But he was behaving like a gentleman, even if he didn't look like one. He found a musty army surplus overcoat and draped it around her shoulders before making her sit in an old brown armchair. He bent to light the rickety gas fire, mumbled something about a stiff drink and headed back down to the kitchen.
Sophie peered warily at his living-room. It was roughly the size of her own, but seemed smaller and darker, because the walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with books. All sorts of books: big ones, little ones, fat ones, thin ones, hardbacks, paperbacks, and ones without any backs at all. The only sort of books he didn't have were new ones; they all looked second-hand and well-thumbed, but at least that meant they weren't there just for show. And they looked dusty. Sophie stroked the mantelpiece with her finger and found it was also covered in dust. The whole place smelled of dirty laundry and unwashed dishes — this was evidently not someone who took his housework seriously.
The thought gave Sophie a warm glow of optimism in the middle of her anxiety. He couldn't possibly have a girlfriend, because a woman would never endure such squalor. It wasn't so much that Sophie felt like doing his washing-up for him, but perhaps he could be persuaded to hire her own Filipino cleaning-woman for a couple of hours each week.
Comforting sounds drifted up from the kitchen — the clink of glass, the gush of water from the tap. Sophie began to relax for the first time since she'd woken from the dream. She huddled beneath the greatcoat, staring half-mesmerized at the flicker of artificial gas flame.
It was only when her neighbour reappeared, carrying a couple of glasses of whisky, that she remembered with an unpleasant start that she ought to have been calling the emergency services. That poor girl. She shrugged the greatcoat aside and started to get up. 'I have to use the phone.'
He stepped so close that she was forced to sit down again. 'You look like you need a drink,' he said, towering over her as he handed her one of the glasses.
She breathed in the fumes, and coughed, before forcing herself to take a sip of amber liquid. It made her cough again. But she liked the way he had taken control of the situation. After her past weeks of freedom, it was somehow reassuring to be told what to do.
She began to gabble, taking great gulps of air between words, and knowing all the while that little of what she was saying made sense. 'Outside on the railings… window… fallen…'
Her voice trailed away and she stared at him, a frightening new idea forming in her brain. What if the girl hadn't fallen out of the first floor window at all? What if she had fallen out of the second floor window?
Out of this flat?
What if this man had pushed her?
He gazed calmly back at her, and, as if reading her mind, shook his head. 'Come,' he ordered, holding out his hand. Meekly, she allowed him to help her up and lead her over to the window. It was smaller than hers, harder to fall out of, and not the sort of window through which someone could easily be pushed. He wrestled it open, letting in a current of cool night air which cut through the mustiness of the room.
'You saw someone out there?' he asked.
'There was a lot of blood,' Sophie said, hanging back, unwilling to look outside. 'But she was still moving.'
'Shall we take another look?'
Sophie took a deep breath and risked it. Nothing stirred except a cat which suddenly darted across the road and beneath one of the parked cars that lined the street. There was no blood. No girl. There were just the railings, and the steps leading down to the basement flat, and the light out there wasn't greenish at all; it was the usual sodium orange.
The fear drained out of her, leaving her legs hollow and weak. He helped her back to the armchair. What an idiot she'd been. She didn't feel any better when she took a longer look at her upstairs neighbour and realized he was rather attractive, even though his breath was bad and his hair was sticking out at all sorts of odd angles and there were dark, puffy rings around his eyes. He was of a physical type similar to Miles. Not so well-groomed, obviously, but long-legged and gaunt, with a fetching air of fatigue.
But now he would think she was neurotic and she had totally ruined any chance she might have had.
Or maybe not. Maybe he didn't think she was a hysterical fool after all. He was nodding sympathetically.
'It could have been Ann-Marie,' he said to himself. 'It was Ann-Marie,' he repeated in a more confident tone. He looked directly at Sophie and smiled. 'It was Ann-Marie you saw, am I right?'
'I thought I saw something,' Sophie said, hesitantly, because she wasn't sure his smile was the most appropriate response in the circumstances. 'But maybe I didn't. Maybe it was me.'
'Maybe it was,' he said. 'And maybe it wasn't. But I should finish your drink if I were you.'
She gulped down too large a mouthful and nearly choked. He patted her on the back until she'd finished spluttering.
'Knock it back, and I'll get you another.'
Sophie could feel the whisky leaving a trail of warmth as it slid down into her stomach. She finished it quickly, and held out the empty glass. He told her to wait a second while he fetched the bottle.
She curled up in the chair again, already feeling more robust, and continued to survey her surroundings. The furniture was shabby, there were threadbare patches in the olive-green carpet, and only someone with severe cash-flow problems, she reasoned, would still be using a manual typewriter when everyone she knew had graduated to laptops; she spotted his Remington over on the table, surrounded by a chaos of books and papers. If he wrote for a living, she thought, then he obviously wasn't doing very well.
He came back with the bottle of whisky. 'Your name's Macallan? I saw it on your mail,' he said, pouring out two large measures before depositing the half-empty bottle on the mantelpiece.
'Sophie,' she said, transferring her glass to her left hand and extending the right for him to shake. He surprised her by lifting her fingers to his mouth and kissing them. It was the gesture of a confirmed romantic, and she decided then and there to hit him with the full version.
'Sophie Antigone Warbeck Macallan,' she rattled off. 'My mother had pretensions.'
He whistled. 'Some name. But it's a remarkable coincidence. My name's Jamieson. Robert Dennis Jamieson.'
Sophie chuckled, though she had no idea why. Now that the fear had subsided, she was feeling lightheaded and a little flirtatious, but if Robert had just made a joke, she didn't get it.
'We have something in common,' he elaborated. 'We both share surnames with famous brands of whisky. Jameson Irish, in my case, though I have an extra "i". But you're The Macallan Single Highland Malt, and that's spelt the same, isn't it? I don't suppose you're any relation? You don't sound Scottish.'
'My father always said our ancestors hid in the hills after Culloden,' Sophie said. 'But I don't think they had anything to do with whisky.'
'Shame,' said Robert. 'What we're drinking, however, is neither The Macallan nor Jameson.' He pinged the side of the glass with his thumb and fingernail. 'This is Tesco's finest blended. But at least it's put some colour back into your cheeks. When I first opened the door, I thought you were a ghost.'
Their eyes met.
Sophie wasn't ready for intimate eyeball-to-eyeball contact. She quickly looked away and laughed nervously. 'You're a writer?' she asked.
There was no reply, so she looked back. She'd thought the question a straightforward one, but he seemed perturbed by it. He was ruffling his already untidy hair with one hand.
'Trying to be,' he said. 'But it's not easy when people like Harry Fisher have got it in for you.'
'Who's Harry Fisher?' she asked.