She nods.
“My name is Andrew Garrison, and I’m here on behalf of your landlord, Kerrier Council. You reported a repair back in”—he consults the bulky-looking tablet again—“June. Bloody hell, you’ve been waiting awhile, haven’t you?”
“I’m considered low priority,” Cathy tells him pointedly. “That’s what they told me.”
“Bunch of charmers, aren’t they?” He laughs. Cathy thinks his eyes might be the most unusual she’s ever seen. They are the palest brown, almost sand colored. “You want to let me have a look at this window, then?”
“Hang on.” She pulls her mobile phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “What did you say your name was?”
“Andrew Garrison. Here.” He turns his lanyard round to face her. It’s an ID badge, with the Kerrier Council logo at the top and a photograph of the man standing before her, only looking slightly younger, his face considerably less creased. “I can give you the number if you need to call them.”
“No need.” Cathy pulls her phone from her pocket and snaps a photo of the card. She probably won’t check up on it, but she’s happy for him tothinkshe might. He gives her another smile as he lifts the tool bag by his feet, and Cathy stands aside to let Andrew Garrison into her home.
Scout’s bedroom is downstairs, a small, narrow room just off the kitchen. It had once belonged to Danny, when Scout had been young enough to still be sleeping in with her, but when she’d caught Danny sneaking out the window to go skateboarding at night, she’d moved him upstairs in the room next door to her own.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such a long wait,” Andrew tells her as he follows her through the kitchen. “Sometimes these things get lost in the machine. It was much easier in the old days when all our jobs were written down with a pen and paper.”
“I’d be amazed if the council could find a pen and paper when they can barely find their arse with both hands.” Cathy catches his eye. He is smiling.
“Yup. It’s always been like that. They’re a shambles. I can’t wait to leave.”
“How long until your time is up?”
His smile becomes a grin. “Next week. I’m just tying up all the loose ends.”
“Lucky you. Will you not go mad with nothing to do?”
“I’ve got a project I’m working on, so I’ll be able to dedicate all my time to it.” His eyes move over her, and just fleetingly Cathy feels a flicker of something—not fear, not exactly, but something akin to it. Something more like despair.
“It’s through here.” She points to Scout’s doorway. It’s a cheerful little room, with bright framed prints on the walls and stacked bookshelves. Scout has tipped his toy basket all over the floor, and Cathy apologizes to Andrew as he is forced to tiptoe through the mess.
“Sorry. Iwasplanning to tidy this room later. I just keep putting it off.”
“You should work for the council. You’d fit right in.”
She laughs, and that momentary feeling—nerves or despondency, she isn’t sure—dissipates like fog on a sunny morning. She offers him a cup of tea, which he accepts. As the kettle boils, Cathy finds herself watching the video clip again, trying to freeze-frame the moment that the crawling figure appears. She wishes the camera had caught whoever had stuffed the cats into the suitcase. It’s been bothering her, like a deep-rooted itch. The person Mr. Jenner had described had been tall and hooded,andhe’d had a key. Who was it?
“How long did you say the latch on this window has been busted?”
Cathy looks up to see Andrew standing in the doorway. There is a drill in his hands. He holds it like a gun hanging down by his hip,finger wrapped around the trigger. She experiences that disquiet again, like a tidal pull.
“About five months.”
“How have you been locking it up, out of interest?”
Cathy straightens up. She’s never been a good judge of character—just ask either of her sons’ feckless, absent fathers—but she’s suddenly wishing she hadn’t answered the door today after all. She doesn’t know what it is—those eyes maybe, so pale and still they are almost reptilian—but she wants to hustle this handyman out of her house. Behind her, the kettle reaches a boil.
“I use a bike lock. I just thread it through.”
His face gives nothing away. “Uh-huh.” He scratches at his chin with his index finger. “You said your littlest sleeps in there?”
“I never said that.”
The kettle is screeching, but turning to pull it off the stove will mean turning her back on this man, and Cathy is sure she does not want to do that. When he moves toward her, she reaches below the counter for the drawer where she keeps the knives. Her head is full of alarms, bright, ugly Klaxon calls, but Andrew just sweeps right past, one hand extended to swipe that tea towel clean off her shoulder. In one quick movement, he wraps it round his hand, lifting the screaming kettle from the stove.
He stands there, haloed by steam, looking at her with some concern. “Miss Maddon? You okay?”
She nods, her hand still grasping the handle of the drawer. He slowly places the kettle onto the empty hob, his eyes never leaving her. She thinks he is moving with the same care and delicacy you would around a dog baring its teeth.