The Turn of the Key

“Really?”

“Okay. I maybe haven’t encountered anyone quite like Maddie, but she’s just a little girl, Jack. We’re getting to know each other, that’s all. We had a good day today.”

It wasn’t quite true though, was it? She had tried to get me sacked, first by luring me into that bloody poison garden, and second by tattling on me to her mother in a way designed to make me look as bad as possible.

“Jack, is there any way it could have been . . .” I stopped myself, and amended what I had been going to say, “one of the kids who set all that stuff off? They were playing with the tablet earlier, is there any way they could have . . . I don’t know . . . preprogrammed it by accident?”

Or deliberately, I thought, but did not say.

But he shook his head.

“I don’t think so. There’d be a record of a log-in. And anyway, from what you said, it overrode every single speaker and lighting system in the house. None of the users on this tablet have access rights to do that. You’d need an admin password for that.”

“So . . . you’d have to be Bill or Sandra, basically? Is that what you’re saying?” The thought was very odd, and my doubts must have shown on my face. “Could the kids have got hold of their PIN somehow?”

“Maybe, but they’re not even down as users on this tablet. Look.” He clicked the little drop-down menu on the home-management app that listed the possible users for this device. Me, Jack, Jean, and a final one marked “Guest.” That was it.

“So what you’re saying is . . . ,” I spoke slowly, trying to think it through, “to get an admin level of access, you wouldn’t just need Sandra’s PIN, you’d need her phone?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He pulled out his own phone, and showed me his access panel. “See? I’m the only user set up on my phone. It’s the way it’s configured.”

“And to set up new users on a device . . .”

“You need a specific code. Sandra would have given you one when you came here, no?”

I nodded.

“And let me guess, the code can only be generated by . . .”

“By an admin user, yup. That’s about the size of it.”

It made no sense. Had Sandra or Bill done this somehow? It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility—I had read up on the app when Sandra had first told me about it, and from what I could make out, the whole point of the system was that you could control it from anywhere with internet access—check the CCTV when you were on holiday in Verbier, turn on the lights when you were upstairs and wanted to come down, lower the heating when you were stuck in a traffic jam in Inverness. But why would they?

I remembered what Jack had said when I went to take the girls up to bed, and though I knew I was clutching at straws, I still had to ask the question.

“And the virus scans . . . ?”

He shook his head.

“Nothing on the tablet, at any rate. It’s clean as a whistle.”

“Shit.” I ran my hands through my hair, and he put his hand on my shoulder, touching me again, lightly, but I felt a kind of static charge run between us, making the hairs on my arm prickle, and I shivered lightly.

Jack made a rueful face, misinterpreting my reaction.

“Look at me, blathering away. You must be cold and tired—I’ll let you get to bed.”

It wasn’t true. Not anymore. I wasn’t cold, and suddenly I was very far from tired too. What I wanted was a drink, with him—and preferably one as strong as possible. I didn’t usually drink spirits, but it was on the tip of my tongue to mention the bottle of Scotch in the cupboard in the kitchen. But I knew that if I did, I would be starting something very stupid indeed, something I might not be able to stop.

“Okay,” I said at last. “That’s probably good advice. Thank you, Jack.”

I stood up, and he did too, setting down his tea and stretching until I heard his joints crack, and a little sliver of flat stomach showed between the bottom of his shirt and his waistband.

And then, I did something that surprised even myself. Something I had not intended to do, until the instant I found myself doing it.

I stood on tiptoes, and, pulling his shoulder down towards me, I kissed his cheek. I felt the leanness of his skin, the roughness of a day-old beard beneath my lips, and the warmth of him. And I felt something at the core of me clench with wanting.

When I stepped back, his expression was blank surprise, and for a moment I thought I had made a horrible mistake, and the butterflies in my stomach intensified to the point of queasiness. But then his mouth widened into a broad grin, and he bent, and kissed me back, very gently, his lips warm and very soft against my cheek.

“Good night, Rowan. You’re sure you’ll be all right now? You don’t need me to . . . stay?”

There was an infinitesimal pause before the last word.

“I’m sure.”

He nodded. And then he turned and left by the utility room door.

I locked it after him, the key turning with a reassuring clunk, and then I tucked the key back into its resting place and stood, watching his silhouette against the light streaming from the stable windows as he walked back to his little flat. As he mounted the stairs to his front door he turned and lifted a hand in farewell, and even though I was not sure he would be able to see me in the darkness, I raised mine in return.