high security.
No main entrance security cameras; no concierge cum security man behind a bank of screens checking out visitors; no bar to unobtrusive entry but the locked front door.
She knew it was locked because she’d just seen a man walk up to it, insert a key and enter.
Simplest was to wait for someone else to approach, then follow them in. But she was keenly aware of the woman cop standing in the Keldale car park. She’d been talking on the phone. Presumably she’d rung in for instructions.
And if eventually the instruction was to head for Loudwater Villas, then she could be close behind.
Fleur made up her mind. This was after all just an initial check-up, so while a low profile was still preferable, invisibility wasn’t of the essence. The subject identified, then the serious business would begin. It had already occurred to her that the accident rate for young men on motorbikes was pretty high. Not that an old Yamaha 250 was exactly a high-performance machine, but you can break your neck hitting tarmac at forty miles an hour almost as easily as you can at eighty.
But that was getting ahead of herself. Now she needed to get in there quick, even if it meant ringing someone’s bell.
She said, ‘Vince, sit tight. I’ll go and take a look.’
‘Sure you don’t want me along, sis?’
‘Not yet. Have your mobile handy, keep your eyes skinned, and if that woman from the car park shows, give me a ring, OK?’
‘Sure.’
She got out of the car. As she straightened up she swayed slightly. Then she was OK. Vince hadn’t noticed. Sometimes Vince’s ability not to notice things was irritating, but this time she was grateful.
She set off for the entrance. Her luck, always good on a job, held. A car drew up behind her. She glanced round to see its driver, a young Asian man, get out. He was in a hurry, passing her without a glance, inserting a key in the lock and pushing the door fully open as he entered so that she was able to reach it before it swung shut.
She was in a small hallway with a staircase rising from it. No sign of a lift. This had been a conversion with no economy spared. A notice headed LISTON DEVELOPMENTS with a logo resembling the Sidney Opera House confirmed what she’d guessed: the flats in the thirties were on the second floor.
She headed quickly up the stairs. The faster she moved the less chance there was of meeting somebody. Ahead she could hear the young Asian’s footsteps. He was making for the second floor too. She stepped out into the corridor just in time to see him entering a flat, calling, ‘Devi, what are you doing? Ma’s expecting us at one,’ to which a woman’s voice replied, ‘In a minute, in a minute, your ma’s not going anywhere, worse luck!’
The door closed as Fleur approached. Number 38.
She passed on to number 39, which was the last along the corridor. So, neighbours on one side only and they sounded as if they were on their way out.
Beyond the door she could hear the sound of a television cop-show or movie, the kind that involved screaming women and screeching cars. There was a bell push. She leaned into it, then stood back. No security cameras, but the doors did have peepholes. She composed her face to smiling housewife mode. It didn’t come easy and wouldn’t stand close examination, but it should do for a one-eyed squinter.
The peephole darkened. After a moment it lightened again. Thirty seconds passed. Adjusting his dress, or didn’t like the look of her? She was starting to fear the second when the door opened.
She made a rapid assessment of the man who stood there.
He had an unruly mop of hair whose blackness was of an intensity you rarely met outside of a priest’s socks. But his eyebrows she noticed were light brown. And surely he’d had a moustache when she glimpsed him leaving the car park?
His build was right, just under six foot tall, quite muscular, no evidence of any middle-age spread around the belt of his jeans. Age hard to say, though his skin tone looked like that of a young man. Too young? Maybe he used male moisturizer.
He said, ‘Yes?’
She said, ‘Mr Watkins?’
He said, ‘Who’s asking?’
She said, ‘I’m glad to find someone at home. I was beginning to think the whole block was empty. I’m Jenny Smith, Mr Watkins. From Liston Developments. It’s about the proposed improvements. We will have to ask you to vacate your apartment for a couple of days, I’m afraid. I’m here to discuss timings and alternative accommodation with you. Do you have a few moments?’
As she spoke she moved forward with an assurance it would have taken a tank trap to deny. The man retreated before her. Her gaze took in the tiny room. She got no impression of permanency. Furnishing was minimal: television set with a lousy picture and distorted sound, one balding armchair next to a rickety coffee table on which stood a telephone, no pictures on the wall, no curtains on the window.
After seven weeks this would have looked good. After seven years it was puzzling.
He said, ‘Look, I’m a bit busy, couldn’t you do this some other time…?’
He had a bit of an accent. She wasn’t too good at accents. Bit up and down, like that nosey cop who used to get up Goldie’s nose. But accents were easy to put on if you had the gift for it. Vince did a great Arnie Schwarzenegger.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Health and Safety-they need everything yesterday. God, they’re the bane of my life these days. How long have you been here, by the way?’
‘Why? Isn’t that on your records?’
‘Of course it is.’
He was sounding edgy. The furnishings apart, it was looking good. But between looking good and absolute certainty there was a gap a rash jump to conclusions could easily tumble you in.
He said, ‘Look, just for the record, could I see some identification?’
Real edgy!
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘No problem. You’re quite right to ask. In fact, you asking reminds me I should have asked too. So I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, all right?’
A bit of jocular innuendo was always distracting, especially when accompanied by a menacing leer. She rarely had difficulty facing down guys who liked to talk big.
He said, ‘No, I’m sure you’re who you say you are. But listen, I’ve really got things to do…’
Her phone rang.
‘Mind if I answer this?’ she said, opening her shoulder bag.
She took the phone out. As she pressed the receive button the room swayed and this time didn’t level off immediately.
‘Oh God,’ she said.
The phone fell to the floor and she followed it down, cracking her forehead against the TV set which, as if in sympathy, let out a blood-curdling shriek. The warm trickle oozing over her left eye suggested it hadn’t curdled hers.
‘Oh fuck!’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, sure, that’s why I’m lying here bleeding,’ she grated.
‘You look bad. Shall I call an ambulance?’
Her wig had come askew. No wonder he was worried about the way she looked!
‘No, I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘A glass of water maybe.’
He rose and went out of the room.
She needed to be out of here too. She scrabbled for the phone to confirm what she suspected, but there was no one at the other end. Which meant…
She didn’t like to think what it might mean.
She really needed to be out of here. Strength was returning to her legs, but not enough yet.
The man came back with a cupful of water.
She took it from him, squeezed a tablet from the bubble pack and washed it down.
She saw him looking at her and she said, ‘Aspirin.’
There was a tap at the door.
