24
Jack Culverhouse’s car rolled slowly down Parsons Close as he looked at the house numbers. Number 19 was in the corner, nicely tucked away. A burglar’s dream, he thought.
He turned his car around and parked it across the end of the driveway, facing the way he just came. He wasn’t sure why — maybe it was a subconscious preparation in case he needed to make a quick exit.
He walked up the gravel path and knocked twice on the door, clutching the bottle of wine he’d bought from the off-licence on his way over. He didn’t know a thing about wine, but he remembered the online shopping order story and guessed Chrissie liked white. Although he didn’t know anything about any of the wines on offer, they seemed to have a handy indication of niceness on labels below the bottles, denoted in Pounds
