Juliet closed the door of her flat behind her and leaned against it for several seconds. It was only a few minutes past four – she still had plenty of time. There had been moments during the course of the afternoon when she’d believed that she’d never get away from the station, but finally she’d pulled it off. She should have been feeling elated. Instead, her mood was downbeat, both sad and apprehensive. She couldn’t explain why, except that the unsavoury details that DI Robinson had disclosed about the headless corpse had depressed her, while writing his interminable press release had left her inexpressibly weary. She’d have given anything for a long, hot bath followed by a lazy evening on the sofa, curled up with a book and a gin and tonic.
She gave herself a stern shake and began rapidly to peel off her clothes, chiding herself for her own contrariness. For months she’d been lamenting her lack of a social life; now she had a date, all she could do was hanker after an evening by herself. She deserved to be lonely.
Briskly, she gathered up the bundle of discarded clothes and took them with her into the bathroom, dropping all but the trousers and sweater into the laundry basket. She turned the shower to the hottest setting she could bear and stood under the pulsing jet of water for several long minutes, exorcising the filth of the murder. When she finally stepped out she felt cleaner and wider awake, but knowing that she’d had no success in banishing the subdued mood.
Although she was wearing her hair shorter these days, her mass of thick, dark curls was still unruly and hard to dry. She was rubbing it vigorously with a towel when the doorbell rang. Panicking slightly, she peered at her watch, which she’d left on the side of the hand basin. It said four thirty-five: he wouldn’t be there for another twenty-five minutes. She’d specifically told him not to come early. Deciding to ignore the caller, she wound the towel round her head turban-style and padded from the bathroom to her bedroom.
She dropped the towel on to a chair and began to drag a comb through her wet hair. She was sitting on the spindly stool that faced her wardrobe unit, a streamlined piece of Scandinavian furniture combining cupboards, shelves and a mirror which ran almost the full length of the stud wall. Hearing a slight sound, she turned to look at the window. A shock jolted through her. She screamed. Immediately, the face and upper body of the boy who had been peering at her through the glass receded. She could hear his footsteps as he ran away.
She scrabbled in the drawers for underwear, struggling into her bra and pants as quickly as she could, and pulled on a sweater and some jeans. She was barely dressed when there came a banging at her door.
‘Juliet! Is everything all right in there?’
She recognised the voice of Alice Buck, the woman who lived in the flat opposite hers. She’d been ashamed of the scream immediately it had escaped from her lips. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain it to someone else. However, she knew that Mrs Buck, who was both nosy and well-meaning, wouldn’t give up until she’d answered. Admirable, really, she supposed.
Barefoot, she flung open the door, still feeling a little shaky. Alice Buck was a big woman in her sixties with an old-fashioned reluctance to wear ‘good’ clothes at home. She was also an enthusiastic smoker. She was standing on Juliet’s doormat, a fag held poised in the fingers of her right hand, while with her left she hitched up a pair of ancient brown trousers made of some clingy synthetic material that delineated her generous contours with cruel precision.
‘You all right, ducky? I thought I heard you calling for help.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Juliet stiffly. ‘I thought I saw someone staring at me through the window, but I could have been mistaken.’
‘Not been on the bottle, have you?’ Alice cackled at her own joke.
‘No, of course not.’
‘You was probably right, then,’ said Alice, more serious now. ‘I’ve seen one or two weird people hanging round here just lately.’
‘What sort of people?’
‘Oh, I don’t know: didis, probably. Mostly young lads, with one or two older blokes. Could have been casing the flats. I wish them joy if they break into mine.’
‘Why’s that?’ Juliet asked dutifully, knowing this was expected of her.
‘Nothing worth pinching!’ Alice replied triumphantly. ‘Not even a decent telly! Sometimes it pays to be poor.’
‘Well, let me know if you see any of them again.’
‘I will do, duck. Going to report it to the police, are you?’
Alice Buck had just taken a long draw on her cigarette. Now her laughter at another joke even wittier than her first spluttered into a paroxysm of coughing.
‘Are you okay?’ said Juliet anxiously.
‘Yes. Don’t mind me. I should have given up the fags years ago. Still, there has to be some pleasures in life, doesn’t there? I’ll push off now. I just come to check that you was okay yourself.’
‘Thank you. I…’
Over Mrs Buck’s shoulder, Juliet caught sight of a tall bearded figure coming up the steps. He noticed her at the same moment.
‘Oh, God!’ Juliet breathed, painfully aware of her bare feet, unmade-up face and, above all, the tangle of semi-dry hair that was beginning to frizz out in a halo around her head.
Mrs Buck turned round and took the measure of Juliet’s visitor. She scrutinised every inch of him, from his brown suede boots to his beard and long, wavy hair.
‘Well, I can see you’ve got company, so I’ll push off now,’ she said. She grinned at the man and disappeared into her own flat.
‘Hello, Juliet. It’s great to see you. Is everything all right?’
‘Hi,’ Juliet responded, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m not quite ready yet. I’ve had a bit of a setback. It won’t take me too long, though, if I can just get my hair to dry. Do you want to come in?’
Jake Fidler smiled uncertainly.
‘Well, yes, if you don’t mind.’