Page 66 of Between the Lies

He stuck it in his pocket and left the bedroom to fetch the bin bags. Storage. Maybe when they’d moved in together, Anne had stuck a few of her old things into storage. It was time he emptied that, too.

By the afternoon, Robert had everything – clothes and knick-knacks alike – packed away in bin bags. He’d also placed the candles in bags and stored them away. No one, as far as he knew, accepted used candles. And he didn’t want to throw them away. The books, on the other hand, were finding themselves a new home – in a charity shop.

Loaded with four puffy bags, he headed out. A few people cast him startled glances, but he carried on.

He walked up Sauchiehall Street, then veered towards a spot of green – Blythswood Square. This particular area in Glasgow almost appeared out of place. The gardens were always neatly pruned, partially because no one had access to them. The houses around the square were reminiscent of the buildings in Bath. The area was so posh, the former houses were now offices for various government charities.

The refugee non-profit sat just beside the square – important but not government owned. The woman at the counter grinned upon seeing the bags he lugged inside. They were so happy with his donation; they offered him a cup of tea and a long chat, i.e. the receptionist made him a cuppa and asked him over and over if he was alright. It turned out the poor woman had lost her spouse recently and told him how difficult it had been for her to let go of his things. Robert held her hand as she dabbed at her tears, and then he told her about the homeless charity that could do with volunteers like her. Finally, with a wave, he headed out, now running an hour late but with a full heart.

Just fifteen minutes before five, Robert finally found himself outside Beck’s Storage. Their website said they shut at six, so he had ample time to catalogue the items in storage.

But when he walked in, the man behind the counter scowled. ‘We’ll be shutting in five minutes,’ the man grumbled.

‘Your website says you shut at six.’

‘Eh!’ The man waved Robert on. ‘Fuck you.’

Frowning at the unnecessary expletive, Robert wondered what sort of shopkeeper wanted their customers gone.

A quick look around told him this wasn’t just a storage-locker business. The front of the shop sold tabloid newspapers, some random food snacks, sandwiches, cigarettes, and vapes. He wondered if some of these items were being sold illegally; if the shopkeeper had smelled cop on Robert and wanted him gone.

Too bad. Robert didn’t care.

At the back of the shop, he ducked through the entranceway beneath a sign that said ‘To the lockers’.

He’d been expecting a corridor leading up to a large storage space. Instead, he halted in the doorway.

There was no corridor. In fact, the space had no large storage lockers at all; he’d just stepped into a tiny room lined with wee lockers – something that would barely fit a file or folder. So much for cataloguing items for sale!

Robert plucked the key from his pocket and read the number embossed on it – 332.

The locker in question sat on the wall opposite the entrance. Robert stalked over to it and inserted the key. What had Anne hidden in there? Personal documents? Could be. He hadn’t found anything in their flat, and she had to have her passport and other documents stored somewhere. Perhaps she’d kept them in here. Not that this was a safe place, given anyone could just rock up and access the units, which appeared a little flimsy. It wouldn’t take much to force their locks.

In all their years of marriage, Anne had never been blasé about her things. So what could she have stored out here? Was it something she hadn’t wanted him to find?

Robert swallowed, trying to steady the small tremors in his hand. Then, with a long exhale, he inserted the key and turned the lock.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

Nina stared at her phone. That should be fucking impossible.

Anne Cranston had finally responded to Nina’s missive and sent her a photograph. It showed a cluster of college students out on a wee trip. According to Cranston, all the Annes Nina had been looking for were in that picture. The woman had even circled the faces and named everyone.

Nina had crossed off Annes 1 to 3, but the other two… One was ethnically Asian, and the other had a distinct nose – nothing like the image of the woman Dickheadson had shown Nina.

Anne Muller wasn’t anywhere to be seen in that photograph. But her social media profile had said she’d studied with those same Annes.

Nina was just about to email Anne Cranston about Anne Muller when a go-cup thudded on the table. Nina jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

The person who sat in the seat opposite her did not ease her thudding heart.

‘Hello.’

Nina raised an eyebrow at the man. That voice and that fucking perfect face still tugged at her heart. ‘Robert. How did you find me?’

Robert crossed his legs under the table, looking around the café. Nina had found herself a corner table at the café and had sat facing the entrance so she could see everyone who came in. Fat load of good that had done her. Robert had walked in, ordered a coffee and now occupied the seat in front of her without her noticing at all. Her investigation skills were failing.

Robert’s sly grin didn’t help matters. ‘You’re not a great criminal. A good rule of thumb is diversification. You must use multiple vendors if you want to stay truly hidden. Using Finn to get you a new phone just means it’s very easy to track you using that same phone. I need to talk to you.’

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