Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  Title Page

  NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH

  by

  Lex Sinclair

  Publisher Information

  This edition published in 2013 by

  Acorn Books

  www.acornbooks.co.uk

  Converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  First published in 2010

  Copyright © 2010, 2013 Lex Sinclair

  The right of Lex Sinclair to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Part One

  “Dear friends, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God...”

  1 John 4:1-6 (V.1)

  Prologue

  Cathy Sheldon sat bolt-upright in her bed, awoken by a noise downstairs that sounded very much like the front door being opened then closed again. She squinted through the fog of darkness at her alarm clock, which told it her it was a couple of minutes past two o’clock. It was madness to even consider the front door being opened and closed. If that was true then Paul would have heard it also, and would be wide awake. But he wasn’t, he was fast asleep, sprawled out on his side of the bed. True, he was a deep sleeper, but then so was Cathy. The thud of the door closing would’ve woken anyone, whether they slept deeply or not.

  She must have imagined it, Cathy told herself. Although, she was still reluctant to settle down again and rest her head on her pillows, doubting herself. She’d feel a lot better if she went downstairs herself, checked the door was in fact locked. Then she could get back to sleep with a clear conscious, knowing that it had been her wild imagination, after all, and nothing more. Yet she remained where she was, unmoving, in her bedroom, staring through the darkness at the door, listening intently for the sound of footfalls climbing the staircase to where she and Paul were, vulnerable without any forewarning of an intruder’s sudden appearance.

  Cathy wasn’t sure about how to proceed. She was too frightened to go back to sleep, and yet she was too frightened to go downstairs. But staying motionless, listening to the alarm clock ticking incessantly wasn’t going to help matters; all it did was prolong the anxiety.

  Before last week, Cathy would never have thought it possible that a burglar or an intruder would ever try to break into their house on their quiet cul-de-sac street called

  Thorburn Close, but ever since her neighbour, Julie Thomas, who lived at number twelve, just a couple of houses up had disappeared, without trace or forewarning that she was going away for a while, Cathy no longer felt her cosy street was as comfortable and secure as she did in all the years she and her husband Paul had resided there.

  Now, it was possible for an intruder to break into her beautiful home, while she and Paul were in bed in the middle of the night, where most decent folks were, unless they had to work a night shift.

  Cathy nudged Paul in his ribs with her elbow, not once taking her eyes - which had slowly adjusted to the darkness - off the door, in case it edged open without her noticing. Paul grunted something incoherent, but it was clear that he wasn’t awake. Cathy nudged him again, harder, two consecutive times, causing Paul to grunt once more and roll over on his other side facing away from his wife.

  Running out of patience, Cathy reached her right hand under the quilt, under her husband’s Simpson’s T-shirt, and pinched the skin on his back between two of her manicured fingernails.

  ‘Argh!’ Paul sat up, wincing and caressing the area where he’d been deliberately pinched, checking to feel if he was bleeding. He saw the distinct silhouette of his wife sitting upright in bed, not looking at him, but staring at the bedroom door. ‘What the hell did you pinch me for?’ he croaked, his voice still weary from having his sleep disturbed.

  Cathy didn’t answer him at first; she was transfixed with the bedroom door and what might be beyond it.

  ‘Cathy!’ Paul hissed.

  She briefly glanced at him, and then said, ‘Sorry if I hurt you.’

  ‘What did you pinch me for?’ he asked for the second time.

  She leaned closer to him and said as quietly as she could, still reluctant to remove her gaze from the bedroom door, ‘I think there’s someone in the house.’

  Paul’s heart stopped, momentarily. He forgot all about the sharp, stinging pain that had gone through him from being pinched by his wife; instead the entire room enveloped him in a darkness that was far more ominous than the night.

  ‘What do you mean - “there’s someone in the house?” That’s impossible! I locked both the front and back door and put the keys in the bowl on the worktop.’

  ‘I think I heard the front door opening and then closing again,’ Cathy said.

  ‘What do you mean - you think? You either heard the front door closing or you didn’t?’

  ‘I’m not sure!’ she cried. ‘I was asleep, same as you, when I was awoken by the sounds I just described.’

  Paul was wide awake now. ‘It was more than likely John coming home from town, closing his door.’ John lived next door and was prone to staggering home at least once a week, pissed out of his skull. How he managed to actually get home by walking from the town centre without falling down in a culvert or getting mowed down by a speeding car was quite amazing.

  Cathy breathed a sigh of relief. That explanation sounded plausible. And, anyway, like her husband said, how could anyone get in? Both entrances were locked, and she hadn’t heard the double-pane glass breaking. Moreover, one of their neighbours would have spotted an intruder lurking about in the hedgerows and shrubs surrounding the front and back yards of each and every home on the street.

  She let herself lie down again, feeling better now that she’d got Paul to reassure her it was just her imagination playing a cruel trick on her, especially after their close friend and neighbour, Julie Thomas, had gone missing a few weeks ago and had her face printed on a missing poster put up on lampposts and tree trunks all around the suburbs in case anyone spotted her.

  However, thinking about Julie brought the worry to the surface again, like a tidal wave. According to the rumours around the neighbourhood, no one had seen or heard from Julie. Not a friend or family member. And that was unlike Julie because she was very close to her mother and father, and her younger brother. She always told someone where she was headed, even if it was into town just to run some errands or to do her weekly shopping at one of the big name superstores.

  There’s an explanation for that, too, Cathy told herself.

  Paul shifted on his side of the bed, looking at his wife, knowing she was still awake, contemplating all kinds of different scenarios in her mind. He knew this, because he was doing the same. ‘You’re thinking about what happened to Julie, aren’t you?’ he said.

  Cathy didn’t even bother to conceal her thoughts tonight. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She’ll turn up, sooner or later, apologising to everyone for worrying them. Now you think someone’s gonna come in here and take you away, too, isn’t it?’

  ‘I kn
ow how it sounds. But it’s possible.’

  ‘Your concerns for Julie are making you paranoid. No one’s gonna get you, anyway, ‘cause I’m here, right?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s just I remember Arthur saying that he saw Julie’s front door standing wide open, and when he went inside, after calling her name over and over again, she wasn’t anywhere close by, nor had she packed her suitcases, or any of her other belongings. Even the police think there’s something unpleasant about her disappearance.’

  Paul knew it was true. He was good friends with some of the local policemen.

  ‘Would it make you feel any better if I went downstairs and checked the doors?’

  ‘I know you must think I’m going crazy - but I just can’t switch off not knowing for sure.’

  Paul rested his hand atop her shoulder. ‘You’re not crazy. You’re just thinking that if Julie was kidnapped from her home then the same thing could happen to you. That’s not crazy, as such. But these are two separate situations. Julie was either taken or she left abruptly of her own accord. You think you heard the front door opening and closing. I can assure you that it didn’t. But if it’ll make you sleep, then I’ll go take a look.’

  Cathy stroked his hand resting on her shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

  Paul pulled back the covers, swung his legs from underneath and slid his feet into his slippers, padded across the room, glancing over his shoulder at his frightened wife, watching him, pleading with him to be careful. He thought she was overreacting, and up until he saw the hooded, faceless figures in the living room, awaiting his arrival, Paul hadn’t considered what he might do if there was an intruder in his home.

  The last thing he thought about before he was taken was that he’d never see Cathy ever again...

  1.

  Joe Camber slowed his Audi down, now that he reached the suburbs and was cresting the hilltop towards his new residence, gripping the steering wheel in a ferocious white- knuckled grip, gritting his teeth, thinking about his money-grabbing ex-wife, Jenna- Marie, getting half of his earnings, after a long, arduous divorce settlement that couldn’t have been any more unpleasant if it was done on purpose. The rotten bitch had even used the famous waterworks when speaking, gaining sympathy she didn’t deserve.

  In retrospect, he was also to blame. Joe had truly believed that he and Jenna were destined to be together for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, the woman he’d fallen in love with drastically changed into a nagging, interfering, control-freak, who treated him and spoke to him like last weeks rubbish pile.

  Nevertheless, that was all behind him now, he kept telling himself; otherwise he would only wind up hitting something or someone out of pent-up frustration at how that glutinous bitch managed to wrap him around her devil finger, extracting money out of him as though he were printing twenty-pound notes for a living.

  The resplendent sun dazzled him on his journey to his new home so much that he had to reach into the glove compartment, still driving, to fish out his sunglasses, even though it was only the middle of February.

  He hadn’t long driven past Thorburn Close, which appeared to be deserted. If Willet Close was half as picturesque and tranquil as that cul-de-sac, then Joe was on a winner. Perhaps his life would take a turn for the better. God knows, it couldn’t get any worse than the last couple of years. His marriage had been more painful and arduous than the majority of his world title fights with some of the greatest middleweight boxers of all time. No one he faced in the ring was as ruthless and cunning as Jenna-Marie. She hadn’t made him bleed, but boy, oh boy, had she scarred him and knocked him down on countless occasions.

  Furthermore, Joe knew she’d been sleeping around with other men behind his back when he was in his intense training routines that dragged on for months prior to fight night, when all his hard work would hopefully pay off. He couldn’t prove her infidelity with anything other than circumstantial evidence and good old-fashioned intuition, which was probably the reason she’d done so well in the divorce settlement.

  He kept telling himself it didn’t matter. But the little voice inside his head kept conjuring images of his ex-wife in their bed, or in a hotel (paid with his money, no doubt) jumping another fellow’s bones, who was laughing his arse off at how he got away with his dirty deed undetected.

  Joe sighed deeply. Then he focused on keeping an eye out for street signs that would tell him when to take a right turn. No matter how many times he had been to theses parts over the last couple of months, being shown around by the estate agent, he still had trouble finding Willet Close, because the other cul-de-sacs looked identical when passing them by.

  He killed the radio, cutting off Michael Jackson, singing about a man in the mirror, so he could concentrate.

  Not five minutes later, Joe smiled to himself when he spotted the sign reading Willet Close. He indicated for the next right turning, slowed the car down using the gear stick, and pulled over to the kerb seeing the house with a SOLD sticker on the peter alan signpost sticking out of the ground in the immaculately trimmed front lawn.

  He turned the engine off, retracted the keys from the ignition, grabbed his heavy cardboard box from the passenger seat, filled to the rim with his world titles, trophies, framed photographs and gloves, then slid out, mindful not to whack his head on the frame of the door and made his way to the front gate.

  As strong as he was, Joe was having some difficulty shifting the heavy cardboard box from one arm to the other, enabling him to open the gate so he could amble down the narrow footpath leading to the front door. Trying to lift the handle and push the gate open without dropping his possessions of a past long gone, but nevertheless proud of, was making him lose his temper, when a voice called out behind him, getting his immediate attention. ‘Hang on! I’ll give you a hand!’

  Joe pivoted, careful not to slip on the melting snow glued to the pavement, seeing a bespectacled aging gentleman with grey, receding hair, hobbling across the road, fighting not to be blown over by the sharp gust of wind sending ice-picks into the pores of his flushed cheeks.

  When the fellow with a limping gait grew closer, Joe noticed he had one lazy eye, looking at the empty road. He ignored the imperfection, realising that this man was a decent human being coming over to help him, regardless of the fact that they didn’t know each other, in the slightest.

  ‘Name’s Hugh Green,’ he said, proffering a shaky hand, and then realising what an asinine gesture that was, as Joe was struggling. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, opening the gate and then stepping aside so Joe could pass.

  ‘No problem,’ Joe said, grateful for his assistance.

  He put the cardboard box down on the welcome mat left by the previous owner on the doorstep. Then he reached out and clasped Hugh’s varicose veined, leathery hand in his own. ‘Name’s Joe -’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Hugh interrupted, evidently excited. ‘I’m a big fan of yours.’

  Joe raised his eyebrows, genuinely taken aback. ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve watched all your fights. Well, that’s a white lie - I’ve watched all your televised fights. You’re one of my favourite fighters of all time.’

  Joe smiled, slightly embarrassed, but also enjoying the unexpected admiration from this kind man.

  ‘Shame you lost that one fight, just because of your domestic troubles -’ Hugh stopped himself, going bright red, ashamed of what he’d just blurted out, afraid that Joe would take offence and knock him out. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Joe held up his hand in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture. ‘I know what you mean,’ Joe said. ‘The rematch was like watching two completely different fighters getting it on.’

  ‘You battered him senseless. They said in the papers that you hit him nearly eight hundred times - and those were the clean shots. That’s not including the ones hitting his gloves or not landing cleanly. His face looked
like he’d been run over by a steamroller at the end.’

  Joe nodded and smiled politely. Regaining his four middleweight world championship belts was one of the greatest rematches of all time, according to the boxing experts around the world.

  ‘I live across the street, at number two, in case you’re wondering who I am. I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were moving here. If you ever want to come over and watch one of your fights on DVD, you can. I got them all.’

  Joe thanked him for his generosity, adding that he would indeed do that once he got himself settled in. First he had to get through all his boxes and furniture that the rental moving van had dropped off yesterday and early this morning.

  ‘Well, it’s been great getting to finally meet you,’ Hugh declared. ‘I’ll see you later, perhaps. And don’t be hesitant if you want a hand lifting and handling furniture around.

  I may be getting on in age, but being a postman for forty-years sure has given me a lot more strength than my frail frame gives the impression of being.’

  Joe snorted laughter at Hugh’s quick, yet accurate, analysis of himself, watching the retired postman hobble across the deserted street back into his red-brick home, hoping that all of his neighbours were as friendly and affable as Hugh.

  ***

  Thorburn Close had been cordoned off for several weeks after the inexplicable disappearance of Paul and Cathy Sheldon.

  They had been the fifth and six abductees of the once quiet and peaceful neighbourhood that had rapidly become the most talked about local crime in recent history. The events that had apparently occurred in the quiet suburbs, where mostly decent people lived, were unheard of. Detective inspectors leading the investigation were utterly perplexed by the series of events that had unfolded, without a single lead to aid them discover the truth they so dearly sought.

  It was uncanny to think that all the residents of Thorburn Close would all take their leave without any notice or contact with their friends and loved ones, leaving their vacant homes unguarded and possessions behind, just taking themselves. Not even their cars were gone. It was as if they had quite literally been obliterated, without trace, from the face of the earth. The authorities only answer to prevent more innocent citizens of Thorburn Close being snatched from their homes and everyday lives, was to accommodate them in hotel suites in the town centre, where they knew they were, so they could be questioned and traced at any time, day or night.