Dead Man's Footsteps

moment. I thought it was going to plunge – and I was going to be—’
    ‘Na, no danger. Got a back-up centrifugal lockingmechanism, even if it did. But it wouldn’t have fallen.’ His voice tailed away and he seemed pensive for a moment, his eyes darting to the ceiling of the lift. ‘You live here?’
    She nodded.
    Relaxing his grip on her, he said, ‘You ought to check your service charges. Make sure the lift maintenance is on them.’
    The caretaker made a comment, something else about the managing agents, but she barely heard it. Her relief at being freed was only fleeting. Great that she was out of the bloody lift. But that did not remotely mean she was out of danger.
    She knelt down, trying to reach her boots without going back in the lift. But they were out of reach. The fireman bent down and hooked them out with the reverse of his axe. He clearly wasn’t stupid enough to go in there himself.
    ‘Who alerted you?’ she asked.
    ‘A lady in – ‘ he paused to read a note on his pad – ‘flat 47. She tried to call the lift several times this afternoon, then reported she heard someone calling for help.’
    Making a mental note to thank her some time, Abby looked warily up the stairs, which were covered in the workmen’s dust sheets and littered with plasterboard and building materials.
    ‘You should get plenty of fluids down you, and eat something as soon as you can,’ the fireman recommended. ‘Just something light. Soup or something. I’ll come up to your flat with you, make sure you’re all right.’
    She thanked him, then looked at her Mace spray, wondering why it hadn’t fired, and realized she had not flipped the safety lock. She dropped it in her bag and, holding her boots, began to climb the stairs, carefully negotiating the builders’ mess. Thinking.
    Had Ricky sabotaged the lift? And the phone and the bell? Was it too far-fetched to think he had done that?
    All the locks were as she had left them, she was relieved to discover when she reached her front door. Even so, after thanking the fire officer again, she let herself in warily, checking the thread across the hall was intact before locking the door again behind her and securing the safety chains. Then, just to be sure, she checked each room in the flat.
    Everything was fine. No one had been here.
    She went to the kitchen to make herself some tea and grabbed a KitKat out of the fridge. She had just popped a piece in her mouth when the doorbell rang, followed immediately by a sharp rap.
    Chewing, nerves jangling in case this was Ricky, she hurried warily to the front door and peered through the spyhole. A slight, thin-faced man in his early twenties, with short black hair brushed forward, wearing a suit, was standing there.
    Who the hell was he? A salesman? A Jehovah’s Witness – but didn’t they normally come in pairs? Or he might be something to do with the fire brigade. Right now, dog tired, very shaken and ravenous, she just wanted to make a cup of tea, have something to eat, then down several glasses of red wine and crash out.
    Knowing that the man would have had to pass the caretaker and the firemen to get here eased her fears about him a little. Checking that the two safety chains were properly engaged, she unlocked the door and pushed it open the few inches it would travel.
    ‘Katherine Jennings?’ he asked in a voice that was sharp and invasive. His breath was warm on her face and smelled of peppermint chewing gum.
    Katherine Jennings was the name under which she had rented the flat.
    ‘Yes?’ she replied.
    ‘Kevin Spinella from the Argus newspaper. I wonder if you could spare a couple of moments of your time?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and immediately tried to push the door shut. But it was wedged open by his foot.
    ‘I’d just like a quick quote I could use.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have nothing to say.’
    ‘So you are not grateful to the fire brigade for rescuing you?’
    ‘No, I didn’t say—’
    Shit. He was now writing that down on his pad.
    ‘Look, Ms – Mrs Jennings?’
    She didn’t rise to the bait.
    He went on. ‘I understand you’ve just had quite an ordeal – would it be OK for me to send a photographer round?’
    ‘No, it would not,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired.’
    ‘Perhaps tomorrow morning? What time would be good for you?’
    ‘No, thank you. And please remove your foot.’
    ‘Did you feel your life was in jeopardy?’
    ‘I’m very tired,’ she said.