Too Close
Page 1
Hilary Norman and The Murder Room
››› This title is part of The Murder Room, our series dedicated to making available out-of-print or hard-to-find titles by classic crime writers.
Crime fiction has always held up a mirror to society. The Victorians were fascinated by sensational murder and the emerging science of detection; now we are obsessed with the forensic detail of violent death. And no other genre has so captivated and enthralled readers.
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The Murder Room
Where Criminal Minds Meet
themurderroom.com
Too Close
Hilary Norman
Contents
Cover
The Murder Room Introduction
Title page
Preface
1976
1996
FEBRUARY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
MARCH
Chapter Three
APRIL
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
MAY
Chapter Fourteen
JUNE
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
JULY
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
AUGUST
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
SEPTEMBER
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
OCTOBER
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
NOVEMBER
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred-one
Chapter One Hundred-two
DECEMBER
Chapter One Hundred-three
Chapter One Hundred-four
Chapter One Hundred-five
Chapter One Hundred-six
Chapter One Hundred-seven
Chapter One Hundred-eight
Chapter One Hundred-nine
Outro
By Hilary Norman
Dedication
Acknowledgements
About the author
Copyright page
There are good neighbours, indifferent neighbours, lousy neighbours. And then there are neighbours from hell. There are only two ways to escape from the last kind. You die, or you move house. Occasionally, you get lucky and they leave first. Mostly it’s you who has to go through all the upheaval and the expense, but it’s worth it, you figure. Almost anything’s worth that moment when you wave goodbye and leave those sons-of-bitches behind.
Unless, of course, they don’t want you to go. Unless, of course, they know where you’re going. Unless, of course, they follow you there. And every other place you ever try to move to.
And then you really know what trouble is.
She’s dreaming the dream again.
Same every night.
She tries to fight sleep to evade it, but it always gets her in the end.
Every night.
He is drowning.
Same as he does every time.
He’s done what he always does: jumped into the forbidden water to save her from the pond weed that’s tangling around her ankles, pulling her under, choking her, making her panic, making her scream. But Eric is there – she knows he’s going to be there for her. Her big brother’s always there for her, ready to get her out of trouble, ready to save her.
Only this time, he’s the one getting into trouble. Because she’s pulling him down, she’s still panicking, and he’s all there is – all she has – to hold on to. And she can’t breathe, she has to get her head clear, out into the air, and he’s bigger and stronger than she is – he can hold on for longer than she can. Can’t he?
Can’t he?
Her face is clear of the water now and suddenly she can breathe again – oh, it feels so good to breathe. Her hands get a grip on the bank, her fingers claw crazily into the dirt, her arms – the muscles shrieking with pain – lever her up out of the water and onto the cool grass.
She flops down for a moment, getting her breath back, then she sits up and turns around.
Eric, I’m okay.
Eric, you can come up now.
In the dream, he always comes up, one last time.
Looking at her with his gentle, brown eyes.
Not accusing, at all. Just sad and kind and patient.
Tell them it was my fault, Holly, the way we always d
o.
He’s speaking to her real breathless and fast, as if he knows these are going to be his final words to her.
Let me be good old Eric-the-fall-guy one last time, the way you always want me to be, the way you love it. Tell them I jumped in first and you told me not to and I wouldn’t listen and you came in after me and tried to help me. It’ll be easier for you that way. You know I’ve always tried to make things easier for you, Holly.
And then he goes under again. First his face, then the top of his head, disappearing beneath the surface.
Eric, you can come up now.
Eric, don’t leave me.
Eric, I need you!
And she hears the sounds again.
The bubbles of air that come out of his mouth while he’s struggling to breathe. The sound the water makes when it closes over his head that final time.
The first clump of earth hitting his coffin.
Her father weeping.
Her mother screaming.
And then the silence.
1976
For every waking minute of the eight months after her big brother Eric was drowned in the pond in the woods behind Leyland Avenue, seven-year-old Holly Bourne was in the dark. In the silence.
She went on with her daily life in Bethesda, Maryland, was compliant with her parents and her schoolteachers, but even on the hottest, most brilliant days that summer, neither the sunlight nor the cheerful outdoor sounds of other children playing ever seemed to penetrate Holly’s heart.
She knew what was going on. She noticed things. The way her daddy fretted about her, the way he looked at her, his grey eyes (so exactly like her own, everyone always said) watching her anxiously. The way he glanced sidelong at her mother, as if he were hoping that she, too, was feeling for their little girl. But Holly knew that her mother no longer felt anything much for her daughter, except perhaps hate. In front of other people – Holly’s teachers, other parents, their friends – her mother often said that she was proud of Holly, but Holly knew she didn’t really mean it. Mother never talked about Eric’s death, had never actually come right out and said that she blamed Holly for what had happened, but Holly knew that she did. Which was okay, as much as anything was okay now, because though she’d done what Eric had told her to in her dream – though she’d explained that it had all been his fault – Holly knew the real truth.
Everything important and good had been buried with Eric. All the laughter and the joy. All the scrapes they’d got into together. Big brother and little sister. Eric had always been so kind to her, so patient and giving – everything that a young girl could dream of in an older brother. Always stepping in to get her out of whichever jam she’d managed to get herself into. Like the time she’d thrown a stone through old Mrs Herbert-down-the-street’s bedroom window, and Eric had taken the blame. Or the time she’d slipped a packet of M&Ms into his coat pocket inside Van Zandt’s Drugstore, and Eric had accepted the tongue-lashing and the threats of prosecution, and had not given her away. Or the time Holly had slit holes into Mary Kennedy’s bicycle wheels with a penknife, and when Mary had accused her, Eric had sworn that she’d been someplace with him.
Or the time she’d stolen a five-dollar bill from their mother’s wallet. Eric had really been mad at her that time, had sat her down and given her a real talking-to, had sworn that if he ever caught her stealing again he’d make sure she took the consequences. But then, after she’d pleaded with him a little, he had covered for her as always, had told their mother that he’d borrowed the cash to pay for a new pencil box because he’d lost his, and he was going to pay her back as soon as he could make up the money from extra chores. And their mother had believed him and had hardly punished him at all, because Eric was her favourite, and Holly didn’t blame her for that because she figured that Eric would be anyone’s favourite in any family.
It was all over now. Eric was dead and so Holly was being good, because there was simply no point in being bad any more. There was no fun, no thrill to be had from breaking rules or taking risks without Eric there to share it with or to shock. Without Eric there to prove to Holly, over and over again, how much he loved her, by getting her out of trouble. So Holly was being good. Which, she thought, was probably much the same as being dead.
Nobody talked about Eric any more. Nobody even mentioned his name if it could be avoided, but inside Holly’s head it rolled around and around like a hot, smooth marble. For a long time it hurt, a heavy, burning ache, but then she got used to the pain, and at least it stopped her from thinking too much, stopped her from caring as much, which was welcome. Holly didn’t care about anything much any more. She didn’t seem to feel anything much at all either – except the time she got her finger trapped in the window in her bedroom, and that hurt pretty badly for a while. But then that got easier, too, and before long there was nothing left of the pain, and her finger grew as numb as her mind.
Until September 22nd. It was a Wednesday, and it was afternoon. Three-twenty, to be exact. Holly remembered the time, because the instant she saw him, she realized it was a red-letter moment, and turned her head to look at the clock on her wall.
She was sitting on the window seat in her bedroom looking out of the window (the same window that had slammed down on her finger and made her see stars for a while) when the State-to-State removal truck came to a halt outside the house next door. The dark blue Chevrolet with two grown-ups in the front slid up smoothly behind the truck, and the boy got out from the back.
He was tall and slim and his brown hair was tousled, and from her vantage point Holly could see his face as he gazed at the house that was about to become his home, and there was such a look of excitement in his expression that she could almost feel it herself. And it seemed to her the first thing – apart from her finger – that she had truly, actually felt, in a long, long time.
Suddenly the boy looked up and saw her at the window up on the second floor of her house, and Holly didn’t know what she looked like to him, wasn’t even sure if she smiled down at him or not. But his mouth curved upwards at both ends, and his brown eyes seemed to spark at her, and no one had smiled at her that way since Eric had disappeared for the last time under the murky waters of the pond.
That was the precise moment when the darkness went away, and when Holly realized that this boy had been sent to Bethesda, to that house, by a higher power.
Had been sent to her – for her – to replace Eric.
His name was Nick Miller, she would learn later that day, and he was just looking: at his new house and at the little girl at the window who he supposed was going to be his next-door-neighbour. But for Holly Bourne, not yet eight years old and dragged out of the darkness with all the suddenness and power of a Metroliner emerging from a black tunnel, everything was sealed for ever at that first moment.
Nick Miller had come to change Holly’s life.
He belonged to her.
1996
FEBRUARY
Chapter One
‘I heard from Eleanor Bourne the other week,’ – Kate Miller said to her son, Nick, seizing a moment alone with him in the kitchen of his and his wife Nina’s San Francisco house – ‘that Holly’s doing so well at her law firm in New York, they’re pretty sure she’s going to be offered a partnership.’
‘Good for Holly.’ Nick’s brown eyes flickered, but his hands, carving a pineapple on a stone-topped counter, stayed completely steady. ‘Even better for me.’
‘Why say that?’ Kate asked.
‘Because success for Holly in New York means she’s more likely to stay thousands of miles away from me.’
‘Oh, honey, come on.’ Kate laughed at him. ‘It’s been years.’
‘I know it has.’ Nick carved the final slice, set it with the mangos, strawberries and cherries on the big pottery fruit platter, and went to rinse his hands under the cold tap.
‘You shouldn’t hold grudges,’ Kate said.
‘Why not?’ He felt his jaw clench, told himself to relax
, reminded himself that having his and Nina’s family under their roof was meant to be a joy in itself – particularly as they had all travelled to be with them today to celebrate the much greater joy of the end of the first trimester of Nina’s first pregnancy.
‘It’s unhealthy,’ Kate said.
‘Not as unhealthy as living in the same town as Holly Bourne.’
‘What’s the matter with Holly Bourne?’
Nina Ford Miller, Nick’s British-born wife, entered the kitchen carrying a tray of empty glasses, followed by Phoebe, her sister, and their father, William Ford. Kate’s colour heightened a touch.
‘Nothing much,’ Nick answered lightly. ‘My mother was just telling me how well Holly’s doing in New York, and I said that was good because I like knowing Holly’s as far away as possible.’
Ethan Miller came slowly in from the living room, looking at a folded copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. ‘What about Holly?’ he asked absently.
‘Just what Eleanor told us last week,’ Kate said.
‘Oh, that,’ Ethan said, sitting down at the big Mexican pine table and going on with his reading.
‘Ice cream, everyone?’ Nina asked, slipping an arm around Nick’s waist. ‘We have at least eight flavours and cheesecake.’
‘One of the bonuses of pregnancy.’ Nick said.
He kissed his wife’s hair and felt his tension melting away. Nina’s hair was long and honey-coloured and she thought it her best feature, though Nick thought her eyes, legs and nose came close.
‘Whatever Nina craves,’ he explained, ‘I get to share.’
‘Lucky for you it’s ice cream, not coal,’ Phoebe commented. ‘What did Eleanor tell you last week, Kate?’
‘It wasn’t important,’ Kate said.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Nick agreed, opening the freezer and taking out an armful of Häagen Dazs tubs.
‘Who is this Holly Bourne?’ William Ford asked, a touch irritably.
‘Just a woman Nick used to know,’ Phoebe said.
‘Is it absolutely necessary for us to be talking about Nick’s old girlfriends when we’re here to celebrate Nina’s pregnancy?’ Ford’s English voice, which still sometimes snapped of his years in the RAF, was only a few degrees warmer than the Cookies ’n Cream.