Page 60 of The Guilty Girl

He refused to look back.

Scary old buildings gave him the runs.

29

Boyd hadn’t realised the walk would take so long, but Sergio was slow and hot, and he had to adjust his stride to match the child’s. Maybe he should have left him with Señora Rodriguez, the neighbour Jackie had depended on, but it felt good to have his son’s sweaty hand in his own.

They turned left down by the dry riverbed, and just before he reached the giant mural, he looked up at the building containing the McAllister apartment. It didn’t seem particularly inviting, from the outside at least. A double-height wooden door, with a myriad of intercom buttons lining the portal. Boyd had an uneasy feeling that someone was watching him. He looked around quickly. It might just have been the sweat trickling down the nape of his neck.

He stood aside as the door creaked inwards and a suited man brandishing a briefcase and phone shot out. Reaching out his hand, Boyd kept the door open and ushered Sergio inside. Breathing the cool air with relief, he was amazed at the expansive tiled hallway with its high ceiling. An old steel lift stood in the middle of the floor. He might strike lucky and get to talk to a neighbour. But he felt a little nervous involving his son. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

‘Let’s see how fast this is.’

He slid the accordion-like door to the side and walked in after Sergio. The air smelled of expensive aftershave, probably from the man who’d just left, overriding an oily odour. He pressed for the fourth floor and the door slid shut. A creak and a squeal, and to his surprise the closed-in box rose upwards quickly.

They stepped onto a narrow landing with four doors branching from it. He checked Lottie’s text. The McAllisters’ apartment was 4.4. He knocked, not expecting anyone to answer. The couple had already left, so why was he even here? To talk to the neighbours. He was about to turn away, his hand still on the door, when it opened slightly.

Cautiously he put his finger to his lips and moved Sergio over beside the neighbouring apartment. Then he leaned against the door and listened. A hint of a sound perhaps? He debated whether to just leave, but curiosity won out. The McAllisters had left so why was the door open? Sergio would be okay as long as he stayed put.

Inside, he heard a noise like the flow of water into a sink or bath. He took another step forward. The narrow hall led into an open-plan living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the port to the left and the city to the right. Directly in front of him was a landscape of rooftops.

Glancing around, he failed to pinpoint the source of the water. He turned left to the open-plan kitchen. Ultra-modern monochrome decor with stainless-steel appliances. Backing out, he made his way down another corridor, wider than the one at the front door. Three bedrooms. All immaculately decorated. Two had beds made up and clear of clutter. The third had a cabin-sized suitcase open on the floor. He ignored it for the moment and walked to the next door. The sound of water grew louder. The bathroom.

He depressed the silver-plated handle and pushed the door inwards.

The room was steamy and the shower occupied. The male occupant thrust his head around the glass door.

‘What the fuck? Who are you?’ he barked, his accent distinctly Irish.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Boyd said. ‘The door was open. I was looking for the McAllisters.’

Once he’d switched off the shower, the man grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, then stepped onto the marbled floor. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I was about to ask you the same question.’ Boyd tottered on the wet ground as the man pushed past him. Once he’d regained his footing, he followed.

‘And who are you, kid?’ the man growled as he entered the living room.

‘Don’t touch him,’ Boyd said, his voice quivering. He had not anticipated finding anyone here. What had happened to ‘expect the unexpected’? He pulled Sergio close, placing a protective hand on his shoulder. Why hadn’t the boy stayed outside? He supposed at eight years of age, curiosity overcame any fear he might have. Like father, like son.

‘You’re Terry Starr,’ Sergio said, surprising Boyd.

‘Yeah, I am, son.’

‘I’m not your son. I’m his.’ Sergio pointed his chin up at Boyd.

‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve barged in, or do I call the police?’

Boyd felt almost hypnotised under the man’s black gaze and bruised right eye. His ribs looked black and blue too. Terry Starr, he thought, the boxer Lottie had mentioned.

‘The door was open,’ Sergio said.

‘You have no right to be here.’

‘The door was open.’ Boyd repeated Sergio’s words.

‘Must’ve left it off the latch.’

‘I’d like a chat with you.’