Safe House (3 page)

The black front door opened before I could knock and a swarthy man in light denim jeans and a green turtleneck sweater filled the void. He had lank, shoulder-length brown hair, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses, the type with mirrored lenses. The sunglasses were an odd choice, considering the dreary conditions beneath the tall forest trees. He clutched a mobile phone.

The man leaned sideways and looked over my shoulder at the stencil work on my van. It was brief and to the point.
Manx Heating Solutions and Repairs
, followed by the numbers for my mobile and landline.

‘You are heating man?’ His accent was hard and clipped, making me think he was from somewhere in northern Europe, possibly Germany. He sounded like the guy who’d left me the message, only more cautious. I get that all the time. Too many people have heard horror stories about cowboy tradesmen.

‘Name’s Rob.’ I switched my clipboard in my hands and held my palm out to him through the rain.

He seemed not to notice. He was still looking past me, like he was trying to see inside my van.

‘It’s just my dog in there,’ I told him. ‘He’s the brains of the operation.’

The man half-nodded. ‘The hot water. It break.’

‘So I understand.’ I left my hand out for a moment longer before giving up and drying it on the backside of my work trousers. ‘Where’s your boiler?’

He pointed with his phone at a built-in garage to the side of the property. There was a high up-and-over door with a turn handle in the middle. It had fluted metal panels. The white paint was flaking.

‘Is it open?’ I asked.

The man delved inside the pocket of his jeans and threw me a key on a red plastic fob. ‘I turn lights on for you.’

He stepped back, as if to shut the front door.

‘Wait. Have you checked your oil?’

He just looked at me. It was hard to gauge his reaction from behind his sunglasses.

‘Your oil tank,’ I said. ‘Is there any fuel in it?’

‘I do not know. You can check this too.’

*

I grabbed my torch from the van and let Rocky out, and then the two of us ran through the slanted rain in search of the oil tank. We found it hidden in the tall grass behind the garage and I checked for fuel. By the time I’d screwed the lid back on the tank, we were both pretty wet. I ran back to the van for my tools and a towel. Then I unlocked the garage door and heaved it upright.

Mr Shades had been as good as his word. The lights were on. Two fluorescent tubes were humming and flickering above my head. Over to the far left was a plain internal door that would connect with the cottage. A pull cord was suspended from the ceiling alongside it.

I stepped inside and rubbed my hair, hands and face with the towel while Rocky shook himself dry. Normally, I’d have laid the towel down and made Rocky clean his paws, but really there was no point. The floor was bare, unpolished concrete and the walls were unfinished breezeblocks. There were no stacked boxes of belongings. No pushbikes or garden equipment. There was no sturdy workbench or pegboard of household tools or any of the customary junk you might expect to find in most garages. There was just a run of white laminate shelving units fitted against the wall on my left, all of them empty, and a combination boiler located near an immersion tank in the right-hand corner of the room.

The boiler was one hell of an old thing. I already knew it was going to be a crappy job before I removed the front panel and what I found inside didn’t disappoint. It looked as if it hadn’t been serviced in decades.

I ran a few basic tests, checking the thermostat and the burner, but it didn’t surprise me that a simple solution was out of the question. The best outcome in a situation like this is when the home owner agrees to buy a new boiler. It’ll be more reliable, and more efficient, and compared to the maintenance costs of keeping an old system running, it’ll pay for itself within five years. But something told me Mr Shades wouldn’t be interested in any of that. The shabby state of the cottage didn’t suggest that anyone was looking to spend money on home improvements. And the rental Nissan and the man’s accent had made me think he was most likely a temporary guest. So unless he told me otherwise, I was going to focus on getting the hot water running again, leaving the sales pitch for another day.

Behind me, Rocky slumped on to the cement floor and lowered his head on to his forepaws. Then he whined like he could tell this wasn’t going to be one of those jobs where a quick fix was followed by a long walk through the woods.

‘Sorry, pal,’ I said.

Rocky closed his eyes and rolled on to his side. So this is what my business partner was contributing to the situation.
Nap time
.

*

An hour later, the rain had settled into a hard patter and I’d managed to suck most of the crud out of the boiler with my vacuum cleaner. I also seemed to be wearing a lot of grease and dust and oil. That was when the side door to the cottage opened and an angel walked in.

Sickening, I know, but trust me, compared to Mr Shades, she was a huge improvement.

Her smile hit me first, and it was so unexpected that I almost dropped the socket wrench I was holding.
Wham
. Neat white teeth, full lips. She was blonde, the kind of light blonde that only comes from years of sunshine. She was tanned, too, a soft caramel tint that was like a rebuke to the cheerless rain. She had on a pink vest top, frayed beige corduroy trousers and flipflops.

Dainty
, that was the first thought that came to my mind. I won’t tell you the second.

Rocky stirred and sidled over to her. He leaned into her thigh and she tickled the back of his ear in that way that drives him happily nuts.
Oh,
right
, I thought. You can sleep through an hour’s worth of vacuuming, no problem, but the moment a stunning blonde enters the room, you’re super-attentive.

‘Ooh, you are so beautiful,’ she said, and I recognised traces of the same European accent I’d heard from Mr Shades. ‘And your ears are so soft. What is your name, handsome one?’

Rob, I wanted to tell her. And then I wanted to roll over on my back and have her tickle my tummy.

Rocky beat me to it.

‘He’s called Rocky,’ I said, as she knelt down and circled her palm over his abdomen. ‘And I think he likes you.’

She smiled and glanced up from beneath long, curling lashes. ‘Would Rocky like some water, maybe?’

I had some in the cooler in my van. I knew it and Rocky knew it, too. But he looked at me like he’d crap in my bed if I said as much.

‘That’d be nice,’ I said.

‘And you?’ Her fine blonde hair had fallen across her face. She tucked it behind her ear. ‘Would you like some tea? It’s been some time since I made tea for an Englishman.’

Now true, I could have told her I was Manx, but I couldn’t see the harm in letting it slide. I nodded and she gave Rocky a last pat before straightening and turning for the door.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘And bring Rocky, yes?’

The dog was gone before I’d cleaned my hands on an old rag. I knocked the worst of the dirt from my clothes, took off my work boots (trying to ignore the way my big toe was poking out of my sock) and made my way into the kitchen.

It was a cramped, dingy room, with small windows that were positioned too low in the walls. Rainwater sluiced down the glass. A bare ceiling bulb cast a weak light across the aged pine units and cheaply tiled countertop.

Rocky had his head down at a bowl in the corner, doing a good job of spilling its contents across the linoleum floor and acting as if this was the finest tap water he’d tasted in his entire life. The blonde was standing beside the sink, filling an earthenware mug from a steaming kettle. And at a round table in the middle of the room sat Mr Shades and a second man I hadn’t seen before.

I was looking at the man from behind. He was big and muscular, with a shock of peroxide blonde hair and a colourful sleeve tattoo escaping the left cuff of his khaki T-shirt. The T-shirt was so tight he might as well have been wearing body paint. I got the impression the guy lifted weights and that he liked people to know it. The muscles of his lower neck and shoulders stood out as if someone had braided thick rope beneath his skin.

A photography book was open on the table before him. His head was bowed, hands covering his ears, his thick elbows propped on the tabletop. The page he was studying featured a black-and-white photograph of a pale, emaciated girl with a crescent-shaped collection of studs above her top lip.

Mr Shades was tapping at a laptop. The laptop was placed alongside his phone. It seemed he wasn’t a complete idiot, because his sunglasses were now balanced on top of his head.

Neither of the men paid me any attention. I stood awkwardly in my socks, shifting my weight between my feet.

‘Here is your tea.’

The blonde handed me the mug and I nodded my thanks, then took a sip and gave her a goofy thumbs-up.

‘You like?’

‘It’s perfect.’

She gave me the dazzling smile again. ‘You want if we go back to the garage?’

‘Fine by me.’ I gestured with my mug at the two men. ‘Wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.’

I led the way, taking a moment to step back into my boots and glancing towards the rain-splattered concrete at the threshold of the garage. I set my mug down on top of the boiler, picked up my spanner and dropped to my knees on a square of foam I’d laid on the ground.

‘Can you fix it?’ she asked, closing the door behind Rocky.

‘Think so,’ I said, over my shoulder. ‘But I might have to get some parts. The stuff I have in my van probably won’t fit.’

‘How long will this take?’

‘I should be able to pick the parts up in the morning. I’ll be finished a few hours after that.’

Her face sagged and her lips tangled into a pout. ‘So I will have another cold bath, I am thinking.’

‘And what, using the immersion goes against your religion?’

She peered hard at me, through the glossy blonde strands that were hanging in front of her eyes.

‘The immersion heater,’ I explained. ‘Here.’ I straightened and reached my hand through some pipes and flipped a switch that was hidden down behind the boiler. An amber diode glowed brightly. The immersion tank hummed and burbled.

‘
No
.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Three days, we have no hot water.’ She threw up her hands. ‘I keep telling them to call somebody. And here, you fix it already.’

‘Well, the main system’s still broken. And it’s expensive this way. So it’s better if I can get the boiler working again.’

‘I am so happy right now.’

She did a pirouette to prove it. It got Rocky excited. He jumped up and placed his forepaws on her thighs, as if he planned to lead her in a waltz around the garage.

‘Rocky is
so
cute.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘Are you always bringing him to your work?’

‘Unless a customer complains.’

‘But who would do such a thing?’ She lifted his dopey face and blew him kisses.

‘You’d be surprised. He’s not always so well behaved.’

‘I do not believe it.’ She eased Rocky down to the ground, then thrust her hand towards me. ‘My name is Lena.’

We shook in a strangely formal way.

‘Rob. You here on holiday?’

She shrugged and plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers.

‘With friends?’ I asked, pointing with my spanner in the direction of the kitchen.

‘You can call them this, I suppose.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

She smiled flatly.

‘They didn’t exactly strike me as fun-loving types,’ I suggested.

‘No? Then what types are they?’

I weighed the spanner in my hand, as if I was mulling over the options. ‘Honestly? They looked to me like the bad guys who die early in a Bruce Willis movie.’

She laughed hard, throwing her head and her hair right back. I liked the way it made me feel. A lot.

‘And you?’ she asked. ‘Are you a fun-loving type?’

‘I guess.’

She nodded towards the rain out in the clearing. ‘And what is there to do here, on this Isle of Man, to have fun?’

I got the impression she didn’t believe there was likely to be anything. As if she thought of the island as the smallest, most ridiculous place you could possibly imagine. Maybe she’d heard some of the local myths. Like how you had to say hello to the fairies if you were passing over the humped bridge on the way to Ballasalla, or risk a dose of bad luck. How no Manx person would dare to say the word ‘rat’, referring instead to ‘long tails’. How the local cats, as if to compensate, had no tails to speak of.

‘Depends,’ I said. ‘Ever been on a motorbike?’

Her chin snapped up, as if I’d got her interest all of a sudden.

‘Or heard of the TT races?’

‘What is this
TT
?’

‘It’s a road race. Happens every June. Timed laps. Each lap is over thirty-seven miles long. If you like, I could show you?’

‘You have a motorbike?’

‘Several. I race.’

She glanced down at Rocky, as if seeking his approval. ‘We could do this tomorrow, maybe?’

‘If you like, we could go after I fix the boiler.’

She checked over her shoulder, towards the door. Chewed the inside of her mouth. Then she stepped closer to me. So close that I could feel the heat coming off her body.

‘I do not think they will like it,’ she whispered.

‘I wasn’t offering them a ride.’

‘No.’ She was being serious now. Holding my eyes. ‘They maybe would not like it if I go.’

‘Oh. Well.’ I hitched my shoulders. ‘If you want to leave it . . .’

She turned and peered out of the garage doorway, into the beating rain, almost as if she hadn’t heard me at all. ‘Your van,’ she said. ‘Is it possible – can you bring your motorbike inside it?’

‘I suppose I can. But –’

‘Then this is perfect.’ She twirled and placed her hands on my shoulders. Blinded me with her smile again. ‘Here is what you must do.’

Chapter Four

‘You’re saying she asked you to back your van up to the garage?’ Detective Sergeant Teare asked. ‘Why would she do that?’