The Perfect Neighbours

by Rachel Sargeant

  The day was heating up. Helen tied her fleece around her hips. There was something magical about being outside on a summer’s morning while others slept on. As she ran along Lindenallee all her knotted thoughts from the previous night untied. But a figure came round the side of a row of garages and she felt a jolt of fear. She ran on, intending to sprint past, until she saw who it was.

  “Oh Manfred, I thought I was the only person up this early.”

  “I’m sorry if I disturb. I think you like the roads for yourself alone.”

  “I’m pleased to see you. Good morning.” She held out her hand, adopting the formal German greeting. As he took it, the holdall in his other hand chinked.

  “Have you been shopping?” she asked.

  “A walk. I think even German shops don’t open at this time.”

  She blushed and hoped he hadn’t thought she was being nosy. A crow flew over and provided a welcome subject change. “Those birds give me the creeps. I see them all the time round here.”

  “Er ist kein Kranich. Schade.”

  “I don’t …”

  “Shame it isn’t a crane. I always hope I will see a crane. Kranich ist Heimat.”

  “Heimat means home, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Schlesien. Silesia. We had so many Kraniche there. But never here. Schade.”

  He sighed, and she sensed the need to change topic again.

  “I see there’s more graffiti.”

  She had his attention.

  “The school fence is also broken and a street sign no longer stands up,” he said.

  “The vandalism has got worse even in the few months I’ve lived here and then we had the bomb scare,” she said.

  “I read in the Tageblatt that the police know the call was from the telephone box near the school.”

  “They should be able to get fingerprints. No one uses it now we have mobiles.”

  Manfred shook his head. “I have myself used that phone.”

  “It was probably teenagers on a half-term rampage.”

  “What do you think is the motive?” His eyes fixed on her, waiting for an answer.

  “Nothing to do, I suppose. Their Xboxes must be broken.”

  “Perhaps the person has a message?” he asked, his eyes still on her.

  “Maybe. I hope the police put a stop to it before someone gets hurt.”

  He lifted his bag and changed his grip on the handle. “Die Rache wilder Sieger.”

  “I don’t …”

  “Victors and spoils,” he said and walked on.

  ***

  It was bedlam in the girls’ changing room when Helen went to teach her lesson that evening. The high-pitched squeals of long-haired girls being forced into tight, tugging swim caps were deafening. Helen felt a grudging respect for Louisa. Without her forthright stewardship, the place was in chaos.

  She was relieved to see things running smoothly poolside. The five children whom John had allocated to her on her first night had become her group. She picked Alexandros, the son of her Greek neighbours, to demonstrate the symmetry of breaststroke kick to the others.

  ***

  The changing room was even worse afterwards as mothers struggled to peel tired and crabby children out of their wet swimsuits and locate errant knickers and socks. It dawned on Helen what the problem was. Parents didn’t usually come into the area because the children got dressed by themselves under the supervision of the changing room monitor, Mel. It wasn’t Louisa who held the place together, it was Mel. Helen tried asking the mums where she was but they shook their heads. A few volunteered the fact that Louisa was in New York until Saturday but no one knew about Mel.

  ***

  Chris was polishing his car when she got back. Curiosity got the better of her and she stopped to ask him why Mel had missed swim club.

  “Lanzarote,” he said. “I’ve sent her on a convalescence trip after the ski debacle.”

  His smug voice ground through her and she wished she hadn’t asked. She fought to get out her key.

  “She’s lucky to have you,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

  “Aren’t you all,” he called after her.

  She slammed the door.

  21

  Sunday, 19 December

  Detectives Zanders and Simons – who’ve been on the murder case from the beginning; no doubt because of their excellent English – place a transparent evidence bag in front of her.

  “Do you recognize this, Mrs Taylor?”

  Helen hesitates. It looks like one of her green teardrop earrings. Where did they find it? Is it best to deny it’s hers? She feels dizzy and wishes now that she’d tried the breakfast they put in her cell.

  “Answer the question, please, Mrs Taylor.”

  Helen looks at her lawyer. Karola nods.

  “I have a pair like that,” Helen says. Should she mention she hasn’t worn them for months? She crosses her legs; she’s starting to need the loo.

  Before she can speak again, Zanders says: “Thank you, Mrs Taylor, that’s all for now.”

  ***

  When they get back to the cell, Karola Barton sits down on the bed and smooths the seam of her trousers. Helen paces the floor, still holding her head, trying to make sense of what happened in the interview room.

  “Were the earrings a present from Sascha Jakobsen?” Karola asks suddenly.

  Helen stops pacing. “Of course not; he never gave me anything.” She can feel the colour rising in her face. She must look as if she’s lying. “I bought them years ago.”

  “So why didn’t you answer the detective’s question straightaway? Your body language seemed evasive.”

  Helen folds her arms and wonders how Karola is reading the gesture. Does she learn that stuff as a lawyer or a dog breeder? What would she have made of her body language outside Number Ten that night? What’s the predicted stance of someone after they’ve … The blood-cherry cheesecake comes into Helen’s mind and the topping cascades down the leg of the breakfast bar. It seeps into her dress – the special dress she’s worn that night – and under the sole of her boot. She stomps cherry footprints across Louisa’s pristine floor. There’s blood everywhere but she can’t shake it off.

  She sways in the cell. Karola takes her arm and leads her to the bed before she falls.

  When she’s recovered, she presses her about the earring.

  “I think I lost it in the burglary. There was such a mess. In all the houses, not just mine.” She hopes that talking about the incident that took place on a balmy summer’s day will stop her fast-forwarding to what happened two weeks ago. “Gary dealt with the scenes of crime people. He was dependable in a crisis.” Her throat grows hard; she still can’t cry.

  “So at no time did Sascha Jakobsen have your earring?”

  “Of course, he had it. He stole it.” She stands up, fights off her dizziness. “Everyone knows he committed the burglaries. He did everything. The vandalism, the burglary, poor Murdo, everything. You were there, don’t you remember?”

  Karola smooths her trousers again. “I recall you defending Jakobsen at the time, protesting his innocence.”

  “I know different now,” Helen whispers. “I wish I’d never met him.”

  22

  Thursday, 1 July

  As Helen, trowel in hand, came round the side of the house, she noticed Damian on the front doorstep of Number Ten. The rest of the Howard clan were in their back garden, the children out-squealing the Stephens’s pair on the trampoline. No doubt Louisa was regaling Polly with her New York trip over a glass of Chardonnay.

  Helen fetched a watering can and filled it. But despite taking her time, Damian was still there when she returned to the front, now on his mobile by his car. He seemed to be giggling. “Yeah, Sweetheart … I’ll call you back.” He saw Helen and slipped the phone into his pocket. He opened the boot, got out a bottle of wine and returned to sit on the step. He unscrewed the lid and poured red wine into an empty glass beside him. Some d
ribbled on the step. Helen decided it wasn’t his first glass of the evening. He caught her looking, so she waved. She wondered if it was the same Sweetheart he’d phoned outside the library. Shelly the 19-year-old, or had he moved on?

  He headed towards her, unsteady on his feet. His eyes were on her legs; she was wearing shorts. She cursed herself for waving.

  But he shifted his gaze beyond her to a figure in the road. Mel Mowar was dragging a suitcase. She shuffled a couple of paces and stopped to get a better grip.

  He went to help her but, even relieved of her heavy luggage, she still shuffled. Shadows under her eyes, greasy hair, shrieking body odour.

  “Good holiday?” Damian asked.

  “The flight back was delayed for hours, but glorious weather, breathtaking volcanoes,” she replied. After she’d fumbled for her house key, she took the case from him and closed the door behind her.

  “That’s the trouble with airports. You need another holiday to get over them.”

  Before Helen could react to Damian’s joke, his face changed. Louisa was walking towards them. Helen mentally trawled her list of excuses for not attending whatever invitation his wife was about to deliver.

  But she had something else on her mind.

  “Is Murdo with you?” she asked, striding up to Damian, her back towards Helen.

  “He’s on the trampoline, isn’t he?”

  “We thought he came round the front. You must have seen him.”

  “Has he gone inside the house?” Helen said.

  Louisa turned round. “I’ve looked under the beds, in the wardrobes, in the airing cupboard, the cellar, even inside the washing machine. He’s not there.” Her face was paler than Helen had ever seen it.

  “Has he gone to play with Polly’s children?” Damian asked. Helen could tell he was doing his best not to slur his words.

  “Polly’s two are with Leo and Toby.”

  “He won’t have gone far. What about the Garcias? Is he with them?” Damian said.

  Louisa darted away to knock on the door of number 3. When Audrey Garcia answered, she shook her head.

  “Oh Christ,” Damian said under his breath. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching his wife run to number 1.

  The Barton couple came outside but Helen couldn’t hear the exchange above the dogs in their garden. Louisa belted across the road to Manfred’s. She hammered on the door and shouted through the letterbox. When no one answered, she ran to number 4 and hammered there. No reply. She had no luck at number 6, the Greek house, either. When she turned round, her expression was bleak.

  “Don’t get upset, darling. He’ll be back in no time,” Damian said, opening his arms to her.

  She stepped past him and rang Chris and Mel’s doorbell. Chris answered.

  Both Bartons came out with their dogs on leads. Polly Stephens brought all the children out of the Howards’ back garden and walked over to Audrey Garcia, who’d stayed in the street. Toby and Leo Howard wore pained expressions. When they saw their mother’s face, their eyes started to water.

  Damian ruffled their hair. “Cheer up, chaps. Your brother won’t be far away. He’ll be back.”

  “Stop saying that. He’s not a fecking boomerang. How do you know he’ll be back?” Louisa snapped.

  Helen had never heard Louisa swear. Damian’s mouth was wide open. Husband and wife stared at each other. Louisa started to shake.

  Helen thought she should say something but didn’t know what.

  “We need to search all the places Murdo might have gone, get knocking on doors,” Chris said.

  Through sobs Louisa told them Murdo liked the playground. “And the computer games at Spiel World but that’s five miles away and I never let him play on them.”

  Chris told Damian to check the playground and said he and Mel would take the neighbouring streets.

  “What can I do?” Helen asked. There was a pause before Chris replied. The hesitation was fleeting, but it was there. Even in this crisis, he revelled in it. He dispatched her with Damian.

  “I can’t stay here and do nothing,” Louisa sobbed, rubbing her hands through her hair and leaving it untidy.

  “You’re here for when your son comes back,” Chris told her.

  “But what if …?”

  Chris squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll find him. I promise.”

  Helen hurried up the road after Damian. He seemed determined and aimless at the same time. Helen sensed Chris’s gesture had rattled him. He wanted to be the one to find his son, but he had to find the playground first and neither of them had a bloody clue where it was. She struggled to keep up. Nothing had happened to Murdo. He would come home and go straight to his Lego with no inkling of the anxiety he’d caused his parents. But why the hell hadn’t anyone brought him back already? What if a car …? What if someone …? No, this was a respectable neighbourhood. A close community. Safe as houses.

  They followed a bilingual sign Spielplatz/Playground. It led to a copse at the end of a cul-de-sac. The playground was in a clearing. It looked like Armageddon. A dozen empty pizza boxes dumped in the sandpit; swing seats chucked onto the frame so that they couldn’t be reached; soft-play paving slabs ripped up. Three boys of about ten years old were examining the slide.

  “There’s glass round the bottom and someone’s poured cola down it. Sir,” one said. He was English, obviously a pupil at the Elementary School. He must have recognized Damian as head of the senior school and stuck on the “Sir” as an afterthought.

  “There were German cuss words on the roundabout last week,” another added. His accent was American.

  Damian kicked the base of the slide. “Why the hell does Louisa bring my children to a place like this? We’ve got a perfectly good climbing frame and trampoline. God knows they cost enough.”

  Helen smiled apologetically at the boys, but they ran off. Damian climbed over the playground fence and stumbled into the undergrowth. Helen went after him. Nettles stung her shins. Her T-shirt clung to her back. Evening sun shone through the gaps in the canopy onto weeds and shrubs, intensifying their summer smell. It was still light but would be dark in an hour. A shiver went through her. They hadn’t brought torches.

  Something moved at the base of a tree ahead of them. They stopped.

  “Murdo?” Damian called. No answer.

  She tried. “Murdo? Murdo?”

  “Murdo, where the hell are you!” Damian shouted.

  A squirrel scuttled up the trunk, and Damian blinked away a tear.

  He walked ahead, his long legs increasing the gap between him and Helen. She stumbled over tree roots and snagged her hair on twigs in his wake. When he accidently pinged a branch into her thigh, she cried out.

  He didn’t hear her and marched on. “This is my fault, my penance for what I did, what I still do …” He seemed to remember Helen’s presence and checked his words. “Louisa will lose all reason if … She’ll wrap Toby and Leo so tight in cotton wool they’ll stop breathing.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to …”

  They emerged from the wood into a street Helen didn’t know. They stood together, looking at the unfamiliar houses. Could a 5-year-old roam this far on his own?

  “He’s my boy too. I’m not an ostrich like Louisa. I’ve seen people look away. I’ve sat opposite his teacher at parents’ evening with Child Psych hanging unsaid between us. I should know, I’ve dealt with enough deluded parents in my time. But he’s perfect. My Murdo. Perfect.”

  Helen nodded but didn’t know what to say. There was a crack in Damian’s voice; she wasn’t sure how much longer he’d hold it together. How long had they been looking? Half an hour? Damn Chris Mowar for granting Damian and Louisa bit parts in the hunt for their own child. They were wasting precious time. They should call the police.

  She took a breath. “Shouldn’t we …?”

  “I swear I’ll be a better father to him after this.” He strode on, wiping away a tear. “And a better husband. I won’t ever do it agai
n. No more …”

  His mobile rang. He yanked it out of his shorts. “Have you got him?” His shoulders sagged. “Don’t cry, darling. I’ll phone Chris. Maybe one of the others …” His jaw tightened. “I see, you phoned him first … Look, we’re running around like headless chickens. It’s time to tell the police. I’m coming back … You’re where?… Of course I don’t blame you … The stables was a good idea, worth a try … Go back home and I’ll meet you there.” He broke into a run.

  23

  When Helen and Damian arrived back, Louisa was pacing the drive, still dragging her hands through her hair. It hung down, greasy and unkempt, a stark contrast to her usual grooming. Sabine, the school nurse, stood watching her.

  A police car pulled up, and a young female officer climbed out. Louisa rushed over to her. The woman shook her head and said something in German.

  Sabine stepped forward. “The police called me; I’m here to translate. The officer wants us to go inside.”

  “He’s not in there. She needs to be out searching,” Louisa cried. “Why doesn’t she bang on doors, ask one of the windae-hingers. Some auld bag must have seen him.” Her mouth had curled into an ugly snarl. There was no sign of the polished chair of the Parents’ Association.

  “Steady on, darling.” Damian moved to stand behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. But she shook him off.

  Sabine hesitated, unsure how to translate Louisa’s outburst. She decided not to bother. “The officer will take some details. Let me make us all a cup of tea.”

  “Tea?” Louisa said it as if she’d never heard the word before.

  “I could make it,” Helen said. “Sabine can help with the interview.”

  Louisa glared at her, but nodded as the fight went out of her and she swallowed a sob. Rivulets of mascara leaked down her face. Sabine spoke to the officer, and they all went inside.

  Helen tried to hide her shock at the state of the Howards’ hall. Drawers pulled open, contents strewn across the floor, potpourri littered on the hall table. Evidence of the panic that had consumed Louisa.