‘My parents. They’re away. It’s just me and the tortoises. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with a tortoise? Trust me, they don’t know their hogs.’
‘I don’t know many people who know their hogs. Not the way you do.’
That pleased him. He gave a broad smile and held out his hand. ‘I’m Jason.’
‘Evie.’ She shook it. ‘It’s nice to meet another hog freak. You total nerd.’
He grinned and pointed a finger at himself. ‘Remember this face. Technical genius. One day I’m going to land a probe on Mars. You see if I don’t.’
Inside the garage there was a red four-by-four and the Harley. He spent some time showing it to her, letting her run her fingers over a welding job he’d done himself to see just how ‘awesomely smooth’ it was. Then he went to his workbench at the back of the garage and scanned the tools mounted on the wall, murmuring under his breath until he came to the item he wanted. ‘A magnetic one for this, I think,’ he said, selecting a plug socket. He knelt down on the cool garage floor next to the bike. While he tinkered Zoë unzipped her jacket and made a show of wandering along the workbench, pretending to study the labels and the mountings. With her back turned to him she slipped the pipe grips from out of her T-shirt, crouched and left them on the floor. She might need to come back. Then she leaned against the bench, arms folded, head tilted back. From here she could see through the door that led into the house. It was slightly ajar. Beyond it there were glimpses of Dominic Mooney’s life – a pale-blue carpet, a polished mahogany hall table, artificial arum lilies in a vase. Jason must have turned the hip-hop off, because the place was quiet, just the sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere.
‘It won’t take long. The insulation’s cracked.’
‘Is it? Good job you were here, eh?’ She nodded into the house. ‘I don’t suppose I could … uh?’ She held out her hands to show how grimy they were. ‘I’ve been in the saddle all day and I’d love to just wash my hands.’
‘First on the left.’ He didn’t look up. ‘Use the towel on the metal ring and not the folded ones, the ones with the lace and shit. Those are for guests. Mum’ll castrate me if they get used.’
Zoë sauntered into the house, the zips on her jacket jingling. She went into the cloakroom and splashed her face. There were nice toiletries – good stuff, like Champney’s handwash and an Italian moisturizer in a stone bottle with gold script on it. She took the towel off the ring and wandered into the hallway, drying her hands. The noises of Jason tinkering came from the garage. He was totally absorbed, so she quickly put her head round all of the doors leading from the hall. The living room was huge, carpeted with something patterned and furnished like a hotel, with ornately upholstered sofas. The fitted mahogany shelves were crammed with books and photo albums. French windows led on to a large, walled garden, filled with sunshine. Leaning against the windows was a tennis racket and a tube of balls. Funny, she thought, eyeing them. She’d never really given much thought to how many people had tennis balls knocking around their house.
She went to the kitchen doorway and gave that a quick scan: country-style with wooden units, dried hops draped across the pelmets, utensils in a rustic terracotta jug. A gingham tea-towel. It didn’t seem like the house of a person who’d kill someone or pay someone else to do it. Even so, there was something, just something, about this place that said Mooney could easily be responsible for David Goldrab’s microwave dinner going hard back in Bath.
In the garage the engine came to life. Jason gave a little yelp of victory. Zoë came back into the doorway, still drying her hands. He was standing next to the bike, grinning all over his face, turning the throttle, making the engine roar. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’ he shouted, over the noise. ‘Remember this face. Remember me!’
She put the towel down on the workbench and came over to the bike, shaking her head admiringly. ‘Great,’ she yelled. ‘Do I owe you anything?’
‘A ride? That is—’ Remembering his manners, he stopped revving and let his face go sober. ‘A ride? If you don’t mind.’
‘You want to drive my Shovelhead?’
‘No – I mean, not if it’s a problem. Really. Forget I asked.’
‘No, no – I mean, it’s …’ She nibbled her lip. Pretended to be struggling with this. Then, at length she said, ‘It’s fine. Are you insured?’
‘I’ll only take it up the road and back. I won’t take it out of the street.’
‘OK. I s’pose it’s the least I can do. But take care of her, eh?’
‘I will.’
Jason ran inside and came hurrying back out with a black Shoei open-face helmet. He kicked off his sandals and zipped boots on to his bare feet. He looked faintly insane in his T-shirt and the beetle headgear as he clambered on to the bike. He wobbled a bit coming out of the gates, then got into his stride. He turned out on to the street in second and was gone. She could hear the blast of the engine coming over the hedges and gardens as he sped up the road. She turned and went quickly back into the house.
The bookshelves in the living room didn’t contain anything special. A few photos of the family, the Mooneys on their wedding day, Jason as a baby, a tall thin girl in a bridesmaid’s dress. The books were mostly non-fiction, on domestic policy and languages – Spanish, Russian, Arabic. Nothing that looked like business files. She went into the hallway and opened all the other doors. A utility room, a studio with half-finished pottery dotted around, a dining room with the curtains closed to stop the sun fading the furniture. And a room that was locked.
She rattled the door. She ran her fingers over the frame, feeling for a key. Checked in the bowl on the hallstand, picking up car keys on a springy spiral rubber ring, a gas-meter key, some petrol receipts. No key.
She went back through the garage, across the driveway and through the wooden side gate. Here, the houses stood quite close to each other, and the side access was in shadow. On this wall there were only two windows in the Mooneys’ house, one frosted, with the overflow from the toilet below it, the second the window into the locked room. She put her hand against it and peered inside. She could make out a big mahogany leather-topped desk with a green banker’s lamp on it, a leather armchair and a footstool. On the shelves beyond the desk she could plainly see the box files lined up. ‘Kosovo’, one said, ‘Priština’ another. Maybe some record of whom he’d paid. And how. She drummed her fingers on the glass. She could smash the window now, be in and out in no time.
The noise of the bike coming back echoed down into the gap between the buildings, and she stepped back from the window, her hands itching to just do it. But the bike was getting louder and louder and at the last second she changed her mind. She went back to the gate leading to the driveway and found it had become stuck. She yanked at it, rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The bike was nearer now. She glanced over her shoulder at the back garden. It’d take too long to go that way. She gave the gate one last tug. This time it opened, and she stepped outside, just in time for Jason to sweep into the driveway.
He stopped the bike, took off his helmet and looked at her curiously.
‘Hi.’ She patted the bike’s handlebars. ‘You enjoy her? You not enjoy?’
His eyes went from her to the side door. ‘You OK?’
‘Eh?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Yeah. I was looking for a hosepipe. Wanted to give her a wash-down.’
‘A wash-down? She doesn’t look like she needs one.’
‘I think she does.’
‘There’s a hosepipe there.’ He gestured at the tap mounted on the front of the house, the hose carefully wound away on a green and yellow reel. ‘Didn’t you notice that before you went round the back?’
‘No.’
Jason scratched his head thoughtfully, wrinkled his mouth. Then he swung his leg off the bike and looped his helmet around his wrist – the way she’d seen bikers loop helmets when they were getting ready to swing them as a weapon.