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He indicates that she should go first and follows her inside.
‘It’s a nice, bright hall,’ Miah says. ‘The décor might need a refresh but it’s only cosmetic stuff. Through there’s the living room, which I think is alovelyspace. Kitchen leads off it to the rear, with a gorgeous view of the back garden.’
Gabriel looks around. Although the bungalow is fully furnished, he sees discoloured patches on the wall where pictures and photographs once hung. No knickknacks are on display, no keepsakes. Everything personal has disappeared. ‘Tell me about the vendor.’
‘Well, there’s no chain, for starters. Which is a real benefit.’
‘Is this a probate sale?’
Miah’s smile is strained, revealing once again those coconut-white teeth. ‘Kind of. I mean, OK, yes, but it shouldn’t put you off. I know some people are funny about that but it’s not like anyone died in here.’
She laughs awkwardly, as if embarrassed by her own sales pitch.
‘That kind of thing doesn’t bother me. So who’s the vendor?’
‘The son of the lady who lived here.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
She shrugs. ‘Seems a nice guy. I’ve only met him a few times.’
‘Does he live here? Use the place as an office?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How long’s it been on the market?’
‘A while.’
‘Which means what, exactly?’
‘Maybe … March? I’d have to check the file. If we’d listed it the previous March we’d have sold it in a day, but right now – well, I’m sure you know how the market’s been.’
In the living room, an armchair and a side table have been pushed against the wall, revealing the indentations on the carpet where they once stood. All the other furniture – the bookcase, the sideboard, the TV cabinet, the sofa – looks like it hasn’t moved.
‘You want to see the bedrooms?’ Miah asks.
As Gabriel follows her for the tour, he tunes out her sales patter and thinks about that pushed-back space in the living room. He looks inside the built-in wardrobes, checks the bath for stains. He examines the walls and skirting boards for blood splashes, the linoleum and the carpets. He opens the kitchen cabinets to see which cleaning products they contain and in what quantities.
‘That leads to the garage,’ Miah explains, when Gabriel puts his hand to an interior door. ‘Feel free to have a look.’
He opens it and steps through. Inside, the garage is dark. He touches the wall, feels for a switch, flips it. Overhead, a fluorescent strip stutters before casting its light. In the centre of the garage stands a blue Honda hatchback.
The air in here feels like it’s being cooked. There’s a smell of dust and engine oil and hot metal – and the hint of something more unpleasant, like game meat hung for flavour that has somehow managed to get damp.
Against the near wall is a workbench scattered with equipment. Various garden tools have been stacked in one corner. A rake lies on the concrete floor beside a glass demijohn on its side.
Gabriel crouches down and checks beneath the car. Then he goes to the driver’s side window and cups his hands to the glass. He sees nothing of interest on the front seats, none of the usual junk that tends to accumulate inside a vehicle regularly used. Behind the rear seats, a tonneau cover has been drawn over the boot space. Gabriel goes the rear, finds the boot release, squeezes it.
Miah appears in the doorway. When she spots him behind the Honda her eyebrows lift, but she can’t see his hand from where she’s standing. ‘Everything OK?’ she asks. ‘Anything else you want to know?’
‘I’m just trying to figure out if I could park my car in here. It’s a lot bigger than this one.’
‘I’m sure we have the measurements on the plans.’
‘Great.’
She smiles at him again.