Free The Killer Next Door by Alex Marwood Page B

the landing to mop his brow again and takes the bunch of keys from his pocket. The padlock key stands out, polished by the rubbing of his fingers. He likes to feel it sometimes, when he’s sitting on his sofa; touching it somehow makes him feel closer to the contents of his cupboard. He leafs past it, finds the key marked Three. He always likes to have the key to the room in his hand when he comes knocking, in case the tenant doesn’t answer. Sometimes they try hiding until they think he’s gone, to wriggle out of paying up. It gives them the shock of their lives, when he comes in anyway.
    He stops outside Cher Farrell’s door and has a little listen. Faint sounds of movement, then the hiss of the tap being turned on and off. She’s in there. He’ll be interested to see how she responds. He knocks.
    To his surprise, her footsteps cross the room immediately, and she throws the door open as though she’d been expecting him – something of a contrast with last month. He had to make three trips back before he caught her in then, and in the end he only managed it by waiting in his cupboard until he heard her thunder her way up the stairs. ‘Hiya!’ she cries, and beams at him. It’s a false, over-bright greeting, too friendly.
    ‘Hello,’ he says, suspiciously.
    She’s stunning, today. Her hair’s pinned loosely to the back of her head with a chopstick, brassy tendrils falling loose against a neck so smooth it could be made of alabaster. Skin that’s like that all over her skinny body, he knows. He’s thought about touching it many, many times. Her make-up is relatively light – in smoky browns and taupes – her eyelashes not coated into tarantula legs like she so often wears them. She has on a pair of pedal-pushers, like the ones the young girls used to wear when he was a child, and a crop top, which they certainly never did, and a pair of platform shoes so high you could use them as a step-stool. Her legs go on and on, colt-like, and her belly is flat and brown and muscular. He knows she’s been sunbathing in the garden and she looks young and fresh, and fragrant and, standing before her, he feels squat and sticky and ungainly. He’d thought he’d got over his resentment of all the young girls, their careless beauty, the eyes that turn away as he shambles down the street as though he’s something they don’t want to exist, but Cher is something else.
    ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting the rent,’ she says.
    ‘That’s right,’ he replies.
    ‘Hang on a tick. I’ve got it right here.’ She turns back into the room, striding across the threadbare carpet to her knock-off Chloe handbag, which lies beside the bed.
    The Landlord follows her in, and closes the door.
    She whirls round at the sound of the latch clicking to, crosses her arms over her small breasts and backs against the sink. All legs and wide, wide eyes, she looks like a fawn overtaken in the forest. She’s taller than me, he thinks, but I’m so much bigger than her. I could do anything I liked, really.
    The vulnerability doesn’t last for long, a couple of seconds at most. Then she masters her fear and the street-smart Scouser is back. ‘I thought I said to hold on,’ she says, and digs in the bag for her wallet.
    He can see her surreptitiously glance through her lowered eyelashes in case of sudden movement, enjoys knowing that, however insouciant her demeanour, she is still ill at ease. A lot less friendly than last month, he thinks. But then she came up short and had to suck up, last month. ‘I thought you might want to give me a cup of tea,’ he says.
    ‘No milk,’ says Cher. Finds the wallet and starts pulling notes from it, fanning them out of the top of the slot like playing cards. Fifties, twenties… she’s had a good month, he can see that. ‘And no tea either. I don’t do tea. It’s the devil’s drink.’
    ‘Never mind,’ says the Landlord. ‘I’ll have a glass of water instead.’
    He goes to the sink. She totters