Kenneth by Pearson Keith A

Author:Pearson, Keith A
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inchgate Publishing
Published: 2019-11-08T00:00:00+00:00

26.

Not one part of Liam’s claim makes sense. In fact, not one part of this situation makes sense; not helped by the afternoon’s overindulgence.

“I need a black coffee.”

“I think you do.”

“And an explanation, if you’ve got time?”

“Nothing else in my diary,” he replies with a shrug.

I unlock the front door and Liam trails me in to the kitchen, tool bag in hand. He looks around as I put the kettle on.

“Nice place,” he remarks. “You’ve done a good job on the kitchen.”

“Thanks, but I can’t take the credit. That’d be the previous owners.”

“How long have you lived here then?”

“Five or six months.”

Pleasantries out of the way, I invite Liam to take a seat at the table. If I were sober, I might have thought twice before inviting a stranger into my home but seeing as I’m not sober, and Liam isn’t a complete stranger, I find myself grabbing two mugs from the cupboard.

“It’s just instant, I’m afraid. I don’t think I’m capable of using the percolator at the moment.”

“No worries.”

I spoon coffee granules in the vague direction of the mugs. Most of it makes it.

“Sugar?”

“Just the one, ta.”

Somehow, I produce two mugs of coffee. I even manage to transport both of them to the table without spillage.

“If it tastes like crap,” I say apologetically, while taking a seat, “feel free to tip it down the sink.”

“I was a handyman for seven years. Trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share of crappy coffee.”

I smile back and take a sip from my mug; the bitterness acute compared to the sweetness of the Chardonnay I’ve been glugging all afternoon.

“You mentioned Kenneth?”

“I did, and I presumed you knew I’d be here.”

I shake my head.

“Shall we start at the beginning?” I suggest.

“Well, he turned up at the shop at lunchtime and I mentioned you’d been in, looking for him. He said he knew, but you had a more pressing issue.”

“He said that?”

“More or less. He somehow knew I used to be a handyman and asked if my experience extended to changing door locks. I said it did, and he asked how much I charged. He then handed over the full amount in cash, plus an extra fifty quid, and told me to be here not a second later than four o’clock — he was insistent about that and said I should wait if you're not at home.”

My face puckers, but it isn’t the bitterness of the coffee. Liam’s ability to read body language is better than his floristry skills.

“You knew nothing about it?”

“No, and I’ve no idea why he’d ask you to change my lock.”

“Can’t help you with that. Did you have your locks changed when you moved in here?”

“Why would I?”

“Because it’s sensible. You’ve no idea who the previous owners lent a key to: friends and relatives, neighbours, tradesmen, all manner of people might have a key to this house.”

“I never thought of that.”

“So, do you want me to change it?”

“Who’d have a key?”

He dips a hand into his tool bag and plucks out a box.

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