Home for Truths: The stand-out domestic suspense thriller for 2020

by Alan Agnew

  I manage a half-smile.

  ‘Maybe Reg can add some colour, he chose the hymns and spoke fondly of him to me before the service.’

  I feel relieved my dad was not alone, even if only in spirit, and that he had the support and respect of the village. ‘Can you put me in touch with Reg?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t share his number, but what I can share with you is that he volunteers at the children’s home up at Teyford and will be there tomorrow until 5ish.’

  I finish my tea and thank the vicar again for the service with a warm handshake. ‘If there is anything I can do,’ he offers, studying my mischievous smile.

  ‘There is maybe one small thing you can help me with. Your office kindly arranged the flowers via a family firm from Bournemouth, are there no local florists anymore?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but just the usual high street chains. It was at the request of your father. He wanted a more personal touch, and to ensure we started on time, and of course for you to speak, they were his only asks.’

  I feel good, too good to go home and sit in the empty house surrounded by to-do lists. I drive into the village, passing the fast-food chains and find a table at the Foxboro for some lunch. I am so pleased to see the Foxboro still going strong in a place full of changing demographics and identity. The Foxboro is like taking a step back in time.

  The food is basic with tea served in mugs, each one from the owner’s private collection. The menu is sketched on a blackboard behind the counter, although unlikely to have changed in a decade. In keeping with my surroundings, I order a corned beef and pickle sandwich on white, no seven different varieties of bread here to choose from here. Sitting at my table, I take in my surroundings. No mobile phones here, the odd person reading the Daily Mirror, an older lady engrossed in a book but mostly just folk sitting, looking out of the window, watching the world go by. I imagine it is always like this in the Foxboro, sometimes folk sit and think, sometimes they just sit. It is like time has stood still here, a tiny corner of Baysworth left untouched by the wave of commercialisation.

  I pick up the local paper, the Dorset Herald, stained by what looks like an egg yolk and toast crumbs from this morning’s serving. It makes some grim reading for this once-sleepy County; an OAP found dead in his flat, a young girl sexually assaulted on a night out, reports of drug dealing at local schools and a suspected paedophile ring busted in police raids. I read how the police broke up the alleged paedophile ring after searching a beach hut in Weymouth where the atrocities are believed to have taken place. The article includes a picture of the beach hut; a small wooden hut, tiny in size and a dirty mustard colour with a rusty lock. Residents were shocked that such atrocities could have taken place so close to the main beach where thousands visit in the summer, with one quoted as saying, ‘You never know what goes on behind a closed-door even if it is right on your doorstep.’ The size and appearance of the beach hut is the mirror image of Donald’s. I swallow hard, the air in café thickening, my breathing becoming heavier. My mind venture’s into dark places once again.

  Donald is front and centre in my thoughts. If he did shut the story down to protect others, it would have been above and beyond the call of duty, a debt much more significant than what I have been reading about from various whistleblower accounts. Would he risk a prison sentence for a handshake? Maybe the size of the prize was his freedom? My dad was always suspicious of him, and the time Jimmy spent with him. They must have had a severe falling out for them not to speak and for the police to warn my dad away from him. Maybe my dad suspected something, perhaps even made an accusation? But I know my dad, he would not have stopped there.

  I drive home, still calculating my thoughts. I speed up to overtake the bin lorry just before it pulls into Hatch End, nothing worse than being stuck behind a bin lorry on a narrow road. As I pull into the empty drive, I have to veer left onto the grass just to avoid Donald’s bin sitting proudly in the middle of the driveway. I get out of the car, hearing the lorry growing closer. Without thinking I grab the handle of his bin and wheel it to the back of my house, hidden from the sight of the approaching bin lorry. I feel like a naughty child playing hide and seek as I watch the refuge collector grabbing mine and loading it onto the raised platform to be emptied. As the truck pulls away, I wheel his back to the middle of the driveway, unable to hold back a smirk of satisfaction.

  I sit down with a cup of tea already stressing about the bin, my conscious torn. I could swap the number stickers and give Donald my empty bin and take his full one. But two weeks is a long time though to wait for it to be collected again and I have clearing out to do. The doorbell halts my thoughts; the consequence of guilt catapulting me up in the air in fright. It is also an unfamiliar sound. I have been here for over a week, and it is the first visitor.

  ‘Philip did your bin gets emptied today?’ Donald asks, skipping the hello part.

  ‘Urm, yes, I think so,’ I am taken aback by his directness.

  ‘Well did it or didn’t it? I see it is round the back of your house, so did you wheel it back full or empty?’ he stands staring into my eyes, hands on hips. ‘It felt empty, but then there was not much in it in the first place,’ I say with growing confidence, refusing to be intimidated.

  ‘Damn those incompetent council bin men. You don’t tip them at Christmas, and they think they have the right to mess you around, I’m phoning the council.’ He shakes his head, his verdict delivered through his innate authority.

  I think of some poor girl on the receiving end of his rant. ‘Donald yours may have been left because it is so full, I read in the paper how they have gone Health & Safety mad and cannot lift anything heavier than 20kg. I remember them having a good look at it and maybe leaving a note on it, but it must have blown away, I would have run out for you to sort it, but I was on the phone.’

  He shook his head with the fury of a victim and trudged back to his house, mumbling something about incompetence. He grinds to a halt and turns to me once again, adopting my Columbo style I smirk to myself. He lifts his head high as if about to make an announcement. ‘Actually, I called to ask for a favour. The damn airline company misplaced my suitcase from my recent trip and are due to deliver it back tomorrow morning, but I have an important appointment. They will not leave it without a signature, will you be in to receive it for me?’

  My mind goes straight to the term appointment, so formal. I cannot help wondering what it may be. ‘Err yes, of course, I am in tomorrow,’ I finally reply having appeared to think about this far too much.

  A simple nod and he turns again walking back to his house, the now familiar slam of his door closing down our conversation.

  I set about cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing each stain on the surface and floor. I have lost track of time but notice the light fading outside and realising I have not had a drink. I feel a small sense of achievement and suddenly want to tell the world. I do the next best thing and call Caroline, who will be settling down to her Netflix. She answers sheepishly, the apprehension in her voice fuelled by the uncertainty on which Phil is calling no doubt. I apologise for the last time we spoke, admitting I was out of order, although privately I still have no recollection of what I said.

  ‘I understand Phil, it would have been a tough day for you, and I am sorry you had to go through it alone, but the reason you are alone is not my fault, you cannot keep blaming me for everything.’ The voice in my head argues back that I did not mention blame.

  I tell her about what I found in my dad’s private papers, and about my suspicions around Donald, and how I want to find the truth. I brace myself for her lecture on getting my life together, to get back to work, to stop wasting my time and to move on.

  ‘I think it is good for you, to re-visit the past, to ask questions, to find some closure. You have kept hold of the unknown for too long, without you realising it Phil, it defines you.’

  I take a deep breath, I want to argue back, tell her she has no idea what defines me and what I think,
but she reads my mind. ‘You never open up, let anybody inside. It is like we all have to accept you as mysterious, but it does not offer anybody who loves or cares about you any comfort when this affection is unrequited. It was draining for me Phil, you never once made me feel secure.’

  In all our arguments, I have never heard Caroline sound so measured with her thoughts, and it is like she is quoting somebody else. My recollection of our disagreements still feels raw. They would often degenerate into personal attacks, which escalated like a snowball each time, each of us knowing what buttons to press.

  I know I won’t sleep so I look for a distraction around the house, settling down in the kitchen to watch a squirrel outside the window. It darts around the garden searching for food. I admire its tenacity, and at the same time astonished by the destruction of the grass and plants it has left in its trail. If this were my house, my garden, I would be pissed off.

  I open the door and feel the night chill biting at my face. I lift the cover from the old storage chest at the back of the house and pull out a bag of bird feed. I rip it open and walk the length of the garden pouring it over the fence onto Donald’s side, knowing his flowerbed lies directly below. I stand in the kitchen and look out satisfied, and the squirrels have abandoned my dad’s baron garden for rich pickings elsewhere. I open a bottle of wine; sleep will come after.

  Chapter Fourteen – 8 days after

  The doorbell chimes for the second time in two days. I sign my name on a small notepad as best I can, gripping the heavy suitcase in my other hand, causing me to drift off balance and writing at best a squiggle. I sit and stare at the carry-on size brown case. A leather badge showing off the designer brand on the front with far too many gold zips offering access to different compartments. I heard Donald’s car leave only half an hour earlier, so I know I have the time if I have the inclination. I decided at 4.07 this morning that I would open the case and search it. I concluded there is already a trail of suspects should he discover someone has rifled through it, baggage handlers, security staff, lost property and most recently a delivery company, I would be bottom of his list of suspects.

  I place the case on the dining room table and pull the biggest of the gold zips three-quarters of the circumference of the case, clothes springing out like a shaken beer overflowing. My immediate concern is being able to fit it back in. I lift out a couple of polo shirts, one dark blue and one a shade lighter with a small motif on the arm of two swords crossing. A pair of cargo shorts with a belt providing an imbalance to the rectangular shape it is folded to, a white linen shirt stained yellow on the cuffs, a pair of sandals and some white socks screwed in a perfect ball shape with some briefs. I pick each item out of the case and place carefully on the table like a police detective going through evidence. I am careful to put them on the table as I found them so I can return the items in roughly the same form. I pull out some cheap-looking wooden carvings of animals, a packet of tissues and see a folded tourist map of Bucharest. I pull out a hotel invoice stating Europa hotel, stating a double room for ‘Mr Almoner’, a 3-night stay with some minibar items and three different taxes before the invoice amount. I worry I have the wrong suitcase and look to the door expecting the delivery man to be standing there realising his mistake.

  I Google the hotel and find a rather basic looking three-star hotel in Ferentari, Bucharest. The hotel description prides itself on a quiet stay in a local neighbourhood and off the beaten track and tourist trail, yet close to the city. Tucked into the side of the case is a receipt for Bellway Airport Transport with details of a booking for Mr Donald Lloyd, 5 Hatch End, Baysworth. I smug to myself, so Donald is using a fake name.

  I squeeze a blue pouch-like bag as a child does with a wrapped present; it has an Italian name on a gold crest. I reach inside to find a well-worn travel toothbrush, a small bottle of mouthwash, a sample size bottle of cologne, a comb, indigestion tablets, earplugs, and an eye mask. I empty the bag but still feel a bulky object to one side, and I find a discreet side pocket to the pouch accessed via a different zip. I pull out a small bottle of oil sticky on the outside with only about a third of the golden colour liquid remaining and a small dampened label half scratched away with foreign writing. I put my fingers in deeper, grabbing a small brown glass bottle with a sturdy black lid. I turn it in my palm to reveal a small label saying, ‘Amyl Nitrite’.

  Again, I jump on my laptop for insight and Google the term, opening the first article which describes it as, ‘the most common type of poppers inhalant that is widely used as a recreational drug especially on the gay scene.’ I smile and curse at the same time, ‘got him,’ I shout.

  I read on, hungry for more revelations, I learn it was popular in the 1960s, giving an instant high as fumes are inhaled directly from the bottle. There is even an image of the same bottle that I have in my hand. It is considered a sex enhancer for gay men by relaxing the anal muscles. I connect this with why Donald booked into a discreet hotel under a pseudonym.

  I go to the kitchen to make a coffee, and as I stand over the kettle boiling I think of the posh coffee and tea service in hotel rooms with complimentary biscuits, and I wonder why the Europa hotel? He is a wealthy man by all accounts, and I am sure Bucharest has plenty of reasonably priced five-star international hotels in the cultural quarter, old town or city centre. I return to my laptop and type in his location, ‘Ferentari’. I read about its high crime rate, about its prostitution, and the number of what they describe as ‘street children’ that litter the streets, fuelling child abductions and child prostitution. I slam the laptop shut. I have him.

  That sick bastard, I have got him.

  My mind wanders to dark places as I sit at the table numbed by my finding. The initial adrenalin of finding evidence wearing off, the reality of his true persona takes over. A sickness returns to my stomach. My nausea transforms into a pure rage at the image of Jimmy, my clenched fists pure white in front of me. This has been going on for decades, and the man is over seventy years old. I cannot imagine how many victims there are.

  I open a can of beer and drink it hungrily, three big gulps at a time, the bitter taste sitting nicely in my mouth. I look down at the table of Donald’s possessions. I pack them away carefully when all I want to do is rip them up, throw them against the wall, to spit on them. I sit the case down by the front door, wondering back to his absence and what his appointment might be about. I open another can of beer.

  I need a walk to clear my head and stop outside of Roger’s house, how I wish he were here to make sense of all this. I write a note to give me a call when he is back. As I post it through his letterbox, I sense eyes on me and then a high-pitched voice addressing me.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing?’

  I turn to see Roger’s immediate neighbour. ‘Hellloooo,’ I sarcastically reply fuelled the beers. ‘I am an old family friend and was posting a note to Roger.’

  She looks at me fiercely, like she has chewed a wasp. Her face is thin, blonde hair so tightly pulled back it appears stuck on, dressed in lycra bottoms and a skin-tight top. She has a tight grip on her dog’s collar, which has no interest in going anywhere. It is clear she feels threatened, although I don’t know why, so I try and diffuse her hostility. ‘I live, well my dad lives, I meant lived, at number 6.’ No reaction.

  ‘I am just visiting to sort the funeral and stuff, and as I say, I am an old friend of Roger.’

  She looks me up and down again. ‘He’s not home.’

  I see my opportunity. ‘I know he is on holiday; do you know when he will be back.’

  She looks put out that I asked her a question and her bellicose nature again takes over. ‘If you were such good family friends you would know, wouldn’t you?’

  I genuinely have no response. I could have shared the whole emotional upheaval with my dad, but she showed no sympathy when I mentioned him. I could have told her of my strong suspicion that she shared the street with a paedophile and to channel her aggression elsewhere, but I suspe
ct the very mention of the word would have her phoning the police on me. She seems Donald’s type, although new money rather than old. I walk away and make a point of going back to the house as if to prove my identity, pathetic.

  The first thing I see as I open my door is the suitcase staring back at me, and I boot it across the floor feeling an immediate sharp pain to my metatarsal, an old football injury flaring up.

  I go to the fridge for a beer and take it to the back garden taking in the lengthening shadows from the woods behind the house. It is no surprise, my dad, no longer socialised if that is the new breed of neighbour. What could have happened to her in life that has turned her so bitter?

  I think of Caroline and wonder about her response. She always said I was the aggressor, not in a violent way, least not intentionally but I was still suspicious and assumed the worst in people. Much like that woman. A scruffy man walks toward me. I immediately stand tall, give a stare. I was always hyper-vigilant to what constitutes a threat. I would feel angry when my own rules were broken, and sometimes my standards were a little warped. For many it is natural to mirror the persona you are faced with, so the innocent man walking towards me minding his own business feels threatened and replicates, resulting in a stand-off, sometimes an angry exchange of words, sometimes physical.

  She always thought I was the aggressor because of my insecurities. Caroline would preach that, ‘anger was a self-fulfilling prophecy, if you think, expect and look for the worst in people, they will often live up to your expectations. The subconscious, deletes the information that does not meet your expectations but inflates those that do, it is a blinkered view.’ She would smile and then take my hands in hers and quote me her mantra ‘the mind is a wonderful servant, but a lousy master.’