“I meant to say,” Peggy said. “Before we left, Cameron cornered me and told me to try and persuade you that us all having ‘dinner party bonding sessions’ together was a good idea. He said be subtle about it, but, well, that’s not really my area of expertise . . .”
“Ah,” Andrew said. “Well, thanks for letting me know. I think I’ll just ignore that for now.” He hoped that was that nipped in the bud.
“Righto,” Peggy said. “Probably for the best as far as I’m concerned.
“Cooking isn’t my bag, really. I managed to get to the age of thirty-eight without realizing I’ve been pronouncing ‘bruschetta’ wrong all my life. Turns out it’s not ‘brusheta,’ according to my neighbor. Then again he does wear a pink sweater tied around his shoulders like he lives on a yacht, so I’m reluctant to take any of his advice.”
“Right,” Andrew said, slightly distracted, having realized they were running low on supplies ahead of the property inspection.
“I suppose it’s a team-building thing, is it?” Peggy said. “To be fair I’d prefer that than clay pigeon shooting or whatever it is these middle managers get up to.”
“Something like that,” Andrew said, pulling his rucksack around and searching it to see if he was missing anything.
“And so we’re, um, actually going to see a house now where a bloke’s just died?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Shit, they did need supplies. They’d have to make a detour. He looked around in time to see Peggy puffing out her cheeks and then realized how unwelcoming he was being. He felt a familiar wave of self-loathing, but the words to rectify the situation wouldn’t come, so they walked on in silence until they got to the supermarket.
“We just need to make a quick stop-off here,” Andrew said.
“Midmorning snack?” Peggy asked.
“Afraid not. Well, not for me. But feel free to get something for yourself. I mean, not that you need my permission. Obviously.”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m actually on a diet anyway. It’s the one where you eat an entire wheel of brie and then have a bit of a cry. You know the one?”
Andrew remembered to smile this time.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, shuffling off. When he returned with everything he needed he found Peggy standing in an aisle by the books and DVDs.
“Just look at this lass,” she said, showing him a book whose cover displayed a woman smiling to the camera, apparently halfway through preparing a salad. “No one should look that delighted while holding an avocado.” She put the book back on the shelf and looked at the air freshener and aftershave in Andrew’s basket.
“I’ve got a horrible feeling I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for,” she said.
“I’ll explain a bit more when we get there,” Andrew said. He made his way to the tills, watching Peggy as she strolled toward the exit. She had a curious way of walking, her arms flat against her sides but her fists gently clenched and pointing out sideways, so that it looked like she had two treble clefs attached to her sides. As Andrew punched his pin into the card reader the tune of Ella and Louis Armstrong’s version of “Would You Like to Take a Walk?” drifted into his head.
—
They were standing at a crossroads, Andrew checking they were going the right way on his phone. Peggy filled the silence with a story about a particularly moving TV episode she’d watched the night before. (“Admittedly I can’t remember the name of the show, or the lead character, or when or where it’s set—but if you can track it down it’s brillo.”) Satisfied they were going in the right direction, Andrew was about to lead the way when there was a sudden crash behind him. He spun around to see where the noise had come from and saw a builder leaning over some scaffolding, about to toss an armful of rubble down into a dumpster.
“Everything okay?” Peggy said. But Andrew was rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the builder as he hurled another lot of bricks down with an even harsher clang. He began to clap dust off his hands but saw Andrew looking at him and stopped.
“Problem, mate?” he said, leaning over the scaffolding. Andrew swallowed hard. He could feel pain beginning to grow at his temples, the sound of harsh feedback slowly filtering into his head. Underneath the static came the faint strains of “Blue Moon.” With great effort, he managed to get his legs moving, and, to his relief, by the time he’d crossed the road and walked further on both the pain and noise had subsided. He looked around sheepishly for Peggy, wondering how he was going to explain this, but she was still standing by the dumpster, talking to the builder. From the expressions on their faces, it looked as if Peggy was patiently trying to teach an incredibly stupid dog how to do a trick. Abruptly, Peggy walked off.
“You all right?” she said when she’d caught up with him.
Andrew cleared his throat. “Yes, fine,” he said. “Thought I might have a migraine coming on, but thankfully not.” He nodded back at the builder. “What were you talking to him about?”
“Oh,” Peggy said, still seeming distracted with concern for him, “he made some unsolicited comments about my appearance so I took the time to explain that I sensed a deep, unquenchable sadness in his eyes. Are you sure you’re okay, though?”
“Yes, fine,” Andrew said, realizing too late that his arms were rigid at his sides, like a toy soldier’s.
They set off again, and even though he braced himself, the distant crash of rubble still made him jump.
—
The deceased’s flat was part of the Acorn Gardens estate. The name was written in white on a green sign featuring the names of the various blocks on the estate: Huckleberry House, Lavender House, Rose Petal House. Underneath that someone had spray-painted “Fuck cops,” and underneath that a sketch of a cock and balls.
“Blimey,” Peggy said.
“It’s okay. I’ve actually been here before, I think. Nobody bothered me that time so I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Andrew said, in part trying to reassure himself.
“Oh no, I’m sure it will be. I just meant that.” Peggy nodded at the sketch. “Impressive detail.”
“Ah, right. Yes.”
As they walked through the estate Andrew noticed people closing their windows and parents calling their kids inside, as if it were a Western and he was an outlaw hell-bent on chaos. He just hoped his attempted friendly smile conveyed the fact it was a coverall and some Febreze in his bag, rather than a shotgun.
The flat was on the first floor of Huckleberry House. Andrew paused at the bottom of the concrete steps and turned to face Peggy.
“How much detail has Cameron gone into with you about what happens at the property inspections?” he said.
“Not a huge amount,” Peggy said. “It would be great if you could fill me in a bit more. Because I’ll level with you, Andrew, I’m ever-so-slightly completely bloody terrified.” She laughed nervously. Andrew dropped his gaze. Part of him wanted to laugh along to reassure her, but at the same time he was aware that if there were any neighbors or friends of the deceased watching it wouldn’t look very professional. He squatted and reached into his bag.
“Here you go,” he said, handing Peggy a pair of surgical gloves and mask. “So, the deceased’s name is Eric White. He was sixty-two. The coroner referred the death to us because from what they can tell from the initial search by police there’s no obvious sign of a next of kin. So we’ve got two goals today: firstly to piece together as much as we can about Eric and find out if there really isn’t a next of kin, and secondly to try and work out if he’s got enough money to pay for the funeral.”