The Downstairs Neighbor

by Helen Cooper

“Please hurry,” he said. “Tell her I’m okay, but not to come. I’ll get home. And . . . ask her about Freya. Any news.”

  She stared at him curiously, then nodded and turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” Paul said, trying not to cough: His ribs were agony. “I think another man arrived at the same time as me? Daniel Sanderson?”

  He didn’t want to add, With a stab wound? Or ask whether the police had visited while he’d slept.

  “I don’t know, I’m sorry. It was just you brought up to this ward. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Don’t worry,” Paul said quickly. “Leave it, it’s fine.”

  She hesitated again before she left, flinging one more querying look over her shoulder. Paul struggled to sit up, a wave of protest sweeping through his muscles. He was exhausted. Close to breaking in a way there was no going back from. He couldn’t, though: He had to get out of here.

  Now that he was alone, his head gradually clearing, he thought back over what had happened. The explosive sense of release as he’d sunk the knife into Daniel’s shoulder, followed all too quickly by panic and regret. Then a frantic attempt to stem the bleeding, a call to 999, a spiraling fear that he’d made things a thousand times worse. He couldn’t be responsible for another death, no matter how he felt about Daniel. There was already so much guilt to bear.

  The nurse returned sooner than he’d expected, startling Paul out of his thoughts.

  “The number was engaged,” she said. “I’ll try again later. Are you all right? You look extremely pale.”

  “I’m okay.” Paul sank into his pillows, his heart thundering. He felt a deep twist of longing for Steph, wishing everything was as it had been only a few days ago, that maybe he’d just had a minor accident, like the time he’d come off his bike, and she was rushing from work to fetch him . . .

  “One of the receptionists gave me this,” the nurse said, handing him an envelope with Paul Harlow written on it. “Apparently a woman dropped it off about an hour ago. She didn’t want to stick around, but asked us to pass it to you when you woke.”

  Paul stared at it. Who on earth knew he was here but wouldn’t stay? He waited until the nurse had moved politely away before tearing open the envelope.

  I’ll be waiting on the far side of the Blue Car Park.

  45.

  EMMA

  She could still smell it. The dirty, sickly stench. She didn’t know if she was really smelling it anymore, or whether the memory was trapped in her nostrils.

  Her first impulse, of course, had been to throw the revolting package into a bin far from her house. But then it had occurred to her that she might need the evidence. As repugnant as the idea was, she had to keep the stinking parcel, now quadruple-wrapped in plastic bags, until she had an opportunity to talk to the police.

  Because she was going to tell the police now. It made her ill, the idea that Robin, father to her son, might actually have gone to the lengths of scraping up dog shit, forcing it into an envelope, posting it through the door . . . And Zeb was living with him, being influenced by him. Just as Robin had clearly been influenced by Andy’s approach to intimidation all those years ago.

  She tried to busy herself by checking through the post and emails she’d left neglected for the last four days. But it was just bills that would plunge her into her overdraft, an email from her real estate agent asking whether she wanted to relist her shop for sale, and an invitation to a job interview—depressingly, at the shop where she’d been working when she’d first entertained the idea of buying her own. Emma didn’t have the headspace for any of it. She buried her laptop under a pile of scarves as if it had offended her as much as the dog dirt.

  The next time a police car pulled up, she peeked out of her window. Two officers in uniform got out and went to address the mob of journalists. Emma wondered whether any of the reporters had witnessed the horrible delivery. An argument seemed to bubble up; one of the PCs stayed out on the pavement while the other came into the building, irritation scrunching his face.

  Before she could change her mind, Emma stepped out of her flat.

  The PC was in the foyer murmuring into his radio. Emma hovered awkwardly, glancing up the stairs toward the Harlows’ door. When he slipped the radio back into his belt, she found her voice: “Excuse me, could I ask your advice?”

  He looked preoccupied, but not unfriendly, sweat glistening beneath the brim of his hat.

  “I . . . I need to report some potentially threatening mail I’ve been getting. And . . . other things too. Phone calls . . .” She thought of what Steph had said about their doorstep being egged a fortnight ago. “Vandalism . . .”

  She had his attention now. “Is this related to Freya Harlow?”

  “I don’t think so. Not exactly.” Emma watched for a reaction, convinced the interest had slipped from his face. “I can’t be sure, but I think it’s . . . my son’s dad. We have a difficult history and I think he’s trying to unsettle me, or punish me. I know you might not be the right person to tell, and the last thing I want is to detract from the investigation . . .”

  He looked thoughtful. Emma worried that he was going to fob her off, send her away, and perhaps rightly so. But he reached into his coat and brought out a notebook. “Can you say more about this mail you’ve been getting?”

  “He sent a book a few days ago. A guide to being a better parent, with a raw egg smashed inside. I’m pretty sure that’s been reported to the police already. Steph Harlow thought it was meant for her and Paul, but I think it may have been aimed at me . . .”

  The officer started scribbling. Emma followed the jerky movement of his pen on the page. Things were meshing together; she didn’t know what was linked and what was separate, coincidental. The exterior door opened and the other PC came in. Emma was glad of the brief interruption so she could collect her thoughts. But her head snapped round as she glimpsed, through the closing door, a familiar figure standing beyond the press pack, staring around at the once-quiet street that now thrummed with the mayhem of a missing teenager.

  Surprise flooded her with such force that she ran outside. A few reporters clicked their cameras, as if they thought surely she must be flying toward the missing girl, because otherwise why would her arms be straining forward? Why would there be tears on her cheeks?

  46.

  CHRIS

  Chris had found himself plunged into a spiral of repeated questions. All the same ones they’d asked about Freya before, but with a new gravitas hanging over them, and a camera now recording from the corner of the interview room. And there was extra stuff, too, personal stuff. They seemed to know exactly which nerves to hit when it came to his marriage and his insecurities.

  Now his “alleged route” from his last lesson with Freya was being waved around again. Chris felt beaten up. Why didn’t they just get on with whatever they wanted to say about it?

  Eventually they did.

  “Your number plate was picked up by a speed camera,” Ford said, “at thirteen forty-two on March the fifteenth. Three miles from where you should’ve been at that time, according to your version of the route.”

  Chris shifted. “I told you my memory might not have been completely accurate.”

  “But shouldn’t you have been heading back toward Freya’s school at that time? Instead you were going in the opposite direction.”

  His mind swam. Would a speed camera have been able to tell who was driving? Would it show two figures arguing in the front of the car?

  How much could a camera reveal about the relationship between a driving instructor and his student?

  Chris resorted to sarcasm. “I’m not sure how much you know about driving lessons, but the idea isn’t to take the most direct route to where you want to go. The idea is to practice driving.”

  “You wouldn’t have had enough time to get back to Freya’s school by two p.m.”<
br />
  “We were running a bit late, as it happens.”

  “You didn’t mention that before.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No. Is there anything else you’ve failed to mention?”

  The sarcasm drained out of Chris. He dropped his hands to his knees and shook his head.

  Just as he thought they’d exhausted every last detail, there was something else. Ford reached for an iPad and showed him their trump card: a photograph of a crumpled, dirty banknote. Chris recognized the doodle in the corner and his breath truncated.

  “Why did Freya still have three hundred pounds’ worth of the money that was meant for her driving lessons?” Ford asked. “Why was it in her pocket?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Shouldn’t she have been giving it to you?”

  “Yes . . . She did.”

  “So she had been paying for her lessons?”

  “Of course.” There was itchy sweat in his eyes. “Maybe this was for future ones.”

  A thick silence followed. Chris bit the insides of his cheeks.

  At last Ford put down the iPad. She placed her hands at either side of it, palms on the table, as if she was wanting him to draw around her fingers.

  “I think you’re hiding something, Mr. Watson.”

  Chris tried to stare her out, but fear was filtering through him. “I want a solicitor.”

  “Fine.” A smile played on Ford’s lips, as though this was what she’d wanted him to say. As though it was an admission of guilt.

  It was Vicky’s face that came most strongly into his mind now, rather than Freya’s. Vicky pulling him up to dance at a party full of raucous student nurses sometime in the distant past. Vicky staring into their bedroom mirror yesterday, painting her mouth with scarlet Chanel lipstick, and today, holding on to the hall table as she’d watched the police lead him away.

  * * *

  —

  The duty solicitor, Ms. Beaumont, arrived within half an hour. She had unmoving black hair and a brisk, efficient manner. When Chris faced the two detectives with her at his side, it felt like a fresh start, of sorts. Having someone next to him equaled things up.

  “It seems my client has been asked some irrelevant questions about his personal life,” Ms. Beaumont said. “There will be no more of that.” She sounded like she was reprimanding two naughty children. “And please inform my client whether he is under arrest.”

  The detectives exchanged a glance. Ms. Beaumont’s head was cocked expectantly, her hair like a black metal helmet. But as Ford opened her mouth to respond, the door to the interview room creaked and a tall man with pouched eyes appeared. “DI Ford, a quick word?”

  “We’re just wrapping up here,” Ford said, sending a wash of relief through Chris’s body. “Can it wait?”

  The man looked at Chris, then back to Ford, a subtle signal in his gaze. “Not really.”

  Ford stood and left the room. Chris turned to Ms. Beaumont for reassurance, but an M-shaped frown creased her forehead. He rocked back in his chair, feeling its legs bow beneath him. Finally Ford returned, brandishing a second iPad and moving with new purpose as she retook her seat.

  “The team has finished going through Freya’s iCloud storage,” she said, and Chris felt the drop of his stomach, the clean slide of a dreaded but inevitable outcome.

  Of course she’d have backed up her photos to the cloud. Sometimes it felt like nothing could be contained anymore. Secrets floated in cyberspace, beyond your own reach and control. He thought of Vicky cutting out pictures from a magazine, or touching the bracelet on her wrist as if to check it was real. Was she trying to make things tangible? Trying to keep control, one ownable item at a time?

  Chris looked at the photo on the iPad. It was hard to believe that its collection of sad-looking bric-a-brac spilling from a glove box had embroiled him in this.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Ford said, “this is the inside of your car.”

  47.

  KATE

  Twenty-five years earlier

  We leave in darkness on Monday, the first bus of the day rumbling us through traffic-free streets. Mum is dry-eyed and distant. I have to nudge her alert when we get to the station, then guide us to the right platform, focusing on practical things until we’re on the train and my blood starts to hiss in my ears.

  Daylight leaks into the sky as the train rushes through a spectrum of colors, ink to pale amber to blue. My black dress crumples beneath my thighs. Mum fiddles with the armrest, flipping it up and down, and checks her watch and rubs her eyes and, as we chug into Basingstoke, clasps my hand with all the dread I’m trying not to show.

  My heart turns over when she tells me we’re heading to Nick’s brother’s house first. We’ve been invited to travel in the proper funeral car with his family. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, Mum was his girlfriend after all, but I still feel like we’re outsiders.

  We freeze in unison as we step out of the taxi. The man striding to greet us is so much like Nick. He moves like him; he has the same eyebrows and mouth. When he introduces himself as Richard his voice is similar too. It’s like shaking hands with a ghost.

  Richard’s house is big but there isn’t much stuff in it: “minimalist,” Becca would say. I wish there was more clutter to camouflage against. I feel too visible as we stand in the living room and are introduced to Nick’s dad and two cousins. Nick’s dad has the same family resemblance, less striking because he’s older. It’s almost a relief when the two black cars arrive and a flurry of activity distracts me. But then I glance out of the window and am embarrassed by my own jolt of shock.

  Of course one of the cars would have a coffin in it. Of course we’d be riding to the funeral with Nick himself. What did I think would happen?

  * * *

  —

  The only other funeral I’ve been to was my grandad’s. That was in a church, with hymns and readings from the Bible. I was only seven but I remember being fascinated by the man playing slow tunes on the organ. Nick’s funeral is in a crematorium surrounded by trees. A small crowd of people gathers outside, but when we get out of the car there’s no rumble of conversation, only silence. The coffin is carried through the middle and we walk behind with our heads low.

  During the service I learn more about Nick than I did the whole time he was with my mum. He wanted to join the RAF but his eyesight wasn’t good enough. He used to like boxing when he was younger—I have to clamp my mouth so as not to react to that. His brother does a tribute and his voice wobbles twice. Every anecdote that’s shared and every song that’s played makes me more confused.

  And I can’t stop staring at the coffin. I remember thinking that my grandad’s looked small—even to me as a kid. But Nick’s coffin is long and broad, the cherry-dark wood gleaming.

  * * *

  —

  After the service we go back to Richard’s clean, empty house. People loosen their ties, speak a little louder; I pick at a triangular sandwich and feel like my legs won’t hold me up. Eventually I shut myself in the downstairs toilet, splashing cold water onto my wrists.

  When I get back to the living room I see Nick’s dad heading toward my mum. I arrive at her side at the same time as he arrives in front of her. He glances at me, then locks eyes with Mum and says, “I’m very sorry.” It seems an odd thing for him to say to her. He’s lost his son after all. And there’s something about his words, something I can’t puzzle out.

  Mum bites her lip. “So am I.”

  “Could we have a quick talk?” he asks. “How about some air?”

  Mum shifts her black handbag from one shoulder to the other. “Will you be all right for a minute, Kate?”

  I nod, but I don’t think she sees. She pats my arm and Nick’s dad gestures toward the door.

  On the way home I ask her what they talked about during those fi
fteen minutes, when I could see only the tops of their heads through the living-room window. “Nothing, really,” she says. “Just Nick.”

  I daren’t push it. I’m just relieved to be speeding home, rocked into a trance by the train’s bumpy gallop.

  * * *

  —

  Even after the funeral is over, the suspense thickens every day. There are so many things that make my pulse fly—the ringing phone, visitors at the door. Becca and Auntie Rach come back whenever they can, usually at weekends, Auntie Rach bringing dirty potatoes from a friend’s garden or little bottles of brandy for her and Mum to share. Becca and I try to catch moments alone, but it’s impossible in the flat, and I’m not sure what we’d say to each other anyway.

  We’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast when it finally happens. The only sound is teeth crunching burned toast. It doesn’t seem like we can get much quieter, but all noises evaporate as a knock thuds on the door. It’s as if we know this isn’t just another neighbor with a watery chicken stew.

  Auntie Rach answers it and comes back with two policemen. They introduce themselves but I don’t take it in—I’m not even sure if they’re the ones I’ve met before. I notice, distantly, that I’ve dropped my toast jam-side down onto my plate.

  “We’re here following the postmortem and toxicology report for Mr. Nicholas Wood,” one of the policemen says. “We need to ask you about some medication found in his system.”

  I grip the edges of my chair. I don’t know where to look, how to make my legs stop twitching.

  “Antidepressants?” Mum asks.

  “Well, yes, a low dosage of antidepressants was found. Analysis of Mr. Wood’s blood and urine, combined with his medical records, suggests he’d been taking those for around four weeks. But it’s unlikely that was the cause of death.”