QUIET NEIGHBOURS an unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by MCPHERSON, CATRIONA

  “Look, we already thought someone had done it, didn’t we? Someone freaked out when the doctor started threatening exhumations. So all we’re saying now is that it happened more than once. The Oughtons offed the old lady for the farm. The Days offed Elsie for the house. Bill offed Archie for his allotment. The Bells … Maureen was rattled when I asked, and her cousin deleted Jackie’s call log.”

  “And you think Todd Jolly saw what a doctor missed and he left hints in his books?”

  “At least hints,” said Jude. “If we’re lucky, proof! He was certainly writing in the hundred-books volumes all through the time these people were dying. Eddy, what are the dates again?”

  “I still think this is major nutso,” said Eddy, “but … December 1983 to May 1985,” she said. “That’s like fifty books!”

  “Eighteen,” corrected Lowell. “Dear me. Late ’83 to early ’85, eh? Well well.”

  “What?” said Jude.

  “Let’s hope nothing,” he said, not quite meeting her eye.

  “Rip it off,” said Eddy, understanding the emotion he was feeling, even if she couldn’t guess at its source. “Just grab one corner and rip it off, Dad. It’s the only way.”

  Lowell looked at her at first unseeingly and then with a small smile. “Do you have any idea, my dear child, that you make my heart leap like a salmon every time you say that word? Of course you don’t, and that is part of the wonder. Now see here, Jude and I are going to be mining the book mountain in the dead room all day. I want you to come with us. I think we should stick together.”

  Eddy regarded him steadily. “I can’t bloody stand salmon,” she said. “Too pink and too greasy.”

  It was more than twice as fast with two of them, somehow, and Jude was forced to admit that, in spite of all of his vagueness and the way he pattered about, when it came to shifting books, Lowland Glen was the equal of any librarian she had ever known. He was big, for a start, and could move twelve paperbacks at a time, six in each splayed hand, if he lined them up well. And he didn’t stop to leaf through what he was unpacking. So he kept Jude up to the mark. Between them they got into a rhythm of stripping back the plastic of the carrier bag or untwisting the dovetailed flaps of a cardboard box, assessing what was in there, and then Lowell would clear the chaff away while Jude delivered the wheat to Eddy.

  “But some of the hundred-books books don’t even have his name in them,” Jude said. “I only know them from the book club stickers.”

  “Just keep everything,” said Lowell. “Whittling down is a great deal easier than whittling up.”

  The corridor was in danger of closing completely and Lowell decided not to open the shop, told Eddy not to put lights on in the upstairs rooms, if she wandered there in between deliveries. She didn’t wander, but she did complain about being bored and asked them to talk to her, standing in the dead room door with her Birkenstocks kicked off and her feet in padded posting bags to keep them warm.

  “How can you be bored?” Jude said. “There are eighty thousand books out there.”

  “And what of the dreaded device?” asked Lowell, pushing his spectacles up his head and smiling at her.

  “It’s off,” said Eddy. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Off because of that phone call?” said Jude, but Eddy only scowled at her and shuffled away, little pockets of the bubble wrap in her makeshift shoes snapping with every step.

  “Todd!” Lowell sang out. Jude crowded in beside him to see.

  “BCA, BCA, BCA,” said Lowell. “Ah, ‘One Hundred Books to Read Before You Die,’ number 45: Ulysses.”

  “God almighty,” said Jude. “They should have made it 99 with just one after it, so you could die happy. Will I get that other Ulysses back from Eddy now? Now we know it’s not his?”

  Lowell looked down at her through his spectacles, clouded with dirt and slightly steamed up from his exertions. “Let’s leave it,” he said. “I’m interested in the duplicate copies. I’m sure some of the other book club members were as elderly as Todd himself. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll find another diarist among them.” He looked back at the book in his hand. “Anyway, 45 is well within our range. Number 34 was 1982’s Christmas pick. You do the honours.”

  He handed the book to Jude and then, to her astonishment he put his arm casually around her shoulder while she opened it. It might have been partly to help him rest and it would have been more welcome if he hadn’t been so hot; hot enough to warm every layer of outfit from shirt, through musty cardigan, through elderly hairy jacket, so that she got fresh sweat and stale sweat and ancient sweat all mixed in. But she leaned into him anyway and was even more astonished when he dropped a kiss on top of her head.

  She turned the book towards the light, the single naked bulb in the centre of the room, and read.

  He’s either a genius or a madman, Todd Jolly had written. It’s like dancing to jazz music, reading this.

  “Wonderful!” Lowell said. “I had no idea these notes were here. What must you think of me?”

  He took his arm way and plunged into the box for another. “Number 46!” he announced. Then he threw back his head and shouted. “You’re missing the best bit, dear child.”

  There was silence from outside and then Eddy’s voice shouting back, “I’ll cope.”

  “Number 46,” said Lowell again. “The Wind in the Willows.”

  “A reward after Ulysses,” Jude said.

  “Seems like a kid’s book,” Lowell read. “Not so much to it as Animal Farm and a gey sight too English to bring back memories of my boyhood. That’s all he wrote at first, but look.”

  Jude peered over his arm and read what was written in Todd’s firm handwriting.

  “This was when Norma Oughton died. They said she was worn out. She was nothing of the sort. M. told me N. didn’t think much of U. and I phoned her up and we agreed about it and had a good laugh. We talked for half an hour and only rang off because I was tired. I was tired. She was fine. She had years left in her.”

  “Who’s M.?” said Lowell.

  “I have no idea,” said Jude. “It’s come up before, though.” She read it over. “This was when Norma Oughton died,” she repeated. “You see what it means, don’t you?”

  Lowell nodded. “He went back later—possibly much later—and added that. Different pen too.”

  “I’ll deliver them to Eddy,” Jude said. “Keep digging.” She took both books and picked her way out of the room towards Lowell’s desk. “Here’s two mor—”

  Eddy was sitting there, turned away and whispering fiercely into her phone.

  “Eddy?”

  The girl shrieked loud enough to bring Lowell stumbling from the dead room, crashing into one of Jude’s towers and sending the books, so carefully sorted, in an avalanche across the floor.

  “Jesus Christ!” Eddy said. “What the fuck, Jude?”

  “Darling girl, what’s wrong?” Lowell demanded.

  “Nothing!” said Eddy “Fuck sake. Calm down, Da—” She bit off the word and snapped her gaze back to the phone. She lifted it and spoke in a hissing whisper. “Now see what you’ve done? Leave me alone!” She killed the call, pressing her thumb down as if she was trying to choke the life out of her phone.

  “Who was that?” said Lowell. “Are you sure you’re—”

  “No one,” said Eddy. “A friend.”

  “A friend who needs to leave you alone?” Jude said.

  “I bloody wish you’d leave me alone. Both of you.”

  “In that case,” said Lowell, “Jude, come and see what I’ve found now.”

  He hadn’t noticed the bitten off dad while the line was open. Jude had.

  “One minute,” she said. And when he had gone she spoke in a low voice. “Are you in trouble?”

  Eddy pointed at her stomach and said, “Duh! No, I’m not. If everyone would stop freaking out. I’m not, but yeah, I might be. As it happens.”

  “Tell me,” said Jude. “I’m here for you.”

 
; “Yeah, right,” said Eddy. “You’ll be there for me if I get dragged off to the cop shop. You’ll be right there bailing me out, eh?”

  “I think that’s on films,” Jude said. “Bailing people out of jails. But I take your point.”

  “I take your point,” said Eddy in a mincing singsong, mocking her. “In other words, I’m on my own.”

  “Eddy, for God’s sake, how can you say that?” Jude jabbed a finger towards the dead room. “That man loves you. Instantly. Unconditionally. You pop up out of nowhere—I’m your daughter, here’s your grandkid, oh wait, no grandkid after all—and all he does is love you.”

  “It probably helps that he thinks he’s my dad, yeah?” Jude said nothing. “And about the grandkid, I’m kind of rethinking the whole Liam and Terry angle again, so I hope you’re right.”

  Jude gave her a stunned look. Did rethinking the angle mean coming clean? If Eddy came clean about her own secrets, would she still keep Jude’s? Before she could think of a way to ask, Lowell called for her.

  “I’ve found his Godfather!”

  “Go back to your clues, Nancy Drew,” Eddy said.

  In the back of The Godfather (49) Todd had written, Should have read it before I saw the film. I couldn’t get that that daft voice out of my head. Then later: Elsie Day is gone. I mind her skipping in the playground with her skirt flying up and her wee navy-blue knickers. Dead from renal failure. She was still dancing at the bowling club on Christmas Eve. She winked at me. Later still, and this time with a shaking hand, he had added: Number two.

  “Then came Archie,” Jude said. “Written about in On the Beach. And Lolita was only six months later, and Etta Bell was already fading. That’s what he wrote. Fading fast.”

  “I wish this book club advertised the next volume in the current one,” Lowell said. “Then at least we’d know what we were looking for.”

  Jude clicked her fingers. “Keep rummaging.” She backed out of the room and squeezed along the corridor. They had given up all pretence of organising the books now as they threw them over their shoulders. The mess should have appalled her, should have made every inch of her skin crawl, should have made her throat feel feltlined. In fact, as she edged past them, they barely registered. Perhaps like a very small pebble under the instep in her shoe.

  The girl was gone.

  Jude listened at the toilet door and then knocked softly.

  “Eddy?” she said. “You okay, love?”

  There was only silence and when Jude turned the handle and entered, the tiny room was empty and the cistern quiet.

  “Eddy?” she shouted up the stairs, listening. The whole house was still.

  She looked along the passage towards where Lowell was working and hesitated. If Eddy wanted to run, she should be allowed to run. She was over eighteen. But Lowell thought she was eight months pregnant. Jude took a step towards him and then breathed out a huff of relief as she heard the garden door open. A moment later, Eddy appeared from Coasters and Key Rings, stepping quietly, looking the other way, towards where she thought Lowell and Jude were both working. When she heard the noise of books being moved in the dead room, she breathed out and trotted along the side passage.

  “Been out for a breath of fresh?” Jude asked and then felt rotten as Eddy jumped in the air and, swinging round, turned her ankle. She was carrying something and, from instinct at the fright, she had put it up like a weapon. Jude frowned. “What the hell?”

  Eddy was brandishing one of the spoons from the kitchen alcove, a tablespoon that usually sat in the coffee jar, making everyone tip too many of the bitter granules into their mugs, making the bad coffee even worse. Jude stared at it. It was caked in mud, as was the hand Eddy held it in.

  “What are you up to?” Jude said.

  “Nothing,” said Eddy. “I was … burying a mouse.” Jude blinked. “A little mouse had died, through there. I buried it in the garden.”

  “Of course you did,” Jude said. “That sounds just like you, right enough.” She knew from Eddy’s face, tight like she’d pulled a drawstring, that there was no point asking more, and she walked away. Then a thought struck her and she turned back. “Is this anything to do with why you were in the garden that first day?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you!” said Eddy. She brushed past Jude and went into the toilet, slamming the door and locking it.

  “Lowell wants you to Google the hundred-books book club,” Jude shouted over the sound of the hot water running. “See if you can find a list of what they published when. It’s a long shot. And look on your phone and remind us when Etta Bell died, will you?”

  “I can’t hear you!” Eddy shouted back, and turned the cold tap on.

  They never found the last one. By teatime, filthy and exhausted, surrounded by the litter of a takeaway lunch, they had blasted through the whole of the dead room. There were multiple copies of Ulysses (45) and several Wind in the Willows (46) and more Godfathers (49), but not a single book with Todd Jolly’s name in it that recorded Etta’s death. The latest one they found was too early. It was March 1985’s To The Lighthouse (61), Todd’s verdict: Doesn’t know she’s born and his diary entry: M. apologised for this one. Said there’s a great story coming next month but wouldn’t tell me what it was. I asked after Etta. M. said she can’t keep anything down. It’ll only be days. Sometimes folk can’t see what’s right in front of them.

  “Who’s M.?” said Lowell again.

  “Maureen?” said Jude. “Was Maureen a friend of Todd’s?”

  “Maybe it’s someone from the book club. It was before the infernal Internet, after all. Perhaps the book club rep was available on the phone.”

  “You know what’s strange?” said Jude. “Speaking of the book club? We never found a single slip, or covering letter or bill or anything in any of these book club books, did we? If it wasn’t for the stickers, we wouldn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Moira,” said Lowell. “There’s a Moira in the case. Peter Oughton’s wife.”

  “Pretty tenuous,” Jude said. “And I’m sure there’s something … dates and books and notes and names and dates and … Oh, Todd! Why didn’t you just say what you meant?”

  Lowell heaved a sigh up from below the floorboards and rubbed his hands over his face, leaving it streaked with dirt.

  “Perhaps he had a very good reason,” he said. “In fact, I think I know he had a very good reason. And I think I know what it was too. My dear, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Oh God, Lowell,” said Jude. “If you only knew the things I should tell you and haven’t.” She saw him look at her with a spark of interest. “Will we just leave it? Will we shut this door and pull a curtain over it and pretend none of it happened? Will we just start from here and be happy?”

  They sat in the gloom of the single lightbulb, both on stacks of books, staring at one another. Lowell took a breath to speak and Jude knew from his face that he was going to agree. She wondered if she could follow through with it. Could she really forget those five names?

  “Fuck a duck and stuff it with muck!” Eddy’s voice carried through the quiet air and made both of them laugh. They heard her footsteps, the padded envelopes slipping and popping as she hurried towards them. She stopped short in the doorway.

  “Jesus wept,” she said. “What a bloody mess!”

  “What is it?” asked Jude.

  Eddy grinned and waved her phone. “I got an email back,” she said. “I paid extra for the quickest service.” She turned to Lowell. “You’re my dad.”

  “Yes …” Lowell said, but Jude could feel her eyes growing wide as her mind started to whir.

  “Yeah, but—” Eddy said. “I—Okay, I maybe should have told you this, but I didn’t think you were. I didn’t think you could be. So I nicked your toothbrush and sent it away for a paternity test, and you are.”

  “Whose toothbrush have I been using?” said Lowell. “The red one.” Eddy grimaced. Then Lowell seemed to catch up with her
words. “You didn’t think—You came here to trick me?”

  “No!” Eddy said. “It was after I got here. I wasn’t born in June, Dad. I was born in April. I wasn’t born nine months after OJ night, see?”

  “How can you not know when you were born?” said Lowell, blinking. He rubbed his face again.

  Eddy turned a beseeching look on Jude. Jude thought about the horoscopes and the birthstones and the reluctance of Miranda to get involved with Social Services, her inability to procure a passport and move to the west of Ireland. “It’s a long story,” she said. “And I’ve got another one, actually.”

  “So have I,” said Lowell. “As I was just saying, dearest. Dear me, yes, I think I do anyway. Let’s go round to Jamaica. Three hot baths and a pot of tea.”

  “But we’re taking the books,” said Jude. “All the hundred-books books. They’ve got a story to tell too.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Oh great!” said Eddy as they climbed out of the car. Mrs. Hewston was on the move. They could see her torchlight bobbing as she trotted over the grass, the raindrops caught in its beam like fireflies.

  “Go in, dear child,” said Lowell. “Don’t catch cold. And, darling, if you could fetch the golf umbrella from the stand there and hold it over me, I’ll carry the boxes.”

  “Darling!” said Eddy and went into the house hooting with laughter. Jude kept her grin in check as she pulled the umbrella free from the tangle of fishing rods and walking sticks jammed in beside it and hid her face under it as she went back out again.

  “Having another run at it, Mrs. Hewston?” she said, as she drew up beside Lowell again. “We saw you this morning.”

  Mrs. Hewston stopped short. She was holding a small collapsible brolly, one of the ones that fits in a handbag but isn’t robust enough for anything more than a gentle shower. Indeed, this one had a crooked spoke, so some of the rain was dripping onto Mrs. Hewston’s shoulder.

  “I turned back,” she said. “This morning. I remembered I’d left the grill on.”

  “Good thing,” Jude said. “Can’t be too careful. I suppose you’ve heard what happened at Jolly’s Cottage?”