downstairs. She brandished another key and slipped it into the keyhole.
The door swung open. It was dark inside the flat, the curtains drawn. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. It smelled stale, too. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, then smoothed her hand down the wall beside the door and found the light switch, knocking a phone off its hook, and swearing. She flicked the light on and pocketed the keys.
George and Harry’s flat was revealed to her. The phone on the floor was an entry phone, attached by its flexible wire to a small intercom. She replaced it, then looked around her. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. There was a dirty-looking beige carpet on the floor, and the curtains were dark blue. It was warm in here, the boiler obviously set by a timer to automatically switch on. She picked up a few envelopes from the doormat and went over to the curtains and yanked them back. Dust plumed.
Two young men living on their own. Well, did I expect it to be neat and tidy?
There was an old-looking telly with a digibox. Several dusty-looking, blue-shaded lamps. An open bed-settee, with a rumpled quilt and pillows laid out on it. Lots of clutter. Some dead roses in a vase of stinking water. Guitars and bongo drums and clothes all over the place. She remembered George and his clutter. George was a magpie. Hated to throw anything away. Harry was tidier, she remembered that, but he wasn’t going to win any domestic prizes.
There was a small kitchen to one side of the living room, and that was in disarray too. Unwashed cups in the sink. Pans left to dry out on the sink top. There were garments behind the glass door of the washing machine. Gracie walked along the small hallway where there was a bathroom – tiny – and two bedrooms, both beds unmade. A computer desk and chair were in the corner of the larger one, with an empty, scummy mug with GEORGE on the side, a PC, monitor and printer set up on the desk.
She went over to the dressing table and opened a couple of drawers. In the bottom one she found a pair of what looked like unused pyjamas and she stuffed them into her bag. She grabbed the dressing gown hung on the back of the door, rolled it up and stuffed that in there too.
Gracie moved back into the living room and flicked off the light. The weak yellowish sun shone in the dirty windows and highlighted all the dust and disorder in here.
Well, what now, Gracie Doyle?
If . . . no, when George came out of hospital, he wouldn’t want to come back to a tip like this. She was going to have to have a word with Suze; they were going to have to get this place shipshape. That much, she could do. Organize a cleaner or something.
So what else are you hoping to find here?
‘I don’t know,’ she said aloud, and she wandered over to the telly, looking at the pads of paper and pens and scrawled notes set out on a low table beside it.
She unbuttoned her coat, sat down and started picking up bits of paper.
Get milk and bread , said one.
Phone Tone! , said another.
Mr Cuthill , followed by a phone number.
Gracie picked up the phone and dialled. It was answered straight away.
‘Hello? Mr Cuthill?’ asked Gracie.
‘Who’s this?’ He didn’t sound particularly friendly.
‘I’m Gracie Doyle, George and Harry’s sister. I’m just tidying up their flat,’ she lied smoothly. ‘And I came across your number, and—’
‘They missed last month’s rent. I told them. Payment on the dot, I told them that when they moved in or they’d be out the door. I warned them.’
Ah. Mr Cuthill is the landlord. And what a charmer, too.
‘They ain’t been answering the fucking phone,’ he said, sounding aggrieved.
‘George has been in hospital, and Harry’s away.’
‘That ain’t my problem. When do I get my rent?’
Gracie took up a pen. ‘Tell me what’s due and give me your address, I’ll sort that out for you straight away.’
‘This month’s due soon too. Fat chance I’ll get that , I reckon. If
The door swung open. It was dark inside the flat, the curtains drawn. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. It smelled stale, too. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, then smoothed her hand down the wall beside the door and found the light switch, knocking a phone off its hook, and swearing. She flicked the light on and pocketed the keys.
George and Harry’s flat was revealed to her. The phone on the floor was an entry phone, attached by its flexible wire to a small intercom. She replaced it, then looked around her. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. There was a dirty-looking beige carpet on the floor, and the curtains were dark blue. It was warm in here, the boiler obviously set by a timer to automatically switch on. She picked up a few envelopes from the doormat and went over to the curtains and yanked them back. Dust plumed.
Two young men living on their own. Well, did I expect it to be neat and tidy?
There was an old-looking telly with a digibox. Several dusty-looking, blue-shaded lamps. An open bed-settee, with a rumpled quilt and pillows laid out on it. Lots of clutter. Some dead roses in a vase of stinking water. Guitars and bongo drums and clothes all over the place. She remembered George and his clutter. George was a magpie. Hated to throw anything away. Harry was tidier, she remembered that, but he wasn’t going to win any domestic prizes.
There was a small kitchen to one side of the living room, and that was in disarray too. Unwashed cups in the sink. Pans left to dry out on the sink top. There were garments behind the glass door of the washing machine. Gracie walked along the small hallway where there was a bathroom – tiny – and two bedrooms, both beds unmade. A computer desk and chair were in the corner of the larger one, with an empty, scummy mug with GEORGE on the side, a PC, monitor and printer set up on the desk.
She went over to the dressing table and opened a couple of drawers. In the bottom one she found a pair of what looked like unused pyjamas and she stuffed them into her bag. She grabbed the dressing gown hung on the back of the door, rolled it up and stuffed that in there too.
Gracie moved back into the living room and flicked off the light. The weak yellowish sun shone in the dirty windows and highlighted all the dust and disorder in here.
Well, what now, Gracie Doyle?
If . . . no, when George came out of hospital, he wouldn’t want to come back to a tip like this. She was going to have to have a word with Suze; they were going to have to get this place shipshape. That much, she could do. Organize a cleaner or something.
So what else are you hoping to find here?
‘I don’t know,’ she said aloud, and she wandered over to the telly, looking at the pads of paper and pens and scrawled notes set out on a low table beside it.
She unbuttoned her coat, sat down and started picking up bits of paper.
Get milk and bread , said one.
Phone Tone! , said another.
Mr Cuthill , followed by a phone number.
Gracie picked up the phone and dialled. It was answered straight away.
‘Hello? Mr Cuthill?’ asked Gracie.
‘Who’s this?’ He didn’t sound particularly friendly.
‘I’m Gracie Doyle, George and Harry’s sister. I’m just tidying up their flat,’ she lied smoothly. ‘And I came across your number, and—’
‘They missed last month’s rent. I told them. Payment on the dot, I told them that when they moved in or they’d be out the door. I warned them.’
Ah. Mr Cuthill is the landlord. And what a charmer, too.
‘They ain’t been answering the fucking phone,’ he said, sounding aggrieved.
‘George has been in hospital, and Harry’s away.’
‘That ain’t my problem. When do I get my rent?’
Gracie took up a pen. ‘Tell me what’s due and give me your address, I’ll sort that out for you straight away.’
‘This month’s due soon too. Fat chance I’ll get that , I reckon. If
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