The cellar, crammed full of old crates, had a musty, beery odour. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling and there were fag ends scattered on the tiled floor. Boxes of spirits were stacked up to her right, beside the bottled beer and the sherry and the mixers. She scanned the floor for spiders, hoping something large and black wasn’t about to make an appearance. Joe Quinn reminded her of a spider. She gave a quick, involuntary shudder. It was impossible to think of him as a grandfather; her real grandad had been kind and gentle, but Joe was something else entirely. Fortunately, he didn’t spend much time in the flat, and any occasion he was there, she was careful to steer clear. She understood that he’d fallen out with her mother, but why did he hate her – Helen Beck – so much? What had she ever done to him? Her very existence, it seemed, was enough to send him into a rage. Two minutes passed, and then another two. Helen kept glancing at her watch, aware of how slowly the hands were moving.
