Until It's Over by Nicci French Read Free Book Online

briefcase in one hand and a paper tucked under her arm. ‘Hi, my love.’ She pulled off her jacket and sat next to Miles, leaned over and kissed him lingeringly on the cheek. Then she smiled at me, her teeth white, her skin smooth. She smelled faintly of apples, while Miles smelled of beer. I smelled of sweat and bike oil. ‘That looks terribly clever. I can’t even repair a puncture. I just take it into the shop. I used to feel I ought to learn, and then I worked out that if I priced my time, I was actually losing money by doing repairs myself.’
    ‘I suppose it depends how you price your time,’ I said, winding the new chain round the chain-ring. I was trying not to look at her. Had she heard any of the conversation?
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It does.’
    And that was the end of that. Miles sat and watched me work. Leah read the paper, glancing up frequently to watch us through narrowed eyes. I felt as if I was in a cage in a zoo with people staring at me through the bars.
    ‘You don’t have to move out until you’re ready,’ said Miles, eventually answering the question that had sparked off his declaration to me.
    ‘Three months, wasn’t that what we agreed?’ Leah spoke without raising her head from the paper.
    ‘I don’t remember,’ muttered Miles.
    ‘I mean, you’re not still students,’ said Leah. ‘You can’t go on living like this for ever. I think it’s amazing that Miles has let you live here all these years.’
    I didn’t speak but I did cast a look towards Miles that had an element of sarcasm in it.
    ‘Strictly speaking,’ said Miles, ‘they paid rent and helped out with things.’
    ‘If you mean Dario’s DIY, I’m not sure it was necessarily adding value.’
    The chain was attached and I sprayed the moving parts with lube. I lifted the bike so that the back wheel was off the ground and worked the pedal so that it spun in a blur of silver. It was a beautiful sight. Time for that beer.
    ‘What was that woman called?’ said Leah. ‘The one who was murdered.’
    ‘Peggy,’ I said.
    ‘Farrell,’ said Miles. ‘Margaret Farrell.’
    ‘They’ve arrested some people.’
    Miles grabbed the paper and scanned it. ‘There’s not much,’ he said. ‘Four teenagers, who “cannot be named for legal reasons”. They’ve been arrested in connection with the murder and robbery of Margaret Farrell. Well, it’s not hard to guess where they’re from.’
    ‘Where?’ asked Leah.
    ‘They’re those feral kids from the estate. They’ll probably get two weeks’ community service.’
    ‘Why couldn’t they just have stolen her purse?’ I said. ‘Why did they have to kill her?’
    ‘That was part of the thrill,’ said Miles, grimly. ‘They probably filmed it on their mobiles.’
    ‘It’s funny being so close to something,’ I said. ‘And we don’t really know anything about it and we probably never will. I guess they’ll plead guilty in a few months’ time and that will be that and we’ll never hear anything more about it.’
    ‘There’s nothing to hear,’ said Miles.
    Miles was wrong and I was wrong. After three more days, cleaning, shopping, a couple of parties, a movie with Saul, and three more nights, I found myself sitting in a room with a detective. PC Prebble had met me at the desk and led me through. I sat alone in the room and looked around. There was almost nothing to see. No windows, no pictures. The walls were painted beige. There was speckled lino on the floor, the sort that is easy to clean and doesn’t show dirt. There was a table with two moulded plastic chairs, and two more piled up against the wall.
    The door opened and a head poked round. ‘Miss Bell?’
    ‘I’m Astrid Bell.’
    The man came in. He was middle-aged, large, made larger by a grey suit very slightly too small for him. He was almost bald with his remaining hair cut very short. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mitchell,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
    ‘I was surprised,’ I said.
    He