“He might have,” she says but she’s staring out at the street towards Jerome in his window.
51
Wednesday, 22 December
Helen is on her third coffee of the morning when Mel knocks on the door. She brings her into the hall. The woman’s a chameleon. She has showered, blow-dried her hair and swapped the yellow parachute for jeans and a tight-fitting polo neck.
Mel tells her that the police have finished at Number Ten. “I’m going over to clear out Louisa’s things for Damian. He can’t face it alone.”
Helen’s coffee comes back to her throat; the mention of Louisa’s clothes triggers a flashback to the blood-soaked bib of her final outfit.
“Damian told me Sabine has done most of it. I don’t think there’s much left to do in the house,” she says.
“He held onto some things of sentimental value but now he’s decided to sort through everything. He phoned me this morning and said it’s hanging over him and it needs to be done.”
A dark thought occurs to Helen. What if he’s … luring Mel to …?
“Are you sure you want to go into Number Ten?” she says. “On your own?”
Mel shrugs. “Come with me if you want.”
“Me?” Helen backs away. “I haven’t been inside there since …”
“We can’t let this blight the rest of our lives. We’ll get through it quicker if we face it head on.”
“I … Do you even have the keys to get in?” Helen asks.
“Damian’s meeting us there.”
Helen’s heart belts. “Don’t you remember what I told you about him last night?”
“If there was any proof of that, he would have been arrested months ago. What’s your problem, Helen? The days of your aloofness towards the Howards should be long gone.”
Helen cannot speak. Has Mel blanked out how Louisa used to humiliate her? Her weight, her cooking, her phobias – everything about her was fair game to Louisa.
“I’m sorry if that sounded harsh,” Mel says. “Louisa and Damian were good neighbours. I’m not going to let Damian down.”
“I don’t think … It might not be safe.”
“I know about his string of girlfriends. I’d bet Louisa did too. But he isn’t about to jump on me. He treats me like his kid sister. So are you coming?”
Mel’s confidence almost persuades her to accept, but “kid sister” jags out thoughts of Sascha and his revenge.
“You go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you later,” she says, a sense of dread settling on her shoulders.
52
Sascha scales the Howards’ back fence. The hoar frost suckers his bare hands and burns them. He lands in a frozen flower bed and puts his hands in his pockets. His blood pounds. It’s the sound of fury. Damian Howard. He surveys the summer house, still fit for an Inuit despite the partial thaw.
The house is shabby, hunched up in the cold. The painted brickwork is chipped as if a spray of bullets has passed over. One of the shutters is off its hinges. Verschlampt. No. that’s not the word; not slutty, just lifeless. Death has claimed this house, but not entirely, not yet. His jaw tightens.
He peers in through a window. Posh sofas. Poncy candles. Polar bear rug. Howard has it all. Sascha bangs a fist against the pane. The frame moves. He puts his fingers round it and pulls it towards him. If he could get high enough, he could get through there. All he needs to know is where the bastard is living now. There could be a letter from his school left behind or a forwarding address somewhere. Unlikely but worth a try.
The canvas gazebo on the lawn has buckled under the weight of snow. But the table underneath is dry and he drags it to the window, yanking and lifting it over the compacted snow. He stands on it and notices silver and pink speckles of glitter on the palms of his hands, remnants of Louisa’s party. But the party’s over. He climbs in.
53
Mel’s not in a rush; she doesn’t think Damian will be there yet. She makes herself another cup of tea – a dash of milk, no sugar. It has taken some getting used to after the syrupy stuff Chris used to make her, but now it’s a beverage she savours, alongside her daily perusal of the Telegraph. Aldi stocks British newspapers because of the international school being nearby, but they are ridiculously expensive. Still, she allows herself this luxury. She’s feeling stronger today, back to normal. She could even make that phone call she’s been putting off although her stomach clenches when she thinks of it.
She scans a headline about a murder in Yorkshire. It’s a thump in the chest. A reminder of where she’s going next. She hasn’t been to Louisa’s place since it happened. But it’s just a house. She’s not scared of ghosts; living people are more threatening.
When she went out earlier to buy the newspaper, she became Moses, parting a Red Sea of sympathetically smiling shoppers. Parents and staff from the school regrouped in murmuring waves behind her. She caught one of their hushed conversations: “My money’s on the German they released … got one of his lot to lie for him.”
So they’ve gone off Helen as their prime suspect. When she was arrested, the school jury was swift to reach a verdict: “Always thought there was something not right about her … She had a massive row with poor Louisa the night before …” So resolute were their convictions that Mel found herself believing them.
She sips her tea and contemplates the stalker’s resurgence as public enemy number one. It is feasible, for sure. He hasn’t done himself any favours with the pestering and garden vandalism. He might as well stick an “I did it” sign on his back. But why blame him for murder just because he wrecked a garden? Besides, a couple of weeks and one swipe of Damian’s credit card later, Louisa’s garden was restored to its former glory.
What state is that garden in now the snow has melted? Black leaves rotting in scrawny flower beds. Moss sprawling across dark, frost-brittle lawn. Tendrils of unpruned climbers clawing into masonry. She could do the neighbourly thing and give it a bit of a tidy. The ground’s rock hard but she could get rid of the decaying leaves. Technically it’s still Damian’s place. He might appreciate her efforts.
She drains her tea, grabs a coat and goes out to her shed. She hasn’t been in it since the summer. It’s dank and smells of old grass mowings and creosote. She picks up the rake and wonders what other school-issue implements would be useful. She sees the secateurs on the ledge that runs round the top of the wall. To get closer, she moves the bag of compost Chris bought the previous year in a fit of enthusiasm but never opened. The floor wobbles where the heavy bag stood. She lifts up one of the floorboards.
54
Even after everything that’s been strewn around this house, the Howards’ sofas are creamy clean. He sits down, depositing his oily fingerprints on the expensive fabric. Damian Howard left his marks on something far more delicate. Sascha gags. Acid up to his nostrils.
He throws a cushion across the room and topples an unlit candle. He walks to the hall and sees a discoloured patch of parquet. Whose job was it to scrub this house? Damian on his hands and knees, like a post-war Trümmerfrau, picking through rubble from British acts of terror.
He sniffs the potpourri on the telephone table. It makes him think of the scent on Helen’s neck. He clenches his fists.
He hears movement in the street outside. Someone approaching the house? He freezes and listens hard. Scheiße.
55
Helen drives, not caring where she goes. She chucks the vegetable knife out of the window, not even able to get that right. Revenge isn’t something she’s good at. And who’s responsible? Sascha? Damian? Manfred? She might never know.
She yawns. If she closes her eyes and opens them again much later, she’ll get her old world back. She’ll mark the A level PE projects by Christmas Eve. She’ll order the last few presents on Amazon and buy some bits from Waitrose to take to Gary’s parents. She’d rather be at home, cooking duck for the two of them, but it means a lot to Gary, so mother-in-law turkey it is. At least they’ll have their New Year break in Gran Canaria to lo
ok forward to and a lovely long, sleepy rest.
Her eyes open. She slams on the brakes, just missing an Opal van in front and she slews into the layby near the Freibad. She climbs out of the car to get some air and wake herself up. Slush spatters her jeans where the sun has managed a puddle-sized thaw.
Without thinking, she approaches the swimming pool fence and finds a foothold, then another and a third. She lands in a gnarled tree root protruding from the ground on the other side and jars her knee.
The pool looks different from how she remembered it in the summer. It’s naked now – sun loungers, tables and parasols packed away and the float cage empty. Ice sheets drift on the water. There’s an ethereal quality which draws her closer, but she slips on the frosty poolside and lands on the same knee. She lets out a yelp that echoes across the expanse of cold. Is this where it started? She rubs her throbbing leg. If she’d never come here, would Gary still be alive? If she’d taken up jogging with Louisa. If she hadn’t befriended Sascha. Her hand goes to her throat.
Her throat. Her shame. She will lie down, close her eyes and leave this place. Pay the ultimate price for her betrayal. She thinks about Mel calling her aloof towards Louisa. Does Mel hold her responsible? Does everyone? She kneels down and the cold ground acts as an ice pack for her leg. She started it here so this is where she should finish it. Everything forever. The End.
No way. She sits up. Her knee kills but she gets to her feet. In spite of the hell she’s seen, she wants to live, to mourn Gary. He’s all that matters now. Not Mel or Sascha Jakobsen or Damian Howard. Mel’s a grown woman. She thinks Damian’s harmless. It’s up to her if she wants to go to the house. But Helen is getting out.
She struggles back over the wall. Flights will be busy so close to Christmas but she’ll drive to the Channel if she has to. She can stay with her brother until her Shrewsbury house is available. The police can contact her there.
Changing gear on the drive back is agonizing. She hopes there’s a flight as she doubts she’s up to the four-hour drive to Calais.
***
Back at home there’s a note from Mel stuck on her front door. She’s found Chris’s missing DVDs in their shed and wants her to go over to Number Ten to watch them while they clear Louisa’s stuff.
Her body clenches at the thought of going there. And then to have to watch Chris Mowar talking rubbish into a camera lens while his widow sobs her heart out beside her. She hasn’t got the stomach for this, nor the time. There’s flight availability to check and packing to do. She could say she never got the note; it blew away. But is she that selfish? It’s Mel, not Damian, who wants her help. She’s leaving anyway so watching one quick DVD won’t hurt. She postpones her escape until the afternoon.
At the other end of the street Manfred Scholz comes out of his house. He tugs on his hat before the sound of his snow boots thuds away to the main road. She thinks of going after him to demand to know why he gave Sascha an alibi. But the fight has left her. It barely matters.
She limps across the compacted snow to Number Ten. Damian’s BMW is parked half up on the kerb. A prickle of fear comes over her. She’ll stay outside, call Mel on her mobile and make some excuse to get her out of the house and away from him. But what’s her number? Come to think of it, she’s never even seen her texting. The front door is ajar. She calls out for Mel, but there’s no reply. She gathers her strength and goes inside.
56
“Mel?… Hello?… Damian?”
She sees the faded patch of flooring in the hall. Napoleon. She breathes in meat and decay. The house has ignited her memory, vivid and cruel. The real smell is of bleach. She chokes.
The coat rack is empty but there’s a bowl of potpourri on the telephone table. She doesn’t sniff it in case it brings back too many memories of Louisa. There’s a film of dust on the stair rail. Some of it is fingerprint powder.
“Mel?”
The lounge door is pushed to but not closed. She hears a fast, rhythmic noise beyond it. Jesus. Pain tugs in her knee, daring her to run. She stays put and reasons it might not be Damian. It must be a radio left on or a ticking clock. She rubs her temples and is surprised how sweaty her hair is. She puts her shaky fingers on the door handle.
She rushes in, her whole body tensed, and smiles with relief. Mel’s sitting on the rug, surrounded by scattered felt-tipped pens. She’s working one furiously over a child’s colouring book, it’s the noise that Helen heard. Helen breathes out and thanks God that the sliding doors to the dining room are shut; Gary’s in there.
Without looking up, Mel asks: “Do you ever think there’s a colour missing from the spectrum?”
Helen doesn’t know how to answer and homes in on the colours in the room – yellow and gold wallpaper, regal blue curtains. The room is still habitable, only the art prints have gone, but it seems barren. It’s Louisa that’s missing, not a colour.
“I don’t know,” she replies.
But Mel has moved on. “I’ve put the first DVD in.”
Mel launches herself backwards into the sofa next to the DVD player. “I dragged the player out of the music room in case you’re wondering,” she says. “Louisa wouldn’t allow TV in the lounge. Are you going to sit down?” She pats the cushion beside her.
Helen looks at the sofas. There’s no chemical cleaning smell in here. It’s the same soapy lavender fragrance she first encountered at her welcome party in April.
“Where is Damian?” she asks.
“Not here yet. He dropped the keys through my door.”
“His car’s outside.”
Mel shrugs. “Are you sure it’s his? Sit down.”
Helen’s pretty sure the BMW belongs to Damian. He could walk into his old house at any moment. He’d have them cornered then. She perches on the edge of the other sofa, resisting the comfort of the deep cushions. She keeps her ears primed for the sound of the front door.
Mel fiddles with the remote control. Her expression is composed. Was she so calm when she pulled the TV out of the other room, knowing what had happened to her husband in there? Maybe she didn’t take it in when the police explained it. A shudder runs through Helen. Maybe you have to have seen it – to have been there – to know. To still see it now.
Mel says: “We’re lucky nothing’s been stolen. I found the window in here wide open and the floor’s wet. You’d think the police would have taken more care. Anyone could have got in.” She waves her hand towards the window. There’s a dark patch on the parquet where it’s wet. The meat-smelling memory of the hall flashes through Helen.
“I’ve paused the disk at the start of Chris’s documentary. Or we could watch on the flat screen in the cellar if you prefer?” Mel asks.
Access to the cellar is through the kitchen. Louisa’s in there, crumpled, hand pressed between her body and the worktop, her manicure still intact. Helen trembles. “In here is fine.”
Mel presses play. Chris’s head and shoulders appear on the screen as if detached from the rest of him. Helen fights off a surge of nausea. A dead man talking. She glances at Mel, ready to move in next to her and take her hand to comfort her, but she’s leaning forward, looking curious rather than sad.
“Welcome to Mowar Matters. Tonight’s programme is about con men. What you’re about to see is the most ground-breaking investigation ever undertaken. After painstaking research over a five-year period, I present to you the definitive insight into how and why even intelligent, rational people fall victim to the most outlandish cons.”
The queasiness is gone and she feels the same nasty taste in her mouth she had whenever Chris pontificated. If he hadn’t been murdered, he would have died of hyperbole. He must be reading a script off to the side of the camera. It makes him look as if he has a squint. His thumb and index finger are pressed together and move in circles as he conducts his delivery.
“Let’s take a look at gullible people.”
The screen changes to an image of Louisa Howard walking Napoleon. Helen shoots a look at Mel
but she’s still focused on the TV. The next scene is Damian Howard climbing out of his car. Helen folds her arms, resigned to viewing whatever farcical hatchet job Chris Mowar has got planned for his neighbours. Damian isn’t gullible. Would he fall for a con? Or Louisa, or … Helen gasps. She’s watching her own image as she mows her back lawn. The creep must have filmed her from his bedroom window. Still Mel stares at the screen. Her eyes don’t seem to blink.
“Which of these people would make the best victim? To discover that, you must study them. Observe their lifestyles, find out what motivates them. Take time to learn their secrets, their indiscretions, and their weaknesses. This woman, for example, is a loner who doesn’t follow the crowd.”
Helen’s throat narrows when there’s more footage of her, this time going up her path with an Aldi carrier bag. No reaction from Mel. No apology. She wants to yell at her: your husband was a filthy peeping Tom. The film plays more video of Damian and Louisa: he’s getting a crate of wine out of his boot; she’s running past the Greek family’s house in her sport clothes. Chris’s voiceover continues. “This man is in a position of power but his secrets could topple him. This woman is a control freak who keeps up appearances at all costs …”
Helen recalls Damian’s rage when he pummelled Sascha. If he saw this …
“Which one is the perfect victim? The man? He would make a prime target for blackmail. The con artist could pull his strings.”
Helen’s eyes are wide. Is he admitting he blackmailed Damian? If Chris talks about the nightclub, it could be evidence. It could vindicate Gary. She waits for the next line. This could end up being the one decent thing Creepy Chris has ever done.
“What about the loner? She’s bound to be vulnerable surely? But a loner is only weak if she’s on the outside yearning to get in. This woman never wanted to run with the pack. She’s alone but strong.”
The Perfect Neighbours Page 23