A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

by Kerry Wilkinson

  It suddenly feels like I can breathe again. ‘He’s got food poisoning?’

  The vet nods. ‘Something like that. I don’t want to get too far ahead, but I’ll give you some medicine that should help settle Billy’s tummy. We’ll give him some here and you can help him with a second dose later. He’ll likely need to sleep it off and you can see how he is tomorrow. If you need to come back, we can look again.’

  ‘He’s going to be okay?’

  Another nod. ‘Give it a few days and he should be back to his old self.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After Billy’s first injection, the vet says he should be feeling a little sprightlier soon. I pay the receptionist with yet more of the cash from the envelope and then Billy and I sit in the waiting room for a few minutes, waiting to see if he perks up.

  With little else to do, I type Jade’s name into my phone and search for anything new. Karen’s sources might have been dodgily third- or fourth-hand, but they seem to be accurate. Although there’s nothing that names Jade specifically, there are now a couple of news stories saying a body was discovered by a couple of hikers at Dale Park Woods. There are few other details, but it is definitely not good. The poor girl.

  It’s hard not to flash back to the times when I saw her and wonder if I could have done more. Perhaps she was in trouble – and all I did was ask dull questions about how her course was going, or throw out inane lines about it being a bit chilly out, and the like. I remember Lauren, the building manager, calling to ask if I’d seen her – and how I didn’t question that Jade had upped and left without paying rent. Karen and I both shrugged it off, while, all the time, something far worse had either happened or was happening.

  I’m brought back into the room by Billy rubbing his nose on my ankle. His eyelids are still droopy, but he looks up to me and there’s recognition. It’s like the sun has emerged after a long winter and I’m filled with such relief that I have to blink away tears.

  This time, Billy clambers into the buggy himself. I’m going to have to carry it back to Hamilton House anyway, so he might as well use it. Rather than flopping to the side, he wriggles himself into a sitting position and then waits for me to strap him in. He licks his tongue across his teeth and looks to me as if to say, Well, what are we waiting for?

  I thank the receptionist again and have an odd moment of déjà vu. I was standing in the same spot what feels like hours ago. I was panicking that Billy might be dying… and now everything feels as if it’s going to be okay.

  It’s a few minutes back to the bus stop and it’s while we’re waiting there that I get a tap on the shoulder. I turn to see Daff, staring at me curiously. It occurs to me that we’ve never actually seen one another away from Crosstown Supermarket. For all her offers of nights out and the like, I’ve never once taken her up. Our entire relationship has been within the four walls of work – and it’s like I’m looking at an alternate version of her. She’s in skinny jeans and a Pink Floyd vest, with a denim jacket over the top.

  ‘Well, look who it is,’ she says with a grin, before turning towards the buggy. ‘I didn’t know you had a—’ Her features dissolve into a curious mix of amusement and confusion. ‘I was going to say child,’ she adds.

  ‘I had to take him to the vet,’ I reply.

  Daff takes a moment to go gooey over Billy, showering him with affection that he reluctantly reciprocates by sniffing her hands.

  When she’s done, Daff turns back and slaps me playfully on the shoulder: ‘You abandoned me!’ she says. ‘Jonathan said you’d left. One minute you were there, then you’d gone. What happened?’

  I fight away a smile. I’d been worried about running into anyone from the supermarket in case they all knew the real reason why I’d been fired. But Jonathan kept it to himself. I don’t deserve it.

  ‘I was having a few issues,’ I say. ‘I talked with Jonathan and decided it was best if I left the job.’

  It’s politician speak. Off to seek new ventures, and all that. Spending some time with the family. Saying nothing in as many words as possible.

  Daff isn’t stupid. She waits for me to follow up, but, when it’s clear that’s all there is, she shrugs it away.

  ‘I’m gonna miss our chats,’ she says.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Good luck, I guess. You’ll have to come out with us one night…’

  I smile weakly: ‘Maybe.’

  She laughs at that and there’s a tug from within me, saying that I wasn’t as isolated as I thought. It’s true that I kept saying no to these offers of friendship – but they kept coming nonetheless. That had to mean something.

  ‘I’ll see ya around,’ Daff says. She ruffles Billy’s ears, gives me a small wave and then bounds off along the street.

  There are more sideways glances and illicit photos on the bus. I’ll be an Instagram star without even knowing it. Or, more to the point, Billy will. #BuggyDog #BuggyDogOnABus #BusDog

  By the time the bus pulls up close to Hamilton House, Billy is straining against the straps, so I let him out to walk on the pavement alongside me. He’s still slower than usual and there’s none of the curiosity he would usually have for lamp posts, walls and bushes – but the fact he’s walking is such an improvement.

  After reading the news stories about Jade, I half expect there to be reporters or police hanging around outside the building – but there’s no one. I can’t help but notice the poster on the lamp post about the item lost on the bus. There’s another taped to a pillar on the opposite side of the road, almost as if they’re breeding.

  Upstairs and Billy finishes his water in one go. I refill the bowl for him, but he’s already stomping circles in his bed, trying to get comfortable. The vet bills were a little over £100 and, even if it was my own money, I’d have found a way to pay it.

  I sit with him on the floor for a little while, but he shrugs me away, wanting to be left to himself. This is the Billy I know and love. Friendliness is one thing – but affection and sleep do not mix. Or friendliness and his sleep. He’s fine injecting himself into my rest times.

  Leaving him be, I park myself on the sofa and open the laptop. My new laptop, bought with someone else’s money. I open my email, type in the address from the poster and sit staring at the blank space. This is the test of who I am and I want to be a good person. My fingers tremble as I hover over the keys.

  Hi. I found your money. Do you want it back?

  There’s a moment in which I almost hit send, but then I read back the line and instantly delete it. My next attempt isn’t much better:

  Hi. I found what you lost. Do you want it back?

  I run through half-a-dozen terrible variations until settling on something far simpler.

  Hi. I take the same bus as you. What is it you lost?

  I read this new version over and then send it from my second email account. It’s the one I use to sign up for things online so that all the spam ends up in one place, while emails that actually matter arrive elsewhere. More importantly, the alternate address does not have my real name attached to it.

  That done, I send a quick text to Harry, asking how he is. I’ve barely finished doing that when Annie’s name flashes onto the screen as an incoming call. The last time we saw each other, I had essentially dumped her in a graveyard to talk to Gloria instead.

  I’m nervous as I press to answer, expecting some sort of unease that doesn’t come. Instead, Annie offers a chipper: ‘Hey, hun!’

  We go back and forth and she asks how things are going. I tell her about Billy being ill and she offers the expected sympathy before breezily moving onto the real reason for calling.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask what you talked to Gloria about?’ she says.

  Far from being awkward, it feels like a relief that she’s asked. ‘Not much,’ I say. ‘It was all a bit strange. She asked if I’d made any money after the crash. When I said that Ben and I weren’t married and that I hadn’t, she went quiet and dashed away.’

/>   ‘Hmm…’ Annie takes a moment and then adds: ‘She just called me with the same thing.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Something to do with a TV documentary that she’s trying to pull together.’

  Annie waits, as if expecting me to chime in – but I have no idea how to respond. It is far from what I might have expected.

  ‘I think there’s a production company involved,’ Annie adds. ‘They’re trying to get her to sweeten us all up so that they have some idea of who might want to work with them.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me that?’ I ask. ‘All she did was run off.’

  Annie lets out a dismissive pfft. ‘Apparently Gloria’s been talking to everyone – but only as individuals. You know what she’s like: A complete nutter.’

  I don’t say that I’m not sure what Gloria is like. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to her properly before the memorial.

  Annie continues: ‘One of the others reckons there’s a budget from the production company. She’s trying to figure out how much she’ll have to offer people to appear. If someone got a bit insurance pay-out, they might do it for less – that sort of thing. If she can get a load of people on board for lower fees, she’ll get more herself. She’s been banking on none of us talking to each other.’

  ‘Has anyone signed up?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not that I’ve heard. I do have a second reason for calling you, though.’

  She sounds reluctant in saying that.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone needs to tip off Alex and Ben’s mum. I know you’ve got issues with Melanie, so I can call if you want, or—’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  I’m not completely sure why I say it. I glance across to the kitchen counter, on which her jacket is still resting. I suppose I was going to have to confront Melanie sooner or later.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Annie asks.

  I don’t need to think about the answer. ‘Yes.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I sit with Billy on the floor and he chomps down his food with no hesitation. He rubs his head against my hand and then puts it back down, closing his eyes for another sleep. It’s a wrench to leave him but I figure I can get out and back in two hours at the absolute most. He’s probably going to rest for most of that time anyway. The vet said he’d need to sleep it off.

  Melanie lives in the same house she always has. It’s on the furthest side of town from me, tucked on the back end of a post-war housing estate. These are the types of properties built when people knew what they were doing – with large back gardens, patches of green at the front and so much space there could be two or three new-builds rammed into the same area.

  The first thing I notice about Melanie’s house as I approach is that the curtains are closed upstairs and down. There are no lights in the hallway and no sign that anybody is in. There’s no doorbell and a sign that tells doorstop sellers not to bother. The facia boards are brown with muck and the outside of the house is coated with a dusty murk, making it look as if it hasn’t been cleaned in a long time.

  I knock on the glass of the front door and wait. After thirty seconds, I try again, a little harder this time. I give it another minute and am about to turn to go when a shape appears in the distance through the rippled glass. It’s a stand-off as I watch the silhouette slowly make its way towards the door. It’s probably a good two minutes since I knocked the door that a timid-sounding ‘hello’ comes from the other side.

  ‘It’s Lucy,’ I say.

  At first, nothing happens; then there’s the sound of five or six bolts unlocking before the door is wrenched inwards. Melanie stands there in tracksuit bottoms and a pyjama vest. She’s either not been up long or has been in her nightwear all day. Her overriding feature remains, however – the malice in her stare. Her eyes boggle as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Hell has frozen over.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says, sternly.

  ‘Can I come in?’ I ask.

  Melanie has turned into a statue. She’s rigid until she bangs the front door open wider into the wall.

  I was half expecting her to tell me to do one, but it’s as much as an invite as I’m going to get.

  There’s always an awkward moment in entering someone else’s house. They hold open the door, which means the person going in has to gamble at where to go. I bustle along the hallway into a kitchen I’ve not seen in seven or eight years. The blinds are down, leaving the room shrouded in a gloomy murk. There is mould in the corners of the ceiling and spider’s webs in the window frame. The fridge is humming like a jumbo jet coming into land and there’s a large tear across the centre of the linoleum flooring.

  Melanie stands blocking the kitchen door. ‘What do you want?’

  I figure there’s no point in niceties, so get right to it: ‘There’s a woman named Gloria who’s going around talking to relatives of people from the crash. It’s something to do with a TV documentary, but she’s asking about money. I—’

  ‘I don’t want anyone’s money.’

  ‘Me either. I’m here to let you know, in case nobody else has mentioned it. Someone said Gloria has been offered money by a production company and that she’s trying to keep as much of it for herself as she can.’

  Melanie clucks her tongue and then half turns back towards the hallway. ‘Is that it? I guess you can get off then. You’ve already killed my son.’

  I should let it go. I’ve been letting it go for years. It takes some twisting of the truth for her to believe I killed both her sons but I’ve ignored it because I can’t imagine how much she must be hurting from losing both her sons at the same time. Perhaps it’s the time I’ve had with Billy, but something inside of me tugs. My skin tingles and it’s like I’m about to erupt. I unzip my bag and pull out the red coat, holding it up triumphantly.

  ‘I knew it!’ Melanie shouts, reaching for it.

  I pull the jacket away. ‘You knew it?’ I shout back.

  ‘You nicked it, didn’t you?’

  She makes another grab for it, but I pull it away once more; like a low-rent matador on a Channel 5 gameshow.

  ‘What is your problem?’ Melanie says.

  ‘My problem? What was this doing in my building?’

  Melanie stops trying to lunge for it and steps away until she’s in front of the fridge. ‘Don’t play that game with me,’ she snarls. ‘This was nicked off my line and now you’re here, literally red-handed.’

  I can’t deny that it’s a good line. When she snatches for the anorak a third time, I let her pull it away. She glares volcanic fury at me and my anger of moments before has suddenly gone.

  ‘It was stolen off your line?’ I say, softer this time.

  ‘Aye – and now I know who did it.’

  ‘Why would I steal your coat?’

  Melanie lets out a breath of such force that it’s like a llama spitting at a selfie-taker. If I’d been closer, I’d have got a face full. ‘You’re the one who’s been stalking me,’ she shouts.

  It’s now my turn to splutter. I can barely get the words out. ‘What are you on about?’ I say.

  ‘I’m in the park – and there you are,’ she says. ‘I’m having a quiet moment on a bench – and there you are. This week of all weeks. Can’t you leave me alone? Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’

  We stare at one another. She’s so convincing that I wonder if, somehow, I am the stalker.

  ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ she adds.

  ‘I thought you were stalking me,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh, I get it. I’m the crazy one.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  We stand on opposite sides of the kitchen and the buzzing fridge makes it seem as if the entire room is vibrating.

  ‘Get out,’ Melanie says, nodding towards the front door.

  She’s right – I should go – so I step past her into the hallway, although I stop almost immediately. There’s a photo on the wall of Ben that’s
so haunting, it feels as if I can’t move past it. He’s precisely how I remember him – in a vest with the long tattoo along his arm that he’d only had completed a month or so before the crash. He’s tanned, which makes the scar under his Adam’s apple more apparent, and he has an arm around someone who looks like a younger version of him. It’s Alex, of course, his brother. And, yet, in the few times I met Alex I never remembered them looking so similar. There were five years between them. Alex lacks the tattoo and the scar, but from this angle, in this light, they are strikingly similar.

  ‘Look alike, don’t they?’ Melanie says.

  She’s uncomfortably close, yet I’d somehow not noticed. There’s a smirk in the corner of her mouth as she enjoys my discomfort.

  ‘When was this taken?’ I ask.

  Melanie shrugs and then, seemingly without thinking, her gaze glances towards the ceiling. I follow her line of sight, but there’s nothing there.

  ‘Why was Alex on the train?’

  My question takes Melanie by surprise. She steps backwards into the kitchen: ‘What?’

  ‘When Ben left in the morning, he never said he was getting on the train with his brother. There’s no reason for him to have kept it to himself – so why was Alex on the train?’

  Melanie bites her lip. ‘I want you to leave.’

  I think about it and even take half a step closer to the door before turning back. ‘He tried it on with me.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Alex.’

  It’s as if the back door has been opened. A chill bristles along the hallway from the kitchen. Melanie is lost in the gloom.

  ‘At a barbecue,’ I add. ‘It was the weekend before the train. He groped my bum and said he could see what his brother did.’