You do know lying to the police is a serious matter.”
“I know all right... I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t going to say nothing withhersitting right next to me.”
He meant Roisin’s mum—his former mother-in-law. Did he clam up to avoid making himself look foolish or to avoid telling Sinead Murphy that her daughter was faithless and generous with her favors? Helen hoped it was the latter.
“Who changed the locks?”
“A mate of mine—Stuart Briggs at LockRite.”
“I’ll need his contact details.”
“Sure, but he’s got nothing to do with this.”
