Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(50)

She knocks again, a little louder this time, and waits. Still nothing. She really wants to get a look at the logs, and she’s here now. Surely the guard must be inside? If they’re not answering, there’s only one way to find out. She presses the door handle down and pushes. Nothing happens. The door is stuck firm. Moira pushes again, harder this time. The door doesn’t budge – it must be locked.

Strange. The gatehouse is supposed to be manned 24-7. Surely the sound of someone trying to get in would bring them running, but there’s still no guard. Moira uses her fist to thump hard on the door.

Again, there’s no answer.

She stops pounding on the door and thinks. Either the place is empty and the guard has broken protocol to step out for a while, or they’re inside but not coming to the door for some reason – maybe because they’ve fallen asleep on shift, or hurt themselves somehow? Whatever the reason, she needs to know it.

Moving away from the door, she walks around the building to the side that borders the entrance lanes. She stops beside the large viewing window and peers inside. The gatehouse looks neat and tidy. There are three desks, one immediately the other side of the window and two more further back in the room. They all have computers on them. The desk closest to the window has a half-drunk mug of coffee and a Lee Child novel splayed open. The chair has been pushed back from the desk. Someone is in there, she’s sure of it.

Moira cups her face and squints through the window, scanning the room inch by inch.

It takes her a moment to see him. He’s hunkered down towards the back of the room, hiding behind one of the desks further from the window, trying to stay out of sight.

Moira shakes her head. The Homestead pride themselves on great security – it was one of the things they pushed hardest when she spoke to them about possibly moving here. She’s pretty sure guards shouldn’t be hiding from residents.

Banging on the glass, she shouts, ‘I can see you.’

The security guard peeps over the top of the desk. His brown hair is sticking up all tufty at the front. It makes him look like Beaker from The Muppets.

‘Yes, you,’ says Moira, gesturing to the door. ‘Open it.’

The guard’s cheeks flush red and he stands. He’s young, barely twenty, with patchy stubble and a tall, lanky and slightly hunched stance. It makes him look even more like Beaker.

‘Come on,’ says Moira. Gesturing again to the door.

As the young guard shuffles across the room, Moira heads back around the building. She hears the door lock click, and a number of bolts being drawn back. Then the door opens a few inches, just wide enough for the guard to peer through.

‘Didn’t you hear me knocking?’ says Moira. She knows he did, of course, because he was hiding, but wants to give him the chance to explain.

The young guard nods. ‘I thought you were the killer.’

The murder might not have been reported on the news app, but it seems the staff are aware of what happened. Moira raises her eyebrows. ‘Do I look like a murderer?’

The young guy shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before.’

It’s a fair point.

‘I live here. Can I come in?’

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. ‘Well, I don’t—’

‘You want me to tell your boss about how you weren’t at your post when I came by? How you were hiding?’ Moira glances towards the road. ‘Anyone could have driven on in and you’d have been none the wiser about who they were. Think your boss will be okay with that?’

The young guard swallows hard. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘So I’ll come in then.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

The guard steps back from the door, opening it wider. ‘Okay.’

Moira is pretty sure allowing a resident into the gatehouse for no good reason is against the rules, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she steps inside.

The security guy says nothing. Looks awkward.

‘So what was the hiding about?’ asks Moira.

He looks down, his cheeks colouring redder. ‘Nothing, ma’am.’

‘You were hiding behind a desk and the door was bolted. I’d say that’s a little more than nothing.’

His voice is barely audible. ‘I was afraid.’

‘Of the killer?’

The security guard meets her gaze. ‘I heard a young woman was chopped up in one of the swimming pools. Blood everywhere. I didn’t want to end up like—’

‘I get that it’s worrying,’ says Moira. ‘But you’re a security guard. Your job is to protect this community.’

‘But what if the killer wanted to get me?’

‘Why would they?’

‘Could be I saw them.’

‘Did you?’

He shrugs. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I see a lot of people.’

Moira tries not to show her frustration with the guy – she needs him on her side. ‘I could help.’

The lanky security guard frowns. ‘How?’

‘I’ve heard from the neighbourhood patrol that a station wagon was seen over near Manatee Park on the night of the murder, and nearby a few nights before that.’

The guard looks confused. ‘Okay?’

‘So I thought if I could just get a quick look at your gate log, I could see when else the vehicle has been—’