October skies

Tom reached for his inhaler and took a wheezy pull before continuing. ‘Anyway, the point I want to make is this: just be careful what sort of people you piss off over there with your story, okay?’

‘Well, it’s not like we’ve had any real luck digging up anything on Preston. He remains something of an enigma. I’ve certainly not got any great-great-grandchildren lined up to do a door-step interview.’

Tom nodded. ‘Well, that’s probably for the best. You might end up getting a bloody nose.’

Julian laughed.

‘So, you’re heading back to the US tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, have a good flight and say hi to Rose for me.’

‘I will.’

‘Oh, Julian, by the way, I’m away for a couple of weeks. My agent’s flogging overseas rights to some European publishers, so I’ll be part of the dog and pony show; meet-and-greet, then some talks, some signings. But we’ll hook up again when you get back?’

‘Yes, for sure.’

‘Because whether you manage to put a production together or not, I’d dearly love to work with you on this as a book. We could co-author if you like, or you write and I’ll consult, whatever. Want to talk about that downstream?’

‘Yeah, sounds good.’

‘Excellent. Happy flying, then. I’ll speak to you soon.’

‘Thanks, speak soon.’

Tom disconnected and placed his cordless phone back on the soap shelf, then settled back in the bath. ‘Yes, a book,’ he muttered to himself, his deep voice resonating off the granite tiles and around the bathroom.

He was reaching for the TV remote when he heard a noise from downstairs.

CHAPTER 61

Thursday

Notting Hill, London

It was a soft clack.

He froze for a moment, then realised that it was probably the wind playing with the letterbox flap. Outside, through the top, unfrosted panel of his bathroom window, he could see the tip of the solitary withered and miserable-looking inner-city poplar that grew outside the back of next door’s house, uplit by the amber glow of street lights, swaying gently.

He watched it gently undulating from side to side, and listened to the pleasing tinkle of a wind chime.

He left the TV muted. Not that he was the twitchy sort, but there had been several burglaries along their cul-de-sac in recent months. In any case, it was relaxing listening to the hiss of a breeze through the leaves, and the gentle random musical notes. Despite being so central in London, and so close to the high street, he was constantly amazed at how quiet their little piece of backstreet Notting Hill was. In the distance a police siren wailed and a dog barked in reply… but other than that, so peaceful.

Another noise.

It sounded like the slightest scrape of one of his kitchen stools across the parquet floor. That was all it was… a nudge. Not a sound that could be mistaken for the central heating coming on, or any of the other plethora of tickings and creakings a house will make in the night.

It was the sound of someone else in his house.

Shit.

He felt the first cold prickle of anxiety, and a quickening of his breath. He reached out and took a pull on his inhaler.

Just a kid… a chav looking for something easy to swipe and run.

He knew from past dealings with young offenders that they were at least as frightened as the people they robbed or mugged. If there was someone down there, a confident boo would have him running like a startled rabbit.

‘YOU HAVE EXACTLY TEN SECONDS TO PISS OFF BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!’ His voice boomed out of the bathroom. He listened intently for the sound of trainers skidding on his waxed floor, the clatter and slam of a door or window being opened and the diminishing slap of running feet outside on the pavement.

But he heard nothing.

‘ALL RIGHT, SCREW IT. I’M CALLING NOW,’ he bellowed again. This time there was a wheezy signature to his baritone voice.

He picked up his cordless, dialled all the nines, held it to his ear waiting to hear the trill of the call ringing through. But there was nothing, just a rustle and crackling and then something that sounded very much like a breath being taken.

‘I can hear you up there,’ a voice muttered out of the earpiece.

‘Whuh?!’ he blurted, dropping the phone onto his wet belly.

He heard footsteps across the downstairs hall.

‘What do you want?’ Tom called out, his troubled breathing beginning to rob his voice of its natural authority.

The lights upstairs suddenly went out, leaving the bathroom illuminated only by the flickering glow of his plasma screen. Some light spilled up the stairs from the kitchen and hallway lights, and he thought he caught the momentary fluttering of a shadow cast up the stairway and onto the wall outside his bathroom. Then it darted out of sight.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

The lights downstairs went out. And finally his TV winked off.

‘Please! Take what you want and go!!’ he gasped in the darkness, his eyes struggling to adjust.

He heard the creak of weight settling on one of the stairs.

Oh God, oh fuck.

‘Look,’ he puffed between laboured breaths, ‘my wallet is in my jacket down in the kitchen. There’s at least a couple of hundred pounds in there.’

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