Chapter 22
Tobias peers out of one of the upper windows of the house, overlooking the back garden.
He can see that the woman staying next door has returned with her husband and son; the proverbial thorn in his side.
He had received an email from the landlord of their Airbnb the other day, politely requesting that they be as considerate as possible to holiday guests during peak season and asking that they try to keep the disturbance to a minimum out of courtesy for the local community.
He had quickly fired off a terse reply informing the landlord that they were quite within their rights to carry out planned building works, for which they had gained permission from the council.
Okay, so they had recently contravened the rules a little at the weekend.
But he has no intention of slowing down the build for anyone.
Even if it is very nearly September. He can’t wait for the bank holiday fireworks on Saturday night, by which time this lot will have slung their hook.
Squinting further, he continues to watch the woman.
What’s she called again? Lottie? That’s right, and her husband, Tim.
Jenkins is the name. He’d looked them up online and found them both on LinkedIn.
A charity worker and a teacher, respectively.
God, he can feel his lip curling at the thought.
The pair of them are clearly the worst kind of left-leaning liberal snowflakes, spouting the usual woke nonsense you hear these days.
As he observes Lottie talking to the new chap who’s just joined the build, he nods to himself, fully vindicated. Point proven.
Apparently, Bill was telling him, there had been a bit of a kerfuffle when she had blown her lid and thrown one of the lads’ gadgets into the road, just because she didn’t like the sound of the music they were playing.
Clearly batshit. And yet, here she is, all smiles and chatty with Johnny Foreigner when she can hardly bring herself to be civil to the locals.
Guardian-reading fishwife, he thinks with a shake of his head.
He is about to bang on the window when she says her goodbyes and moves off into the house.
Good. His men have got a job to do, after all, and he’s not paying them to stand around exchanging pleasantries.
He turns back to the interior of the house.
Finally, they seem to be making some real progress.
True to his word, Bill has got the local electrician in and he’s been working away tirelessly to get the first fix in place.
Marcus should really be here though to check that everything is going in the right place, power points at the right height and so on.
Although it’s a relief that they’re not quite as constrained as they used to be pre-Brexit, when they’d be tied up in knots by EU safety regulations.
But things still need to be done to the right legal standards, of course. Give or take.
Looking around him, sighing in exasperation, it is as if he expects Marcus to appear, as though he might conjure him through sheer strength of will.
Why is no one as dedicated, as invested in anything, as he is?
One minute the man is moaning about budgets and finishes, the next he’s hanging about at the hotel slurping coffee in the sunshine with Olivia.
Still, he supposes they do need to go through their frilly bits together.
He knows how much Livvy enjoys that side of things too; very much her area of interest, not his.
He is just about to seek out Bill, wherever he is, when something on the floor catches his eye.
It would be easy to miss amongst the dust and detritus that litters the boards, but for a spot of colour.
It is a cigarette end, a recent fag butt.
He crouches down and picks it up, holding it between thumb and forefinger, like a specimen.
Christ alive, he thinks. Whatever next? Of all the idiotic, stupid …
He is determined to march straight down to the garden and demand to know which of the silly sods has been smoking on site when he realises, on closer inspection, that the brown filter tip has a trace of pink greasy lip gloss on it.
Tobias feels his shoulders sag in disappointment.
He has a pretty good idea whose this is.
Despite what the rest of his family says, he’s not as oblivious as they all presume.
He’s known for quite some time now that Bella smokes, though she thinks he hasn’t a clue.
And even he has noticed the way her lips always look stuck up with that gloop she wears; part of her trademark look.
He’d even wondered if she hadn’t had something done to them.
Apparently girls inject themselves with all sorts of things these days.
But technically she’s an adult now, perfectly able to make her own decisions, no matter how questionable.
And when she’s away at university, he and Liv have no idea what she’s doing (or with whom).
So, he just plays along and turns a blind eye to keep the peace.
Okay, so she’s a bit of a daddy’s girl, he admits.
He lets her get away with a touch more than he should sometimes.
But how can he resist? He sees a lot of himself, when he was young, in her.
The same spirit, the same pluck; he can’t help admiring it, taking pride in it even.
And Lord knows, he was no innocent in his youth.
When he thinks of the antics he and the boys used to get up to after a long day on the trading floor.
The office was a free-for-all at times. Everything on expenses.
Things were a bit freer, looser back then too.
It was the Nineties and there was none of this ‘me too’ business.
Anyone wearing a skirt was usually there to provide the following: coffee and decoration.
Parties at work were encouraged; drunken debauchery, old-fashioned tomfoolery.
It was fun. It was a different time, as they say.
His attention is brought back to the moment as he regards the cigarette end anew.
But this is different. He is not angry with Belle for smoking.
As vices go, it’s not the worst. But why on earth would she be here, on site?
Presumably after hours. Few people have access to the property once it’s closed and locked up for the night.
Unless one of this lot has forgotten to secure the place properly.
Things can get a bit slapdash on a build, especially an empty shell like this, but there are still some expensive tools, valuable materials left around.
It’s not good enough, he decides, his anger rising.
And it’s not the first time he’s wondered whether he shouldn’t have installed some kind of security surveillance, especially when he can’t always be down here keeping a watch on things.
He curses himself. Always too trusting. And such things seemed like an unnecessary expense when they were already trying to cut down on costs.
But still. It’s not too late. He’s heard about some cameras that can be quickly and easily set up these days, motion-triggered, quite affordable, they even record in full colour at night-time.
And all controllable from your own mobile phone.
He puts the tab end in his pocket, like a detective collecting evidence.
That settles it, then. From now on, he’s going to be keeping a much closer eye on everyone.