Not Dead Enough

97

Unusually, there were no empty spaces in the street outside the front gates of her home, so Cleo had to circle around, looking for one. Keeping a safe distance back, the Time Billionaire watched the tail of the blue MG disappear around a corner, its right-hand indicator winking. Then he smiled.

And he sent a small, quick message of thanks to God.

This street was so much better! Tall, windowless walls on the right. A sheer cliff face of red brick. On the left, running the whole length of the street, was a blue construction site hoarding, with padlocked gates. Rising above it was a ten-foot-tall artist’s impression of the finished development – a complex of fancy flats and shops – boasting the wording:

LAINE WEST

MORE THAN JUST A DEVELOPMENT – AN URBAN ECO-FRIENDLY LIFESTYLE!

She had found a space and was reversing into it. Joy!

He fixated on her brake lights. They seemed to be getting brighter as he watched them. Glowing red for danger, red for luck, red for sex! He liked brake lights; he could watch them the way some people could watch a log fire. And he knew everything about the brake lights on Cleo Morey’s car. The size of bulb; the strength; how they could be replaced; how they were connected into the wiring loom of the vehicle; how they were activated. He knew everything about this car. He’d spent the whole night reading the workshop manual, as well as surfing the net. That was the good thing about the internet. Didn’t matter what time of the day or the night, you could find some saddo enthusiast who could tell you more about the door-locking mechanism of a 2005 MG TF 160 than the manufacturer had ever known.

She was out of the car! Wearing jeans that stopped at her calves. Pink plimsolls. A white T-shirt. Hefting three Sainsbury carrier bags out of the boot and slinging the strap of her big, canvas handbag over her shoulder.

He drove past her and turned right at the end of the street. Then right again. Then right again, and now he was approaching the front of her building. He saw her standing outside the gates, doing an awkward balancing act of holding the grocery bags and tapping the number on the keypad. Then she went inside and the gate clanged shut behind her.

Hopefully she wasn’t going out again tonight. He would have to take a gamble on that one. But of course he had God’s assistance.

He made one more complete circuit, just to make sure she hadn’t forgotten something in the car and gone running back for it. Women did that sort of thing, he knew.

After ten minutes he decided it was safe. He doubled-parked his Prius alongside a dusty Volvo covered in bird droppings that didn’t look like it had gone anywhere in a while, temporarily blocking the street, although there was nothing coming. Then he unlocked the MG, drove it out of its spot, double-parked that also for a moment, while he jumped back into the Prius, and glided into the now empty space, between the Volvo and a small Renault.

Job done.

The first part.

It was a shame the MG had its hardtop on, he thought, as he headed towards his lock-up. It would have been a pleasant evening to drive with the roof down.