Page 10 of One-Hit Wonder

1x bottle of tonic waterunopened

1x bottle of soda waternearly empty

1x packet Coco Popshalf full

1x jar silverskin onionstwo left

1x jar picklesfive left

1x book called 101 Classic Cocktailsdog-eared—stained

1x box Twinings Earl Grey teabagstwelve left

1x jar brown sugarvery hard

1x espresso machinea bit dirty

1x blue ceramic jar of real coffeetype unknown

1x loaf of unsliced brown breadvery hard

1x pink “lip”-shaped ceramic ashtrayfull

In Fridge

4x bottles champagnevarious brands

1x jar picklesunopened

1x jar mixed nutsunopened

1x packet Sainsbury’s Normandy butterhalf-used

12x bottles nail polishvarious brands and colors

1x large box of Charbonnel et Walker chocolatesonly two missing

1x tub Tesco’s brand cottage cheesewith garlic and chives

3x liter cartons Libby’s tomato juicegreen fur round spout of one

In Freezer

1x 2kg bag Party Iceopen

1x large rump steak

1x Tesco’s brand strawberry shortcake ice creamone scoop missing

1x bottle of Jose Cuervounopened

Bee, it seemed, had liked to drink. These bottles and shakers didn’t look the type that sat around waiting for special occasions or important guests. They appeared to have been in everyday usage. Ana thought back to the fancy green, blue, and pink things in odd-shaped glasses sporting parasols and sticky cherries that Bee used to drink when she and her parents went to see her all those years ago. She wondered briefly whether Bee might have had a drinking problem, whether that might have had something to do with her death. But, thought Ana, ideas going off in her head like fireworks, surely someone with a drinking problem wouldn’t go to all the effort of making cocktails every time they wanted a drink. No, thought Ana, Bee just liked a drink; she didn’t have a drinking problem.

Ana headed toward the living room and stopped on the way to open a small door set into the corridor wall. It was an airing cupboard, which contained, in addition to the traditional piles of folded towels and bedsheets, a used ashtray, a dirty mug, and a black evening jacket. The label inside the jacket read “Vivienne Westwood.” It was heavy with sequins and smelled of strong perfume. She examined the label. It was a size ten. She searched it for pockets and found a small one located in the lining. Inside the pocket was a ring—a silver ring set with three large diamonds. Ana took it to the window in the living room and held it to the light. The sunlight glittered and gleamed off the stones, and the metal had a sheen about it that suggested something more valuable than silver—platinum, or white gold. She slipped the ring onto her finger and thought for a moment how ridiculous it looked on her skinny, scuffed fingers with their bitten, uneven nails, but she kept it there anyway, enjoying the heaviness of it and the way it caught the light.

The living room really was shockingly bare. There was no sense of “living” about it at all. No ornaments, no lamps, no mirrors, no paintings on the walls—just lots of ugly furniture, and books and records piled up around the place in a way that suggested they had been put there temporarily and never been moved. A motley crew of assorted soft toys and animals sat staring at Ana from the mantelpiece and, resting against the wall at the furthest side of the room, she caught sight of something quite heartbreaking—two of the saddest-looking guitars she’d ever seen, one acoustic, one electric, both broken, both missing strings, both covered in a fine layer of dust. For Ana this was equivalent to finding two abused, abandoned puppies in a cardboard box. How could people be so cruel? She picked up the acoustic. It was—had been—a beautiful instrument. There was a hole gouged out of the back panel and a massive chip in the head. It looked like it had taken a few beatings. She managed to extract a few discordant chords from the poor, unloved creature and then stroked it gently before wrapping it up in a pair of bath towels and nesting it gently into a cardboard box.

Ana wondered when Bee had learned to play guitar. Who’d taught her? Had she been any good? A person had to get pretty low to treat their guitars like that, Ana thought sadly to herself.