her husband’s coma, that he collected valuable model trains, how she was taking sleeping pills. Magnus had been so disarming. She was a fool!
But he was so nice? Maybe he was being forced to do this under duress? Perhaps there was something in the blue car after all – the driver might be his boss, or a plain-clothes detective, monitoring his movements?
The boy waited, looking at his phone. There was probably a van outside, ready to collect him – why didn’t he just go, then? If Mrs Dixit had rushed outside, would a burly man have been waiting for her?
The phone made a beeping noise.
‘I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere,’ said the boy, and even through the T-shirt, Mrs Dixit could make out the self-satisfied smirk at his bad joke.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I think I know who sent you.’
That stopped him.
‘Who might that be?’
She was grasping at straws, but maybe it would give her some leverage… ‘He’s called Magnus.’
‘Who the fuck is Magnus?’ Even with his face half covered, it seemed to be authentic.
‘He’s probably using a different name. He’s a bit of a diamond geezer – moustache, wears expensive shirts and cufflinks, jewellery. Chats up lonely women, gets their details, lies about his cover story, his wife… Look, I understand why you’ve got mixed up with him, he’s very charming.’
‘I don’t know anyone like that with a moustache.’
‘I’ll tell the police it was him. I won’t even mention you, please!’
‘If you don’t shut up, I will find a gag. Are you going to shut your mouth?’
She nodded.
‘Good.’ He stuck his head into the hallway, taking the phone off its cradle.
‘Where’s your mobile?’ he asked.
Mrs Dixit nodded her head towards the bedroom.
‘You can speak,’ the boy said exasperatedly.
‘I left it by my bed.’
He grunted, hesitated for a moment, and then walked over to her, roughly feeling down her thighs and in her pyjama pocket, checking to see if there was anything inside. This is not his first time doing this, she thought, worriedly. Checking his phone, the boy headed down the stairs back to the study.
She was alone. Instinctively, she tugged at the cord which bound her wrists, trying to squirm free, to no avail. Her poor ribs throbbed. Mrs Dixit considered screaming, but the noise probably wouldn’t be enough to wake Mrs Rampersad in her bedroom and would cause violent repercussions. Why hadn’t she run upstairs to her neighbour when she had the chance? Stupid, she reprimanded herself. That dream had made her reckless. Standing outside his window in the soil and bushes!
What then? The boy would be back soon. She deliberated pushing the chair backwards, hoping it might break, but she would possibly give herself a concussion, splitting her head on the countertop behind. Topple sideways perhaps? She tried rocking the chair from side to side, but she was afraid she’d be even more vulnerable on the floor when the boy returned if she couldn’t escape. What would he do then? There was a mean streak about the boy, and still, that familiarity she hadn’t quite been able to place…
It arrived immediately then. The image of the boy at the waxworks, selling tickets at the front desk. A snippy young man, who never made eye contact, always on his phone. He was the Chomley cat burglar! Mrs Dixit considered if this new information gave her any advantage. If she told him, it was sure to be a liability – she’d not only have seen his face, but she knew where he worked too. Was her hunch about Magnus correct? The boy hadn’t seemed spooked by his name. And surely he would know any of Magnus’s aliases if he was involved in this?
Had she been really been Magnus’s target this whole time? Was that why he kept talking to her? He didn’t seem malicious in the slightest, but there was definitely something off about him… His obviously fictitious sick wife for one! If he was a criminal, why make such a blatantly bad attempt at fabricating a story? It didn’t make sense…
Mrs Dixit shook her head, trying to stop it racing over unimportant details. Who cared if Magnus was involved, or where this boy worked? The only thing she should be thinking about was escape before it was too late!
She listened. It seemed silent – but then the murmur of a voice emerged, a phone conversation the boy was having. Perhaps he would pack up the trains and flee? Something told her it wouldn’t be as easy as that.