Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

What day was it? Wednesday?

  Since the murder, she hadn’t fared too well, her mind constantly whirring over it, flitting from one thing to another: the key in the lock; her opening the door; him lurching inside; “Come on, you. Coffee.”; her on her knees. Tagged to that, the fallout in her future, if any. She balanced on a potential slippery slope—one wrong move, and she’d slide down and slap onto the rocks below, those rocks her being arrested for murder and her past looked into. A past she’d tried so hard to forget.

  She rolled over and rested her arm over her eyes, and it reminded her of when the neighbour man had done the same in the foyer after she’d dropped him on the floor. Why did everything she did link to him? Why did her brain invent parallels? To torment her?

  She moved her arm down to her side. Pushed her mind elsewhere.

  The Brothers had been true to their word, the body removed, her flat sparkling and smelling not only of bleach but a hint of pine. Her hoover dust-catcher had been cleaned out and looked like new, and any hairs in the plugholes had been disposed of. All door handles shone.

  God, they didn’t cut corners, did they.

  She didn’t know about eating food off the floor like Debbie had said, but it was certainly better than any cleaning Rosie could do. All in all, it appeared as though nothing had happened here, the only evidence of it in her heart and mind, and in the minds of The Brothers, Debbie, and Clarke.

  Another knock.

  “Fuck off,” she mumbled, burying her head into the pillow, wishing whoever it was would just go away and leave her alone. There was only so much pressure she could take. This flat, this area of London, was supposed to be her refuge. Instead, it had the same claustrophobic feel as her place over the laundrette had at the end, somewhere she needed to run from.

  The knock came again, more insistent this time, a long stream of raps, the sound sharp from knuckles, the person at the door impatient and determined to get an answer. She recognised it from before, and her tummy muscles spasmed.

  The police had a distinctive knock.

  “For God’s sake!” She flung the quilt off, winced at the nip in the air, and stomped out of her bedroom and down the hallway. At the peephole, she peered through.

  Shit. A copper in uniform stood there, looking sideways, towards the main doors in the foyer. He shook his head, as if telling someone: No one’s in. Was that person on the grass outside her living room window? Were they trying to nose in, searching for a gap in the curtains?

  Her heart thundered, and her mouth dried.

  If Rosie remained quiet, she could escape having to answer any questions. If she waited for long enough, that policeman would walk away. For all he knew, she could work during the day.

  Footsteps. Shit, were they going up to his flat?

  She didn’t know what to do. Was it better to get this over and done with? Face the introduction music and hope she was still a free woman come the finale?

  Speak to him.

  She unlatched the chain, fingers shaking, and opened the door a few inches, peeking through the four-inch gap. “Yes?” Her legs took that moment to lose their strength, and she battled to remain normal, appear normal, be a neighbour who had no clue what was going on.

  “Ah, PC Howarth, here to ask a few questions.”

  She raised her eyebrows. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Act surprised? “Oh right. I was just going to sleep.”

  He frowned, probably thinking that was weird, considering it was around ten a.m.

  “I work late shifts,” she clarified.

  “Oh. Right. Well, it won’t take a minute.” He checked his notebook. “Shaun Farthingale.” He smiled.

  She had no clue who that was and gave a little lift of her shoulder. “Erm…?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “It’s not a name that rings any bells, no.” It had to be him, that man. Stay calm.

  “He lives upstairs.” He pointed to the ceiling as if she needed the extra information.

  Lives. So they don’t know he’s dead yet then. “Oh, is that his name? I don’t know him—don’t know anyone here, really.”

  “Not even to say hello to?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, I work late shifts. I’m asleep for the majority of the day.”

  “What time do you usually get in?” He poised his pen over his notebook, eager to scribble down her answer, a little eager beaver.

  She glanced up to pretend-think, then levelled her attention at him. “About three, sometimes a bit later if we stay behind for a chat, sometimes earlier if there are no customers.” Was she clutching the edge of the door too tightly? She relaxed her fingers.

  “And what is it you do?”

  Here we go… “I have a job at The Angel round the corner.”

  He looked her up and down, not unkindly, but it was enough to get the idea of what he thought of her, what he assumed. “Behind the bar or in the massage parlour?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He gave a sheepish smile. “No, I don’t suppose it does. So, are you awake around the time people go to work?”

  In her head, she added ‘normal’ before ‘people’, what he’d really wanted to say. “And what time would normal people do that?”

  “Say half eight?”

  “I’m usually in the bath by then, bed at nine.”

  “It’s just past ten now. Late for you.”

  She didn’t feel the need to answer that.

  He sniffed. “As you’re on the ground floor, do you hear people coming and going? I imagine that main door closing can be a bit of a nuisance. It snaps a bit loudly.” He glanced at it, making a point.

  “Not really. You get used to it after a while.”

  “Tends to become white noise, does it?”

  She nodded. Raised her eyebrows: Is that all now?

  “How about the early hours of Sunday morning? Did you notice anyone hanging around outside when you arrived home?”

  “I get a taxi, and no, I didn’t.”

  He kept on, gnawing away at his mission. “Let’s say around half four, which would have been about the time Mr Farthingale arrived home. Would you have been awake? Of course you would, you said you go to bed about nine.”

  Sarky fucker. “I got home the usual time, threeish, had an early night. I was in bed by four. Didn’t feel well, must have eaten something dodgy.” You’re talking too much. Just give him what he needs, not what you think he needs.

  “I see. Did you sleep right through the day?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you get up?”

  “About three in the afternoon? Something like that.”

  “So going further back in time, you didn’t hear a car pull up around four thirty and Mr Farthingale come in?”

  “Err, no, you’ve kind of asked that already, and I said I was asleep early. Well, early for me anyway.” Is he trying to trip me up?

  “Hmm. No one else heard him either.”

  Was that a crime, for Pete’s sake? And thank God they hadn’t bloody heard him, because they’d have heard her as well.

  “Okay,” the copper said. “When was the last time you saw Mr Farthingale?”

  “God, ages ago, weeks, if it’s even the man you’re on about. For all I know, the bloke I see could be a boyfriend from one of the other flats. I really don’t have time to stand at my window and stare out, nor do I tend to hang around in the foyer. I do my job, come home, and stay here, unless I do a bit of shopping.”

  “That’s great. Thank you for your time.”

  She closed the door and fretted over whether a ‘normal’ person would have asked what was going on. Had she successfully come across as someone who minded her own business? Last time, she’d had to play the grieving girlfriend, dredging tears up, constantly on guard as to whether she acted correctly. While the chat at her door hadn’t been too bad, she was still conscious of how she’d behaved—how she’d still have to behave from now on if the police were here.


  And where the bloody hell was Rod Clarke?

  She remained in the hallway, staring through the peephole. A couple of officers went upstairs, and she assumed they were going to the man’s flat. Who had reported him missing? Someone who’d been with him that night? It had to be if the police knew what time he’d arrived home. Had the coppers broken into his place earlier and she hadn’t heard the bang of the door up there, or had they been given a key by whoever? At what point in an investigation did they feel it necessary to enter someone’s home? Without a body, what reason did they have apart from him being missing? On the telly, they said people had the right to disappear if they fancied it, no law-breaking going on, even if they didn’t tell anyone they were fucking off. Did they suspect something untoward?

  But it doesn’t matter. You don’t know him. You were asleep.

  She walked into the living room and parted the curtains, waiting to find the face of another copper on the other side, staring in at her. Nothing except the street. Two police cars were parked behind his BMW, a uniform talking to someone at a house up the road a bit.

  The officer who’d been at her door left the building and headed towards someone in their hallway opposite, shadows hiding who they were.

  Fuck. Were they an insomniac? Had they been awake when he’d come home? Had they seen Rosie opening the door and dragging him across the foyer?

  Rosie watched, holding her breath, worrying it could all come tumbling down.

  Chapter Ten

  Marla had been observing the events through the voiles. The scene outside reminded her of another incident, with the police cars, the door-to-door questions, and Julie squarely in the centre of it all, except this time it wasn’t a row of shops, the focus on the flat above a laundrette, but here, in a suburban street, the block opposite her place where the attention was glued.

  She stood in her hallway, waving for a policeman to come over. If the past hadn’t happened, she wouldn’t be here, and she wouldn’t be wondering what the hell was going on. But it had happened, and with Julie in the vicinity, it couldn’t be good. Was Marla about to have her suspicions confirmed? Would she tell the copper about Aaron or continue to observe Julie and catch the woman herself, forcing a confession out of her?

  “Can I help you?” The officer walked to her door. “I’m PC Howarth, by the way.” He took a notebook and pen out.

  “I was just wondering what the problem was,” she said, using one of her new voices. “I don’t usually see the police around here.” She hoped she looked sufficiently alarmed, a woman living alone, worried she needed to be careful.

  He nodded, more to himself than her. “You might be able to help. Were you awake during the early hours of Sunday, around four a.m., perhaps half past?”

  Marla resisted gritting her teeth. No, she hadn’t been, but if she had, and she’d seen something, she might not necessarily have said so. Make a decision. Which route are you going to take? “Afraid not. Has something happened?”

  “Sadly, a man is missing,” he said.

  Is he now. Really?

  The copper continued. “Do you know any of the residents in those flats?” He pointed across the road, turning his head to peer that way, then faced her again, giving an optimistic smile.

  Aww, she was going to dash his expectations. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

  It was okay to say that. She could pretend, if it came out that she did know Julie, that she just hadn’t recognised her, and the same went for if Julie was asked about her. Marla’s new slim figure and the hair and glasses had clearly worked as a disguise—unless Julie had chosen not to speak to Marla if she had recognised her the few times they’d passed on the street.

  He appeared crestfallen, the poor thing. “So you don’t know a Shaun Farthingale then?”

  She thought about the residents across the way. Only one man. “Is that the one with the floppy hair and the BMW?”

  “He does have a long fringe, yes.”

  “I don’t know him as such, but I’ve seen him.” She smiled. “I people-watch a lot and have notebooks…”

  The copper’s eyebrows arched up his forehead, then beetled down as he thought about what she’d said. Had she sounded odd by mentioning the books?

  “That’s handy,” he said, a tad wary. “Any particular reason for that?”

  “I’m a writer, you see.” Liar. “I take notes about the comings and goings, how people behave. It’s classed as research.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Although his face said otherwise: Are you a stalker? Are you someone I need to cart down the nick? “Do you have anything on Mr Farthingale?”

  “I do as it happens. He has his own little book, they all do.” Thank goodness she’d opted to have one for each person living in those flats—plus she’d chosen to write all her angsty feelings about Julie in her diary instead, so it didn’t matter if he took all the notebooks. There was nothing incriminating in them, nothing Marla could get in trouble over.

  They could be evidence. How exciting. She basked at being the centre of attention again, under someone else’s spotlight other than her parents’.

  “Would you like to see it?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  “Come in then.” She swept her hand out in a flourish: You’re welcome here.

  She led him into her living room and walked to the blue velvet chair beside the window. Such a comfortable thing, that chair. On the sill was her pile of books and the posh pen Mum had bought her last birthday. She sat and picked the books up, searching through them for the one with FLOPPY HAIR on the front.

  She handed it to the policeman. “Sorry about what I’ve called him. I tend to name people with what stands out the most, and other times I name them for which character they’re going to be in my book. Like Killer or Burglar.”

  Those words were from the past, and although he wouldn’t know how significant they were, she still got a thrill out of saying them.

  He leafed through it, and she imagined what he read, judging by how far in he was.

  7 a.m. Leaving. Waves at the woman at number seventeen (she’s putting her bins out—noisy wheels, and an empty Coke bottle falls out.)

  1 p.m. Nips home for lunch? No one else around.

  1:30 p.m. Leaving.

  5:45 p.m. Arriving. Drops his briefcase. Seems angry.

  7:36 p.m. Leaving. Night out? Looks like he’s showered/is dressed up.

  11:03 p.m. Arriving. Did he drink and drive? He trips on the flat steps.

  “This is very helpful,” he said then thumbed to the later pages. “I see here, on the night I’m interested in, you have him leaving at eight p.m. but didn’t see him coming back. Sorry, you already said that, didn’t you.”

  “I did.”

  “There’s nothing noted for him after then except: Is he ill? No sightings. Curtains still drawn.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what I do, watching. A perk of the job.” She tittered, enjoying this.

  “Could I look at the other books?”

  She passed them to him, and he browsed, a frown firmly in place. She visualised Julie’s entries.

  6:45 p.m. Walking to work. Short red skirt, revealing black top, red high heels, face full of makeup.

  3:10 a.m. Arrives in taxi. Living room light clicks on.

  Remains on until eight a.m. She watches TV.

  9 a.m. Bedroom curtains close.

  4 p.m. Bedroom curtains and window open.

  “So some nights you’re awake in the early hours,” he said and tapped a page of Julie’s book.

  “Only to begin with, to get people’s patterns. It’s for a novel—obviously, I wouldn’t be spying on them otherwise, and it isn’t really spying, just observing. I need to study them all in order to get everything correct when I start writing, you see. This story is about neighbours.”

  “I see. I’ll need to take these.” He flapped them.

  “Fine by me if they help.”

  She showed him out, him telling her
he’d get the books back to her as soon as he could, and she closed the door, rushing to the living room window again. So Floppy was missing, was he? Fascinating. Marla would like to tie this up with a neat bow and say Julie had been seeing him, that history had repeated itself, but in all honesty, she didn’t have a shred of proof. She’d never seen Floppy in Julie’s flat, nor had she witnessed them chatting in the foyer or her going up the stairs to his place.

  Marla didn’t have a job so had nothing to do except watch. The street was more interesting than anything else anyway, especially Julie’s flat, where the woman in question stood at the window and observed the goings-on outside.

  Because she was nosy? Or did guilt play a lethal part?

  Chapter Eleven

  Julie couldn’t believe Aaron had dumped this Sunday dinner on her out of the blue. His pincer grip on her elbow hurt, and he guided her down Hornchurch Street, going so fast she had to jog to keep up. Thank goodness she hadn’t put on her heels. He was in one of his moods, the sort that meant she’d be better off staying quiet. The thing was, she didn’t want to. A part of her still existed where she wanted to stand up for herself, to not become eclipsed by him.

  “Your family?” she asked, out of breath, maybe from the rapid pace, or it could be from the shock. God, would he slow down? “But… I don’t know them. They don’t know me. And eating in front of new people—”

  “You scoffed those bloody chips fine in front of me the first night I met you. I seem to remember you ramming them right in your gob, and you got a splodge of curry sauce on your chin and didn’t wipe it away. You’d better not do that with Mum’s gravy.”

  The thought was mortifying, that she’d had sauce on her chin and didn’t know. And why had he sounded so grossed out just then? Was she missing something here? He’d been letting slip snide comments all weekend, ones that could be put down to jokes—although she hadn’t found them funny at first until he’d said they were jokes—and he’d had sex with her several times, always the same as their first encounter, his pleasure found, hers unimportant, non-existent. Weren’t you supposed to be nicer in this phase? It seemed his initial kindness faded whenever he fancied it, and she was supposed to put up with it.