“I think you probably know why,” Andrew said quietly.
The man was suddenly consumed by a hacking cough.
“Bollocks, you’ve no idea,” he spluttered. “No idea,” he said again, yanking the front door open.
Andrew and Peggy waited awhile before they went outside. The man had clumped down the steps and was now halfway across the estate, his hands in his jacket pockets. He turned briefly, backpedaling as he looked up and gave the finger. Andrew took off his mask and gloves and Peggy did the same before wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead.
“So what did you think of your first property inspection, then?” Andrew said, watching the man disappear around the corner with a final middle finger salute.
“I think,” Peggy said, “that I need a stiff bloody drink.”
— CHAPTER 7 —
Andrew had assumed Peggy was joking even as she marched them into the first pub they came to around the corner from the estate. But then the next thing he knew she’d ordered a pint of Guinness and asked what he was having. He checked his watch. It had only just turned one o’clock.
“Oh, really? Well, I shouldn’t . . . I’m not . . . um . . . okay then. A lager, I suppose, please.”
“Pint?” the barman asked.
“A half,” Andrew said. He suddenly felt like a teenager again. He used to practically hide behind Sally as she’d confidently order them beers in their local. He’d have to hold the pint glass with both hands, like a toddler drinking milk from a bottle.
Peggy was drumming her fingers on the bar impatiently as the barman waited for her half-full Guinness to settle. She looked ready to jump over and drink straight from the tap.
Aside from a couple of regulars who looked so gnarled and settled in, it was as if the structural integrity of the building depended on their presence, they were the only ones there. Andrew was still hanging his coat on the back of a chair when Peggy clinked her glass against his on the table and drank three hearty gulps.
“Christ, that’s better,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m not an alkie,” she added quickly. “This is my first drink in about a month. That was just pretty intense for a first morning’s work. Usually it’s just seeing where the toilets are and forgetting the name of everyone you’re introduced to. Still, better to properly go for it. It’s like getting into cold water, isn’t it? And I’ve got enough holiday memories of slowly inching my way into the sea, like I could somehow trick my body into not realizing what was happening, to know you’ve just got to get it over with.”
Andrew took a tentative sip of beer. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d had an alcoholic drink, but he was fairly certain it hadn’t been lunchtime on a Wednesday.
“How often do chancers like that guy turn up and try and scam money?” Peggy said.
“It’s quite common,” Andrew said. “The stories are usually very similar, though sometimes you get a person with something better prepared, more believable.”
Peggy wiped some foam off her lip. “I’m not sure what’s worse. Maybe the people who concoct a proper story are the real shits, not that dopey idiot back there.”
“I think you’re right,” Andrew said. “At least with Eric we’ve got what looks like a next of kin. That usually settles things—stops the chancers trying to get something when there’s family on the scene.”
One of the locals at the bar began an impressive sneezing fit, entirely ignored by the others dotted around him. He eventually recovered enough to inspect whatever he’d hacked up into a handkerchief with a mixture of surprise and pride before ramming it back up his sleeve.
“Is it usually blokes who, you know, end up like this?” Peggy said, eyeing the sneezer as if he might be their next case.
“Nearly always, yes. I’ve only had one woman”—Andrew went red before he could stop himself—“you know, a dead one.” Oh god! “I mean . . .”
Peggy was trying very hard not to smile. “It’s okay, I know what you mean. You’ve only ever done one house inspection where the deceased was female,” she said, very deliberately.
“That’s right,” Andrew said. “It was my first inspection, actually.”
The pub door opened and an elderly couple came in, regulars too, it would seem, judging from the way the barman acknowledged them with a nod and began pouring a pint and a half of bitter without needing to be asked.
“What was that like, then, your first?” Peggy asked.
The memory of that day was still very clear in Andrew’s mind. The woman’s name was Grace, and she’d been ninety when she’d died. Her house had been so immaculate it was as if she might have expired as a result of a particularly vigorous clean. Andrew recalled the intense relief he’d felt when he and Keith had entered the house. Maybe it would always be like this: little old ladies who’d had a good innings and passed away in their sleep; savings in a Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle money jar; Brideshead Revisited on VHS; a kindly next-door neighbor doing the weekly shop and replacing lightbulbs.
That was before he found the note under Grace’s pillow.
In the event of my death: make sure that evil bitch next door gets nothing. She’ll be after my wedding ring—mark my words!
He realized Peggy was looking at him expectantly.
“It was largely fine,” he said, deciding that dropping another grim tale into the mix might not be helpful.
They sipped their drinks and Andrew realized he should really ask Peggy some questions about herself. But his mind was blank. That was the problem when you spent your entire adult life treating small talk like it was Kryptonite. Luckily, Peggy had that rare quality of making a silence seem comfortable. After a while, she broke it. “So is there nobody at the funerals if we’ve not found a next of kin?”
“Well,” Andrew said, “and this isn’t strictly part of the job, but if it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to turn up—no neighbors or ex-colleagues or anything—then I go myself.”
“That’s very good of you. Going above and beyond, like that.”
“Oh no. Not really,” Andrew said quickly, squirming with embarrassment. “It’s quite common in this job, I think. I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
“Must be tough, though,” Peggy said. “Are they usually okay—as much as they can be—the funerals? Nothing really distressing’s happened?”
“Not so much distressing,” Andrew said. “But there are unusual moments.”
“Like what?” Peggy said, leaning forward slightly.
Andrew immediately pictured the chair man.
“A man once turned up with a blue armchair,” he said. “I’d not been able to find any friends or family, so I wasn’t expecting anyone there. It turned out this man—Phillip—had been on holiday when his friend died. He was the one person who was allowed into the guy’s house. The deceased was obsessed with this chair getting somehow damaged, though the color had already begun to fade. Phillip wasn’t sure why he was so attached to it, but he had a feeling his friend’s late wife used to sit there. Phillip eventually persuaded the man to let him take it away and get the color restored, but by the time he’d come to collect it from the repair place after his holiday the man had died. Phillip saw the notice I’d put in the local paper that morning and headed straight to the funeral. He even brought the chair into the church so it was next to us during the service.”
“Wow,” Peggy said, sitting back. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“It is, yes,” Andrew said. “But—” He stopped abruptly.
“What?” Peggy said.
Andrew cleared his throat.
“Well, it actually made me determined to keep going to the funerals.”
“How come?”
“Oh, well, I’m not exactly sure,” Andrew said. “It just felt like I sort of . . . had to.”