‘Yes. No. Look, I’ll explain everything when I come over. Can you give me your address?’
I rattle it off. ‘Great. See you later.’ She ends the call. I stare at my phone for a few moments, still puzzled. What’s the urgency? She didn’t even ask me why I’d left. At least Arlo will be here. If Kathryn is dangerous she can’t exactly hurt me with my six-foot-two-inch brother in tow.
But as the time ticks by, Arlo fails to return home. I ring his mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. He’s probably run into some mates and they’ve persuaded him to go to the pub. It wouldn’t be the first time. And why is it still so bloody cold in here?
I go to the airing cupboard again to check the immersion switch. The little red light is on so why aren’t the radiators heating? Has Arlo been paying his bills? My eye catches the Jiffy-bag. It’s as I left it but I can’t help reaching for it anyway. Something about Arlo’s story doesn’t add up. It’s his life, I know, and I shouldn’t be nosy but … I delve into the bag and grab the phone. Why has he got a second phone anyway?
I take it into the lounge and sit on the sofa, the phone in my hand and the Jiffy-bag on my lap. The phone has been switched off so I turn it on, half expecting it not to be charged, but the screen brightens and blood pounds in my ears as I stare at the phone’s wallpaper. It’s a photograph of Una and Courtney, their arms wrapped around each other, their smiles wide. They look young, maybe mid-teens. I’ve seen the same photograph on the wall in Courtney’s flat. My hands begin to shake, my brain not quite understanding what I’m seeing. Is this Courtney’s phone?
Or – and the thought makes me want to vomit – is it Una’s?
There’s a whooshing in my ears and my face is hot with panic. It has to be Una’s phone. Una’s missing phone. Why the fuck would Arlo have it?
A movement in the stairwell makes my heart beat faster and I shove the phone back into the Jiffy-bag and run to the airing cupboard, dumping the bag behind the tank. I return to the sofa just in time before the front door opens and Arlo walks in, whistling to himself. He’s got a plastic carrier bag in his hand, which he holds up to me, a rueful smile on his face. ‘Got ’em. Sorry it took so long.’
‘Did you run into some mates?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice even, trying to quell the screaming in my head.
‘Yep. Bumped into Gaz. We went for a quick one. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’ I sound like a strangled cat and I cough to cover it up. Is this why Kathryn is travelling all the way here to see me? To tell me she suspects my brother? But she’d sounded surprised to hear I had a brother on the phone, so it can’t be that. Arlo goes to the tiny kitchen. He has his back to me but I can tell from the sound of a can opening that he’s having one of his beers. He doesn’t offer me one. I stare at the back of his dark head. I can’t believe he’d hurt Una. He didn’t even know her. And, as far as I’m aware, he doesn’t hang out in Bristol. Maybe one of his dodgy mates asked him to keep the phone. Maybe that’s what the money is, a pay-off to keep quiet. But I can’t imagine any of his mates are secret psychos either. Most of them are too stoned and stupid to be capable of murder.
Arlo’s always been a bit of an enigma. A free spirit. Five years older than me, he’s always danced to his own tune. But still. He was a good kid growing up in the commune, a little intense at times perhaps, obsessive about certain things, certain people. Once he spent an entire summer trying to mend an engine in an old car, and wouldn’t give up until it was working. He was often a bit of a loner. He was handsome, though, and girls always liked him. He cared about Mum. About me. He was the man of the family after Dad left. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve never even seen him kill a spider. No, there has to be some logical explanation as to why he has Una’s phone.
He slumps down next to me, can in hand. He’s still wearing his parka and there is a smudge of dirt on his cheek. There is an energy radiating from him and his legs won’t stop moving. Has he taken something? I’ve always known he liked to smoke pot but he always said he’d never touch any class As. Yet he’s buzzing.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
He shrugs in answer and takes a swig of his beer.
‘You’re right about the job,’ I say. ‘I’ve been hasty. I don’t think Kathryn had anything to do with the deaths of those girls.’
He turns to me, his eyes too bright. ‘Great idea.’