Still nothing.
He pulled off his left glove, revealing a hand truncated by two joints on his pinkie, and one on his ring finger. Leaving shiny stubs behind, lightly puckered where the skin was stitched back together.
Colin stuck the tip of his thumb and index finger in his gob and let loose a shrill, deafening whistle.
Then stood there as the house swallowed it.
Aye, something wasn’t right here.
The hall sideboard played host to a couple of oversized fancy vases – maybe African, going by the patterns worked into the glaze? – but another two lay broken on the floor, pieces scattered out across the pale carpet.
And in between the shattered curls of pottery, lurked dark-red smears and droplets, staining the deep pile. A smudged handprint on the sideboard. Another on the wall.
Shite.
The blood was already mahogany coloured, each individual drip: dry and shiny as a little beetle, so probably not fresh. But Colin gave them a wide berth as he tiptoed further into the room.
‘MRS AGAPOVA? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? HELLO?’
A pair of high heels sat cock-ended by the sideboard. Keys in the bowl. One earring beside it – the other glittering away on the carpet.
Aye, not the kind of place to be wandering about bare handed.
He pulled his glove back on, working both stubs back into place against the prosthetic extensions, and climbed the stairs. Not touching anything.
At the top, the landing turned into a corridor, stretching away to either side, with a bunch of closed doors to explore.
After all, the paper’s new owner could be hurt, right? Lying on the floor unconscious, somewhere. Maybe even dead.
Nowthatwould make a great story.
So, he poked his head into each and every room: kid’s bedroom that smelled as if they still pished the bed; box room; a semi-furnished bedroom; then the main bedroom with its en suite and walk-in closet. The bed was made, no deid body decomposing beneath the duvet or in the bath.
There wasn’t a corpse in the big family bathroom either, which just left the one door, at the far end of the corridor.
It opened on a large home office, lined with bookshelves – though they were empty, except for a couple of Aberdeen guidebooks and a thin layer of dust.
An Apple desktop, laptop, and iPad were perched on the desk in their respective stands, along with what looked like one of those combi fax-scanner-printer jobs. And an answering machine with a flashing red light on it.
Nice: old-school.
And if there was one thing a red-blooded journalist couldn’t resist, it was an answering machine.
Colin dug out his phone and pulled up the audio-memo app. Set it recording. Then pressed ‘PLAY’ on the answering machine.
An electronic voice boomed out into the silent house:‘YOU HAVE...TWENTY-SIX...NEW MESSAGES AND...FOUR...SAVED MESSAGES.’A click.‘MESSAGE TWENTY-SIX:’
Great, it was one of those stupid ones that played everything in reverse order – newest first.
A posh Glasgow accent replaced the robot.‘Tasha? We still on for Winetastic Friday? I got some serious gossip aboutYou Know Who– you’re going to justscreamit’s so delicious. OK: love you, bye!’
‘END OF MESSAGE.MESSAGE TWENTY-FIVE:’
‘Erm...hello?’It was that stripy-jumpered idiot from the Art Department.‘Miss Agapova? It’s Louis Garfield, you askedme to do some redesigns on the masthead and layout and I just sort of wondered if you’d be coming into the office anytime to see—’
Colin poked ‘←’ a few times, skipping back through the messages.
‘MESSAGE NINETEEN:’