The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Lesley Sanderson

  I opened my eyes and gazed at her photograph; her eyes hurt me with their reproaches. I placed it face down on the side table, swung my legs out of bed and forced those memories away. But I could still feel those dark eyes watching me from across the room: what would she think of me now? A muffled sound from the room next door alerted me to Ella: her radio alarm cut into the silence and the moment was broken. Enough. I removed Olivia’s photograph from the table and placed it out of sight, deep among my personal papers, in a box under the bed. I turned my thoughts to Ella and the events of last night. Surely she wouldn’t be going into work today? I hated to see how vulnerable she looked. I hadn’t shown Ella how freaked out I was too.

  Getting upset only made my thoughts swing back to her. I’m trying to switch my thoughts off and realign them. Ella has to be my focus now. Not her, no longer her.

  When I went downstairs Ella was pouring milk into a jug, the muscles straining in her thin arms. I needed a strong shot of coffee to revive my tired brain, and a cigarette to still my breathing and switch off the thoughts that had risen to the surface during the long night. In Spain I’d sit out on my little balcony with my tomato bread dripping with oil, but I slept better back then.

  ‘Coffee?’ Ella’s eyes looked red, as if she too hadn’t slept much afterwards and a spike of anger rose in me. How dare he do this to her?

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Shall we go outside – might as well make the most of this mild weather before winter properly sets in.’

  The table was covered in dew and I wiped my hand across it, enjoying the cold against my skin. My back was sore from all the hours I’d devoted to the garden but from this viewpoint the hours of work were barely in evidence. Ella appeared, holding a tray with two mugs of coffee and a plate of chunky biscuits.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all.’ She picked up one of the mugs and blew on the steaming liquid. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Lady. Do you think it was an accident?’

  I sigh. ‘I’ve been wondering the same. What with the other things.’ The thought of the dead cat made me feel queasy.

  ‘Thanks for helping me. You look like you haven’t slept much either.’

  As if I ever did. Every night is haunted by the same old dreams. Trying to find her, almost there, and then the crashing disappointment when she slips out of my reach. Long, restless hours taunted by the idea of sleep, while it forever escapes me. ‘You’re right,’ I said.

  ‘The night before when I heard noises, it sounded like somebody was out here. I’m convinced now I was right. Mr Mortimer heard something, too.’ Ella looked around the garden with a wary gaze, as if someone was still lurking behind the bushes. Her eyes looked bruised from tiredness.

  ‘You’re already stressed, and this is only making it worse. I wish I could help you get over him quicker but time is what you need. It’s a cliché for a reason.’

  I hated the words as they came out of my mouth. I was trying to convince myself as much as her. It was a question of priorities. Some things had to be remembered, kept alive. Otherwise…

  Twenty-Five

  ELLA

  I pace around, unable to settle. A walk on the heath will help clear my head. I turn right out of the house, away from the lane that leads to the main road, where traffic is a distant mumble. As I walk down the street I’m aware of a car passing me and it pulls up alongside the curb. Ted from number 42 unfolds his long body from the driving seat and strides to his front door, deliberately facing forward as he lets himself into his house. I shove my hands in my pockets, trying not to feel hurt that he’s snubbed me. Chris must have told him what’s happened between us.

  I put my head down against the blustery wind and continue towards the heath. The wind strengthens and my breath quickens as I turn the corner to be confronted by the inky black surface of the pond. Alice was right about the mild weather we’ve been having lately coming to a close. I cross to the bench and sit by the pond, trying to get my thoughts in order. I have a good view of the exterior of number 46 and a ripple of fear cuts through my exhaustion, imagining a dark figure prowling around the garden. To scare me? Or to hurt me?

  The white walls of the house glow against the dark slate of the roof and the tall chimney pot. I study the area behind the garden. There’s a small wooded copse between the garden and the pond, which leads through to the heath. It’s accessible from behind, if someone was determined enough. I can’t get the sight of Lady’s rigid body out of my head.

  The sky is darkening and I continue on my walk, taking fast steps, needing to keep moving, wishing I could push my thoughts away. The path becomes a track and I find myself in a clearing surrounded by a dense curtain of trees. A twig snaps, a bird shoots towards me and I duck. Feet approach, a quick tread, and I breathe a sigh of relief as a runner overtakes me, his breath visible against the now-dark sky. I hurry back to the path, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt around my head. I run along Heath Street to number 46, slamming the door behind me with a gasp of relief. The grandfather clock ticks as I pant into the silence.

  * * *

  I’ve just settled down in front of the television, hoping a bit of mindless viewing will send me off to sleep, when the doorbell rings. Through the frosted glass I make out a blurry shape with rounded shoulders and a flat cap: Mr Mortimer. He’ll have seen me come in so I can’t pretend I’m out. Besides, I’m curious, I can’t remember him ever calling round at the house before.

  ‘Mr Mortimer,’ I say as I pull the door ajar.

  He nods and removes his cap, twists it around in his hands.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, lovey. You looked like you needed cheering up, so I baked you some biscuits.’ He hands me an ancient-looking tin.

  The kindly expression on his face warms me. ‘That’s so sweet of you. Would you like to come in, have a cup of tea?’

  He blinks hard again. ‘That’s kind of you. Just a quick one then. I eat my supper at six o’clock and watch the news while I eat. I like to stick to a routine, and it’s important to keep up with what’s going on.’

  He follows me into the kitchen and I boil the kettle. He looks around, his eyes bright. ‘Three sugars,’ he says. ‘Doris only let me have two, but now…’

  ‘I wish I’d met her,’ I say. ‘I think Chris remembers her.’

  He nods. ‘He would do.’

  Mr Mortimer is silent as I set out the cups and make a pot of tea in Nancy’s red teapot. I put some of his delicious-looking shortbread biscuits on a plate.

  ‘Have you lived next door long, Mr Mortimer?’

  ‘Fred. Please call me Fred.’

  ‘Fred, then.’

  He nods, stirs a heaped spoonful of sugar into his tea. ‘When we first got married we lived in Kentish Town in a rented flat. My wife inherited the house when her parents died, and we moved here in the summer of 1975.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘Some things you don’t forget. It was a happy time, despite my mother-in-law’s passing. Setting up our first proper home. And we appreciated how lucky we were, such a pretty street with the heath on our doorstep. It wasn’t such an expensive area at that time.’

  I pass the plate of biscuits to him and he takes one in the shape of a Scottie dog. I push away a thought about Lady.

  ‘Do you remember Chris’s parents, the Rutherfords?’

  ‘Oh yes. My Doris was great friends with Nancy. I was so sorry to hear she’d passed away. She was a lovely woman.’

  ‘She was.’ To my horror, tears well in my eyes. I drink some tea to distract myself.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to upset you. Me and my big mouth.’

  I shake my head.

  Fred finishes his tea, pats at his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘I was thinking about those noises in the night we were talking about,’ he says. ‘It has to be a fox. Those foxes are a bloody nuisance, pardon my French. I don’t want you worrying yourself about it.’

&
nbsp; I wonder if foxes attack cats. I don’t want to ask him, I’ll only get upset again.

  He glances up at the clock, puts his cap on. ‘Right, I’ll be off then.’

  ‘What’s for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie. I’ve not cooked it myself, though, it’s courtesy of Waitrose. And thanks for the tea, very kind of you. I’ll keep an eye out for any more intruders.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Mr Mortimer.’

  ‘Fred.’

  ‘Fred.’

  He whistles to himself as he goes down the path and I wipe my eyes, feeling a spurt of affection towards him. As soon as he’s gone I curse myself for getting upset. I completely forgot to ask him about 1997. But really, what would I have said? At least I haven’t been thinking about Chris for half an hour.

  * * *

  In the evening, I stick a pizza in the oven and take a shower, hoping Alice will show up and join me for dinner. I imagine her in a sophisticated restaurant sharing secrets with a close friend, laughing, her glossy hair shining as she moves. Then I visualise myself with her in the restaurant as I rub my hair dry with a towel; I wish I could rub out these feelings of jealousy towards her phantom friend.

  But Alice doesn’t come home. I eat the pizza, leaving the crusts, then light the fire, sit on the sofa and pick at the skin on my fingernails. I call Jamie for a chat but the call goes to voicemail. Tears spring to my eyes when I think about how it used to be, me padding softly down the stairs after reading to Nancy as she drifted off to sleep. How I’d curl up in front of the fire, Chris reading in an armchair. Cocooned in number 46. Dozing and dreaming about the children we’d have one day, children who would never know what it was like not to have a mother. ‘Happy?’ Chris would ask me, stroking my leg, smiling, knowing the answer from my face.

  I give up trying to relax and go to bed.

  Upstairs, I check the window is closed, but it doesn’t settle my unease so I go back downstairs and take the oversized umbrella from the hall to bed with me for protection.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night I wake with a start and my heart pounds as I listen to what sounds like something being dragged outside. Not again. I jump up and go over to the window, peering out into the darkness. Once again, torchlight bobs back and forth leaving a silver trail as it moves. Someone is definitely out there. I switch my phone into torch mode, keeping it against my leg to shelter the light in case anyone has got into the house. I go to warn Alice but her bedroom door is ajar.

  ‘Alice?’ My voice is a loud whisper.

  Silence. I repeat her name, then with a shaking hand, white in the dark, I push her door and it swings open. A lamp glows in the corner of the room.

  ‘Alice,’ my voice is a normal pitch now and the stillness in the air tells me the room is empty. The duvet is cast aside as if thrown off in a hurry, a paperback lies open, face down on the floor. I cross the room and peer out through the window, still concealing the light from my phone. Outside, the light bobs like a rabbit’s tail. What if she heard the noise and went down to help and is in trouble? Or could it be her in the garden? I glance across at the house next door but Mr Mortimer’s house sleeps – the windows are black.

  The floorboards are cold against my bare feet and I shine the light on the floor and follow it to the back door. The rooms downstairs are empty. If I put the light on suddenly, would this startle whoever it is? I should protect myself. Too late, I remember the umbrella under my bed. I daren’t go back upstairs, my legs are like jelly and I’m trembling, and not from cold. The back door is closed, the key still in the lock. I remember locking it last night, but I always leave the key on the window ledge. Did I forget? With a shaking hand I turn the key, but it isn’t locked, and I swallow hard, my breath loud in the silence of the room. A sharp pain digs into my foot and I smother a cry, hopping up and down as I grab my foot and pull out a large splinter. I pull the door open, shining my torch in front of me, and take a deep breath.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, my voice shaking.

  Twenty-Six

  ELLA

  ‘Hello?’

  My gut feeling is that I am the only person in the house. Emboldened, I shine the torch over the grass; the light is surprisingly strong. Is that dew already, catching the light, shimmering at me? I slide my feet into my garden shoes and tread ahead, waving the torch around like a student with a glow light at a rave. The shed is empty and so is the garden. A light switches on upstairs next door and satisfied I’m alone out here, I hurry back inside. The last thing I want is Mr Mortimer haranguing me about why I’m outside in the middle of the night when I should be tucked up in bed. I wish I was. But there’s no way I’ll sleep now.

  Back inside I make sure the door is locked and this time I leave the key in the sitting room. My torchlight catches the amber glow from a bottle of whisky on the shelf. A present from one of Chris’s first clients; the memory is sour in my throat, like the taste of whisky. Back when Chris was successful. Back when he was my husband. Chris is the only one who ever drank it but he’s not here any more and I hope the small glass I pour will stop my hands from trembling.

  The unpleasant, harsh taste makes me wince, but the warmth I feel as it trickles down my throat is welcome. I pour a second glass and I’m about to take it into the sitting room when I realise my foot is throbbing. I lift it up to look at the underside – it’s covered in blood and there’s a bloody trail smeared across the kitchen tiles. Grabbing a cloth, I soak it in cold water and hold it to my foot until the bleeding abates. I haven’t got the energy to clean the floor for the moment. Instead I hop into the living room, turn the chair to face the door and collapse onto it.

  * * *

  ‘Ella.’

  A loud whisper jolts me awake. I wince as I go to stand and I fall back into the chair, my foot still throbbing. Alice peers down at me.

  ‘Ella, are you OK? What’s happened? There’s blood all over the kitchen floor and the back doorstep. I thought…’ Her almond eyes roam around my face and I see genuine concern. A flicker of warmth is stoked inside me.

  ‘It’s just my foot, looks far worse than it is. I should have cleaned up but—’

  ‘Forget about that. What have you done to it? Are you OK?’

  ‘Trod on a splinter, that’s all, but it felt pretty big.’

  She kneels down and lifts my foot onto her lap. Her fingers are warm against my skin. ‘Have you got a first aid kit?’

  ‘In the cupboard under the sink.’

  ‘Keep your foot still and I’ll see if I can find something. What were you doing down here in the middle of the night anyway?’ Alice disappears off to the kitchen where I hear her rummaging about in the cupboard before she emerges with a green plastic box.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  Alice doesn’t reply; she’s kneeling on the floor and staring intently at the box.

  ‘What is it?’

  She jumps to her feet. ‘This looks ancient, but the dressings will be fine.’ She cleans the wound and removes a small bandage from a paper wrapping which has gone yellow with age. ‘This should be OK, I think. Maybe check when you last had a tetanus injection.’

  ‘I don’t think I can remember. Alice, where have you been? I was looking for you, that’s why I was wandering about down here. I heard a noise again outside and I went to see if you’d heard anything. But you weren’t in your room. Someone was out here with a torch.’

  She sighs. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up. I know how frightened you’ve been. I heard a noise too, so I went down to investigate. It was my torch you saw.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone outside on your own. What if something happened? Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘Like I said earlier, I’m not easily frightened. Living alone in an isolated hill dwelling in Spain is a lot more dangerous than this, believe me. Where I lived was pretty remote, no Wi-Fi or phone signal. At least here you’ve got the emergency services a phone call away, even if they don’t hit the
ir seven-minute target or whatever the latest ridiculous government guideline is.’

  ‘But I locked the back door.’

  ‘Lucky I had my key on me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  Alice shakes her head. ‘What kind of noise did you hear?’

  ‘A dragging sound.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She gets to her feet.

  ‘It was probably a fox. I’ll check properly in the morning. The plants I brought home from the nursery yesterday are still outside the shed. They’re worth quite a bit of money. Anyway, you look shattered. You should rest that foot.’

  My phone screen shows it’s just gone four. ‘But the kitchen floor…’

  Alice takes my arm and helps me out of the chair, ‘Forget it, I’ll sort it before I go to bed. I’m wide awake now.’

  * * *

  Back in my room I get into bed and pull the duvet around me. A sharp pain throbs through my foot. Thuds from downstairs as Alice moves about reassure me but after a while the stairs creak and her bedroom door closes. The wind has picked up outside and I can’t get warm, my hands are icy. I picture Lady, stiff and cold outside. Did she suffer? Did somebody deliberately hurt her? Was it the other woman? The garden rustling becomes a whispering in my head and I bolt out of the room and hammer on Alice’s door. She pulls it open and my whole body trembles.

  ‘I can’t bear to be alone, can I sleep in your room?’

  Alice closes the door behind me and wraps me in an old-fashioned knitted blanket.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ I ask through chattering teeth.