Chapter 4

I press the shiny, round, gold ringer. It shrills loudly. Smoothing down my hair, I straighten my silk pink blouse. I feel like I've arrived for a job interview, which I've buggered up by turning up late and dishevelled, know I won't get, but go through the process anyway on the slim chance that my interviewer might be a reincarnation of Mother Theresa. I'm ridiculously late, thanks to Frank. Mrs Anderson's anxiety levels must be through the roof. I can almost see a mist of her angst seeping through the newly tiled loft conversion. I'll offer her a 10% discount if she gets shirty. Anything to avoid a bad online review. Although she did sound lovely on the phone. ‘Where the hell are you?' I mutter to myself. ‘I thought you wanted this done and dusted before your husband got home.'

Looking at my watch, I ring the bell again and stand back, feeling small and insignificant after that altercation with Frank. Jesus, have I got myself a stalker? Will I have to go to the police? Tom will find out everything if I do. I shudder at the thought, throw a glance at the shiny green Mini Cooper parked on Mrs Anderson's driveway. It has an air freshener in the shape of a pair of pink trainers hanging from the rear-view. Must be hers. Surely, she must be in. She sounded desperate on the phone this morning. Unless her husband turned up early. But no, she'd have texted to let me know.

Chewing my bottom lip, I pull out my phone, and just then there's a gust of air and the door flies open. Mrs Anderson is tall, trim and attractive, with a messy silver bob, mid-sixties, I'd say. She's wearing metallic brown shadow over her hooded hazel eyes, mascara, and a splash of plum lip-gloss. Sliding a hand into her black chino shorts, she gives me a warm smile and her eyes crinkle – no work done. I like her immediately.

‘I hope you haven't been waiting long. I popped into the garden to empty the bin. Didn't hear the doorbell go. Just caught sight of you through the lounge window.'

‘I've only just arrived,' I offer, and she nods, casting an eye at her gold wristwatch.

‘I was freshening the place up,' Mrs Anderson says, aerosol in hand. ‘Ginny just decided to do a poo on the lounge carpet instead of her clean litter tray.' She rolls her eyes. A car door thumps behind me.

‘Oh, dear,' I say, waiting patiently for her to invite me in.

‘Pets, hey?' Mrs Anderson looks confident and relaxed in her tanned skin. Probably just back from basking somewhere hot and exotic. Maybe Rhodes, given she's wearing a vest with the word emblazoned across the chest. God, isn't she cold? I'm shivering in my wool suit. ‘Talk about timing. I'm sure she did it on purpose. Please, come in.' She steps aside and I notice that she's barefoot and has a gold chain around her ankle. Her lofty frame makes me feel like a midget, even though I'm a respectable five-foot-six.

Brushing my hand against the radiator covertly, I discover that the heating isn't on. I'm going to die of hypothermia. The sooner I get this gig done, the sooner I can get to Linda's and tell her all about my episode with Frank.

‘Sorry I'm a bit late, traffic was heaving – an accident on the North Circ.' Mrs Anderson gives me a look and my face tingles. She knows I'm lying but doesn't contradict me. I shuffle along the hallway, bag on shoulder, tripod under my arm, all the while going through the usual preambles – Isabella Villin but everyone calls me Bella. ‘It's so lovely to meet you in the flesh, Mrs. Anderson.' I give her a smile, eyes drawn to her toenails, which are neatly varnished in lilac, and then I remember my shoes. ‘I'll just leave these here, shall I?' My feet almost groan as I slip out of my uncomfortable heels.

‘Oh, you don't need to take your shoes off, we're not posh.' Oh, I think you are, Mrs Anderson. This place stinks of wealth. My eyes dart to the floor - Chevron parquet – wall to wall. The good stuff – expensive. No scuffs, look new. The place looks like it's just had a makeover. ‘And it's Tina.' Mrs Anderson extends a hand and we shake briskly. ‘I just like walking around the house barefoot. Drives Ben, my husband, well, soon-to-be ex-husband, up the wall. Accuses me of creeping up on him.' Ben sounds like a prick.

‘I'd best,' I say, dropping them next to a pair of blue Hunter wellies, ‘you never know what germs I'm bringing into your home.'

‘Okay,' Mrs Anderson smiles. ‘Whatever makes you happy. Just leave them by the door. Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?' I shake my head - tell her I've overdosed on caffeine today. ‘Okay, shall we start downstairs?' She flicks a glance at her watch again. ‘We are running a bit late, aren't we?'

‘I'll be as quick as I can,' I assure her.

‘I've removed all the clutter, as you suggested,' Mrs Anderson says. I usually tell people to squint and get rid of anything that stands out like a sore thumb. ‘And took the photos down, too, just as an extra precaution,' she adds, as I bend forward and fiddle with the switch of the lampshade. ‘You never know these days,' she groans, helping me out with the shade. ‘This one's a bit tricky – there. You can't be too careful, can you, what with the dark web and all that.'

‘It all looks amazing. Makes my job a lot easier. Thank you.' I point to a black and white photograph of a couple on the wall above the chic seventies-style wooden dining table. The young woman looks stylish and gorgeous with dark hair swept off her black flawless face, reminding me of a younger Linda. The man is ordinary, receding ginger hair, pale skin with piggy eyes. Definitely punching, as Zelda would say. ‘I'll blur that portrait out, Tina.'

Mrs Anderson follows my eyes, confused, and then her face goes slightly pink. ‘Oh God, yes, please. I forgot about that one. That's my son, Rupert, and Gloria, his wife, on their wedding day.'

‘They're a gorgeous couple.' Come on, I'm not going to tell her that her son is no oil painting, am I? Mrs Anderson nods proudly as I snap away, tells me they've got three children now, aged eight to thirteen, and a crippling mortgage. She hopes to help them once this place is sold. ‘Life does throw you a lifeline sometimes, doesn't it?'

‘It sure does, Tina.' If only it would send me one right now and wipe Frank Hardy off the face of the universe.