“Yeah,” he grunted, not looking away from the boxes.
“Want me to bring you out a latte?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Before I moved away, he hauled me close and up to my toes, bringing my mouth to his. He shoved his tongue in and kissed me like he was off to war. Then he turned me by the hips, patted me on the arse, and pushed me in the direction of the door, adding, “And a couple of biscuits, please.”
I shot him a squinty look over my shoulder but he was already focused back on the boxes.
I had only the vaguest idea of what was in them at this point. When he was still trying to convince me to let him at the garage, I’d told Kevin it would be easier to cram it all into the back of his Land Cruiser and drive it to the tip.
He’d gasped in outrage and informed me that there could be treasure in there.
Treasure.
Right.
He always trotted that one out when he wanted an excuse to be nosy and go poking around.
If ‘treasure’ meant broken lamps, old books, ancient laptops and maybe, if he was lucky, an iPod loaded up with mid-noughties emo band albums (and Britney), then he was in for a treat, I’d said.
Otherwise, it was going to be a disappointing experience.
Kevin didn’t care. Kevin wasn’t just passionate about fixing things. He was also passionate about recycling, upcycling, and sustainability. The tip was a last resort as far as he was concerned.
He had contacts at salvage yards, community repair cafes, charity collection depots, and recycling centres all over Oxfordshire. If there was a chance something could be rehomed rather than destroyed, he’d see it done. This had worked out well for Liam when he and his forensics team had to go running around the county trying to recover Deirdre’s stuff, which had become critical evidence in the Dollhouse Murders case.
Last I heard, they’d managed to get back almost forty percent of it.
As for whatever I wanted to keep, it would no longer be stored in sagging cardboard boxes, old suitcases, or reusable supermarket shopping bags.
I’d seen his project binder. Kevin had a vision.
The garage was destined to be rewired with new overhead lights and multiple power points. The walls would be insulated, plastered, and painted, except for the wall facing the garden, which would be knocked out and replaced with glass, to make use of natural light and to zhuzh up the utilitarian vibe. He was going to build a custom shelving unit from scratch to hold metal lockers, recycled plastic tubs, and archive boxes for all my storage needs. There would be various racks and pegboards for hanging tools.
He’d choked up when I told him to go ahead and set up an area for his workbench, toolboxes, and anything else he wanted to store in there.
Leaving him to it, I went back to the house to fire up my Gaggia espresso machine and make his latte.
Phil heaved himself up off the picnic blanket as I passed and followed me in from the garden. He headed straight for his bed in the corner of the kitchen, where he flopped down with a happy groan.
All that napping in the sun must have tired him out, which was lucky for Kevin, or Phil would be in the garage with him, attempting to help.
I paused in the middle of getting the milk out of the fridge.
Had Phil ever been into the garage? I couldn’t remember.
Huh.
I’d acquired Phil along with the house, and he’d always point-blank refused to go upstairs where Deirdre, his murderous former owner, had stashed her collection of human dolls.
He still wouldn’t.
Ray sometimes babysat for Phil, and Phil wouldn’t go upstairs at Ray’s house, either. He also refused to go into Ray’s conservatory, which had (eventually) been built over the former resting place of a mummy dressed as a Victorian clown.
He was like a reverse cadaver dog. If a body was once there, Phil wouldn’t go near the spot.
