Page 5 of A Simple Mistake
First Steps
Ataquartertofour on a Sunday morning only insomniacs walked Central London.Skylar Payne sipped jasmine tea from his travel mug and crossed the street before turning towards the next crossroads.The tang of damp brick mingled with petrol fumes, the scent so familiar Skylar had long learned to ignore it.A thin mist softened all edges, the haze of tiny droplets haloing the streetlights and clinging to lamp posts, parked cars, and Skylar’s lashes.He blinked it away, calculating the chance of his hair not being a soggy disaster when he reached his destination.
“’s not as if it matters.This job won’t have an audience,” he soothed his perfectionist tendencies.If it bothered him once he was done, he could take a taxi home.
Right now, nothing moved in his line of sight and each one of his steps raised an echo.It was too late for the bars, and too early for the many cafes lining the streets between Charing Cross and Covent Garden, the city taking a breath between one day and the next.
“Fanciful,” Skylar muttered to himself and swallowed another mouthful of tea.More polite than ‘fuck jetlag,’ even when nobody was around to hear him.After forty-eight hours without sleep, his mind had reached that weird state where it fixated on tiny details which—at two-thirty that morning—had seemed so perfect for Aidan’s job he’d grabbed shoes and coat and left his Docklands flat.
He was familiar with the streets he walked, had most likely stopped at a cafe a time or two, but he’d never set foot in one of the apartments between and above them.“For everything, there is a season,” he hummed under his breath, checking numbers until he had the one he wanted.
The entrance door was ornate.A grille of brushed metal over solid wood and taller than necessary, it opened into a hall of Victorian proportions.A chandelier illuminated the space, and Skylar knew a man who’d love to get his hands on the intricate floor tiles.
“Oh, how the other half lives…”
He climbed the polished stone steps, palm tracing the banister rail.Mrs McTavish’s flat was on the second floor.Skylar turned the key and started when the click of the door unlocking bounced along the high ceiling of the hallway.He froze and glanced over his shoulder, waiting.What he waited for, he didn’t know.A challenge?An enquiry from a nosy neighbour at this ungodly hour?
“You’re not breaking in,” he singsonged.“You’re the man with the key.”But he still kicked off his boots as soon as he stepped through the door as if he were a guest and invited.
Inside, the air hung stale and unmoving, with only a hint of lemon furniture polish to lift the dead scent—the way a place smelled when its owners had been gone for weeks.When nobody had moved from room to room, opened windows, or watered plants.Skylar’s own flat used to smell like that every time he returned home.Used to, because he now lived in a serviced apartment, and housekeeping was too diligent to let his plants die or the air grow stale.
The same would have happened here—a service taking care of the place—had Margot McTavish fallen ill and been taken to hospital.But she’d died, and the family had left her flat undisturbed while they waited for probate.Skylar could see some sense in that, even if nobody had suspected the woman had died before her time.
Pale gold walls, a high ceiling with plaster mouldings, and dark parquet flooring made up the hallway.Three doors led to the bathroom, kitchen, and living room, while a fourth door hid a cloakroom that held the washing machine and tumble dryer.
Skylar started there, but found little to see.The appliances were top brands and a few years old.Margot McTavish had chosen detergent and cleaning supplies with the planet in mind.A cream blouse and a pair of dark grey trousers took up room in the laundry basket beside the washing machine, overlooked by everyone.And a pair of sturdy walking shoes sat on a mat beside the door.
Skylar moved on.
The kitchen was neat as a pin, cupboards stocked with tins, packets, and an extensive collection of spices.The wine rack was full.A couple of plates, a pan, a wineglass, and cutlery for one sat in the slim dishwasher—all clean and ready to be put away.
In the bathroom, the selection of luxury skincare products reminded him of his mother.Nothing else pinged his radar, so Skylar left after a glance through the noteworthy selection of Shiseido products and crossed the hall into the living room.
Seven Dials, close to Shaftesbury Avenue, wasn’t a cheap area of London.Apartments in this part of town changed hands for vast sums and Margot McTavish’s heirs, and HM Treasury, of course, were in for a decent windfall whether they chose to rent the place out or sell it.According to Aidan’s notes, Margot McTavish and her husband had bought the place in the 70s, when prices had been nowhere near what they were now.She had lived here ever since, and the McTavishes had kept the apartment up to date.
The kitchen was new.The bathroom only a few years old.And the couple had invested in wood-framed double-glazed sash windows in keeping with the look of the mansion block apartment.No nod to sleek modernity here.The decor spoke of quiet elegance instead.Throughout the home, Skylar recognised high-end brands.A sign the couple had had taste and the money to indulge it.
Skylar explored the flat with its high ceilings and row of tall windows as the light outside grew brighter.Too large a space for one person, but he could understand why Margot hadn’t moved after her husband’s death.Each ornament, painting, and framed photograph spoke of years of work, travel, and a lifelong companionship.
Skylar was neither art critic nor antiques dealer.He couldn’t put a value on the paintings or the beautiful Art Deco furniture, but when he made his way to the bedroom, the contents of Margot McTavish’s wardrobe and makeup case told him a lot.
Here was a woman who lavished care on her appearance, who loved to appear perfectly groomed, and who had surrounded herself with a space that was equally cared for.
The details Aidan had shared with him hadn’t prepared him for the home he stood in.And Skylar didn’t know how to feel about that.
When Gareth had left for his run, Jack had been fast asleep.When he returned, Jack was still curled on his side, eyes closed, and one arm flung across the bed.Gareth watched him from the doorway, noted Jack’s light, quick breaths, and smiled.
“You still have green paint under your fingernails.”
Jack didn’t move.“It should be either willow or fresh sage, not green.And I showered last night.”
“I know.”He’d lent a hand when Jack had removed the protective sheeting from the hallway floor.And he’d helped Jack wash off dust, sweat, and paint—before getting the two of them dirty again.The memories warmed him, as did the sight of Jack, loose and relaxed.“It still looks fabulous this morning.”
“I should hope so.”Jack sat up, blinking at the light spilling in from the landing.“Why are you up at ridiculous o’clock?”
“Woke up and felt energetic.”Gareth pulled the T-shirt over his head and headed for the bathroom.“You should have come with me.It’s misty out.”
Jack yawned so wide his jaw cracked.“Another day.”
