The Red Road by Denise Mina Page A

corridor leading off the hall. ‘Kitchen.’
    Robert walked where he was told. The hippy followed and rolled through a series of facts: here is the fridge. This is the thermostat. Here is an oven.
    Robert watched him. The man was wearing a woman’s green velvet knee-length coat over an orange suit shirt. Velvet seemed an odd thing to wear in such bad weather. And it was a woman’s coat: he could see the breast darts. It was good lush velvet, the rain had spattered over the hem, sinking deep into the material and one of the sleeves. When he reached over to point at something Robert saw that the lining was pink silk with tiny hummingbirds on it, as if the man had pulled a tiny exotic garden around himself.
    ‘This one’s our cupboard so please don’t use the stuff in it. This is yours.’ He opened the cupboard next to it. The shelf was lined with used goods left by other holidayers: bottles of ketchup, Waitrose teabags, salt from Morrison’s, fancy herbs for cooking a special dish – lemon pepper, allspice.
    ‘You live here?’ asked Robert.
    ‘Downstairs. Please don’t come down unless something goes wrong. I don’t like being disturbed. I, uh, do meditation.’
    Robert couldn’t let it go. ‘I thought I had exclusive use of the house.’
    ‘You won’t see me again.’
    ‘But you’ll be downstairs?’
    ‘I’m the housekeeper.’ He walked away. ‘The TV room is down here.’
    Alarmed, Robert followed him down the corridor. He found himself in a small room with a crappy TV in the corner.
    The hippy pointed vaguely at a table. ‘The remotes are in that drawer.’
    ‘Look,’ Robert said firmly, ‘I needed the house to be empty. That’s what I’m paying for, for exclusive use.’
    The man looked at him for a moment, his mouth hanging open. Robert sounded too fervent, he knew he did. He could see the man run through the possibles: you’re going to hang yourself in my kitchen. You’re planning to burn the place down. Robert saw him decide to be firm and grind his teeth in preparation.
    ‘No. I live downstairs,’ he said unequivocally. ‘I’m the housekeeper.’
    ‘You live here?’ Robert pointed to the floor. ‘All the time? It was my understanding, from the conditions in the lease, that I would have sole use of the castle for the duration of my stay here.’
    The hippy was looking at Robert’s mouth, trying to process what he had said. ‘I live downstairs,’ he repeated. ‘I’m just there if there are any problems.’
    ‘What sort of problems?’
    ‘Boiler can be a tricky. The wood might run out.’
    ‘I wanted sole use of the castle.’
    He processed the thought. ‘D’you want your money back?’
    ‘No. I want you to go away .’
    The lights were off and they stood in the dark of a faux night, looking away from each other.
    After a while the hippy sidled past Robert to the corridor, careful not to touch him, and continued with his speech. ‘There’s a toilet there. The flush is sticky but just give it a good yank. The library is in here.’
    He went through a large door. Robert followed, his heart racing. The hippy couldn’t be here. Men were coming to kill Robert and they’d kill a housekeeper or a gardener without a thought.
    The library was a newer addition to the building, a large square room with double height ceilings and windows that peeped around the shoulder of the house to the sea. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were built from a red wood, not terribly nice and hardly varnished at all. An upright piano sat in the corner, next to a large mahogany writing desk. The fireplace was huge, flanked by well-loved couches and a large square table between them with drawers for keeping games in.
    The hippy pointed out the wood basket for the fire and the matches, the newspaper kindling.
    ‘There’s extra wood outside.’
    ‘Couldn’t you go away?’ said Robert desperately. ‘If I pay extra?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Don’t want to.’
    ‘I’ve got cash.’
    The hippy