The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘So much better. I can’t thank you enough, you were a lifesaver.’ Rose stood back and waved Diane in. ‘Won’t you come in for a cuppa?’ she said.

  It would have been wonderful to see inside the house, and to sit and chat, but Diane was suddenly embarrassed at the request she was about to make, feeling a little guilty that she had a motive behind helping this pleasant, friendly lady out. ‘Perhaps another time?’ she smiled. ‘You have a beautiful home, I’d love to see the interior.’ Nervously, she flicked her hair behind her ears. ‘Actually, something has come up, and I was wondering if you could collect and take Emma for a few hours tomorrow? I know it’s a massive favour.’

  If Rose was taken aback at the quick request to return the favour, she was too polite to say so, but her voice was noticeably cooler when she replied. ‘Oh! Well, yes, of course.’

  ‘Great, thank you so much,’ Diane said, feeling a slight blush rising in her cheeks. ‘I’ll just get Tommy’s car seat and, in the morning, I’ll give you Emma’s.’ She felt she should make some attempt to restore good feeling. ‘When I pick her up tomorrow,’ she said, ‘perhaps we could have the cuppa then?’

  Rose’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Unfortunately, that won’t be possible,’ she said. ‘If you could make sure you’re here by,’ she looked at her watch pointedly, ‘four thirty-five. I’ve got an appointment to go to with Tommy that we can’t miss.’

  Diane gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, and then added, ‘It’s something very important, I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’

  Rose said nothing. Diane guessed she’d never get to see inside the house and Tommy wouldn’t be coming for a second play date. Feeling a little dejected, she retrieved the car seat and handed it to her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, receiving just a slight nod in return.

  Emma, unfortunately, had followed Tommy into the house and Rose had to go looking for her, leaving Diane waiting awkwardly on the doorstep. Moments later, she came back with both in tow, the two children still chatting happily to each other.

  ‘They get on so well,’ Diane said, a note of regret in her voice for the way things were turning out. If only she’d been honest with Rose from the very beginning, they might have been friends. But from the look on her face, she knew she wouldn’t get a second chance to make that good first impression. With a sigh, she took Emma’s hand. ‘I’ll see you in the morning then,’ she said, turning away and hurrying back to the car.

  * * *

  That evening, Emma told Paul about Tommy’s visit. He smiled at her and raised an eyebrow at Diane. ‘Oh, who’s this lad then?’

  ‘Just a boy in her class,’ Diane said making light of it. ‘His mother wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could take him for a few hours.’ Fudging the truth. ‘He and Emma get along well, so I thought there was no harm. They live in a fabulous house, one of those along Kingston Hill,’ she explained, ‘the ones behind those high walls. Beautiful house, Edwardian.’

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, pursing his lips, obviously a little impressed that his daughter was already mixing in the right circles.

  ‘Actually,’ Diane continued, consciously trying to keep her voice calm, ‘she insisted that she return the favour and Emma is going there for a couple of hours after nursery tomorrow.’

  ‘So soon?’ Paul asked, unconsciously echoing Rose Metcalf’s unsaid words.

  ‘I know,’ Diane said, not meeting his eyes, ‘but she insisted, and I didn’t like to say no.’

  ‘I suppose it won’t do her any harm,’ he said, finishing his meal and pushing his plate away. ‘Kingston Hill is very nice.’

  There was nothing more said about it. He took Emma up to bed after the news and, once again, didn’t return. For once, Diane was relieved. She’d called into the supermarket on the way home and bought a bottle of white wine, swapping it for the water-filled one in the fridge. With Paul gone, she opened it, filled a glass almost to the top and sat into the sofa, balancing it carefully. Switching off the TV, she took a long drink and sat back. Tomorrow, she would follow the woman, find out who she was, and put an end to whatever was going on. Feeling positive, she finished the wine and let her head flop back on the sofa. Then she heard it.

  A baby’s cry.

  She sat up. The room was in semi-darkness, just one lamp to toss shadows into the corners. It was so quiet. Had she imagined the sound again? Then it came once more, a piteous wail that sent shivers down her spine.

  When it stopped, she stood and switched on the main lights and waited for it to come again.

  After twenty minutes of standing absolutely still, the only thing she heard was the creak of floorboards as Paul moved about overhead. She switched off the lights and tilted her head to listen again, but now there was just the deep silence of night. Dragging herself up the stairs on leaden feet, she felt fear gnawing at her grasp on sanity.

  Ten

  Once again, she took two sleeping tablets and, with her side still aching, two strong painkillers too but it still took a long time before she fell asleep as she lay rigid, listening out for another cry. She’d checked Emma several times, standing beside her bed, watching her closely to see if, in her sleep, she cried out for her. But she slept soundly.

  It was after one before she took the pills, and nearly two before she fell asleep, so when the alarm sounded at eight, she woke from the deep, medicated sleep with a jolt. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, lifting a hand to her head and holding it there as she swung her feet slowly to the floor. It felt like someone was trying to poke her eyes out from the inside.

  A shower would wake her up, but she didn’t think she could cope with the noise. She ran a cold flannel over her face instead. It didn’t help. A look in the mirror told her that make-up wasn’t going to save the day this time either. She’d have to plead insomnia and hope it would account for the grey tinge to her skin, the tiny pinpricks of blood in the whites of her eyes, and the dark circles underneath that no concealer could hope to hide.

  Pulling on navy jeggings and a pale blue jumper, she slipped bare feet into a pair of old pumps and went to wake Emma.

  ‘You’re not looking too well,’ Paul said by way of greeting when she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘I didn’t sleep well,’ she said. It wasn’t a complete lie. She settled Emma with her breakfast before making some extra-strong coffee. It might help, it certainly couldn’t make her feel any worse.

  ‘Would you like me to take Emma to nursery?’ he asked, finishing his cereal and dropping the bowl into the sink.

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ she said, with a grateful smile. ‘I’ll drop her off, then come back and go back to bed for a couple of hours.’

  It was what she should do. She tried to conjure up some enthusiasm for the plan that had seemed such a good idea yesterday. Seriously, what on earth did she think she was going to achieve by following the woman? To find out if she were real. Wasn’t that the reason?

  When Paul left, she made more coffee and took two regular painkillers to combat the ache in her ribs but, more importantly, the thumping headache that was preventing her from making sense even to herself.

  Whether it was the coffee or painkillers, or possibly a combination of both, fifteen minutes later she felt a little better and with it came a renewal of her determination. Of course, she’d go ahead with her plan. She wasn’t hallucinating, there had to be a reason that this woman was following her and she intended to find out what it was.

  ‘Come on, Emma,’ she said, bundling the child into her coat, grabbing her bag and hustling her out the door. ‘Don’t forget you’re going to go to Tommy’s house to play today. His mother will pick you up after school, okay?’

  Diane didn’t listen to her reply because she’d just realised there was a flaw in her plan. There were strict rules about collecting the children. Only a nominated person could, and, in Emma’s case, that meant her or Paul. She could add Rose Metcalf to the list, of course, but she had to do it in person and it also had to be in writing.


  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ she muttered, switching off the engine and jumping out of the car. ‘Be back in one second,’ she called to Emma as she dashed back into the house. She needed paper and a pen. In the hall table drawer there were plenty of pens but no paper. Pen in hand, she dashed upstairs. She’d take some paper from Paul’s printer, she decided, reaching for the door handle. She twisted and pushed, coming up against the door with an audible oomph. Puzzled, she twisted the knob again. The door was locked.

  Confused, she tried to remember if she’d tried the door recently but couldn’t. He didn’t like his stuff being disturbed so she didn’t clean the room and had no reason to go inside unless he was there. But she was sure he never locked it before. But then again, her memory was not something she could rely on over the last year. Maybe he’d always locked it? He did bring work home, maybe it was for security. Brushing the thought aside, she hurried to Emma’s room, found a pink notepad and tore a page from it. It would have to do.

  Back in the car, she groaned when she saw the time. She was going to have to get a move on. Normally a slow, careful driver who always stayed within the speed limit, today she edged over it for the ten-minute drive. She felt more alive than she had in a while. Taking control had become more important in her increasingly shaky life.

  Diane approached the entrance to the school. Despite her speed, she was still a couple of minutes late and she could see Rose Metcalf standing by her car.

  She parked and rushed over, leaving Emma still strapped in her seat. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll have the seat out in a jiffy,’ she said and rushed back to her car, opening the seatbelt to let Emma slide out and then disconnecting the straps that held the seat in place and rushing back, holding the child by one hand and the light but awkwardly shaped seat in the other.

  Rose watched as Diane fumbled to connect the straps to the back seat of her car.

  ‘Okay,’ Diane said, standing back at last.

  Rose gave a thin smile and turned to get into the driver’s seat. ‘Four thirty-five, okay? Don’t be late,’ she said, shutting her door without waiting for an answer. Diane barely had time to step away before the car reversed past her.

  She hadn’t realised her grip on Emma’s hand had tightened until the girl squealed. ‘Mummy, you’re hurting me!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, and squatted down to access the damage, planting a series of kisses on the chubby hand. ‘Better?’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘We’d better hurry inside,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘I just need to get something from the car first.’

  Grabbing the paper and pen, she shoved them into her pocket and rushed Emma into the nursery. The reception area was empty apart from a receptionist sitting behind a curved desk. She wore a forbidding look on her face that increased as Diane rushed forward. ‘I’m so sorry, I got delayed. Diane Andrews,’ she said, and then tugged Emma forward, ‘Emma, my daughter.’

  The receptionist, a large name badge on her right breast proclaiming her name to be Debbie, looked at the computer screen, clicked a few keys and then looked back up to Diane with a smile that completely transformed her face. ‘Miss Rogers’ class,’ she said, ‘they’ve only just gone through.’ She stood and pointed down the corridor. ‘If you go down to the third door on the right, that’s her room.’

  Diane smiled gratefully, feeling tears gather at the unexpected kindness in the woman’s voice and, without a word, took Emma to her class. Miss Rogers was equally pleasant, brushing off her apologies with a smile, and reaching for the child’s hand to draw her inside.

  Back at the reception desk, she withdrew the now crumpled sheet of pink paper and laid it on the desk to write out the permission slip for Rose Metcalf to pick up Emma after school. ‘It’ll probably only be a one-off,’ she said, smoothing the sheet out and quickly writing out the permission slip before handing it across the desk. ‘Sorry about the paper,’ she said, with a rueful smile.

  Debbie took it and read it as if pink lined paper was perfectly normal and acceptable. ‘That’s fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘I’ll scan it into your file. It is valid for today only,’ she said, with a return to her more forbidding expression, ‘if you need Emma to be picked up by Mrs Metcalf again, it will require another permission slip.’

  Only when Diane nodded her understanding, did the receptionist’s face resume its friendlier demeanour.

  Outside the school, she looked around before leaving the school grounds. The woman had stood directly across the road, so she needed to find somewhere she could stand unobserved to watch her. The problem was, she had no idea which direction the woman came from or which way she went. She appeared and disappeared, as if by magic. Diane had seen magicians at work; it was the art of illusion, dependent on the gullibility of the customer and on the ability of the magician to distract them from what was really happening. She had been distracted by children, cars and anxiety. Today, she’d be ready.

  There was a house to the right of the school with a large garden, surrounded by a high brick wall. Just past it lay a row of shops. Diane was in luck. Between the garden wall and the shops there was an alleyway that she guessed was used for deliveries to the various shops.

  She ducked inside it and peered out. The view to the path opposite the school was clear. Double yellow lines between the shops and the school meant it would stay that way. It was the perfect spot. She took it as a good omen.

  Wandering back to her car, she considered what might happen. She’d get in position by about twelve thirty, in case she came early. This was going to be her only opportunity. Sitting into the driver’s seat, she rested her hands on the steering wheel and chewed her lower lip as she thought. The woman might walk to a car. In that case, she needed to have pen and paper in her pocket so she could write down the registration number. She might walk to public transport. That would be better, she could follow her. The third possibility was that the woman could walk home. This was the option Diane was hoping for.

  She switched on the engine and made the journey home.

  The coat she’d worn that morning was too thin for standing in damp, shaded places. She swopped it for a warmer jacket with a hood. Putting it on, she pulled the hood up and looked at her reflection in the hall mirror. She grinned as she pulled the hood down, the thought crossing her mind that she was enjoying herself. Doing something rather than sitting back and accepting the status quo. It felt good.

  Before she took the jacket off, she got a pen, another page from the pad in Emma’s room, checked her purse to make sure she’d money and stuffed everything into the jacket’s zipped pocket, closing it with a pat of satisfaction. She was ready.

  Leaving the jacket thrown over the newel post, she went into the kitchen, made some coffee and listened to the radio, one eye watching the minute hand of the clock. She’d have had more coffee but she was jittery enough as it was.

  The plan was to park her car in a nearby supermarket car park, ten minutes’ walk from the nursery. There was no sign to say parking was limited, so it was probably safe to leave it there for as long as it took. Anyway, she had to be back to collect Emma no later than four thirty-five.

  Finally, it was time to go. She drove to the supermarket, parked and, ten minutes later, approached the row of shops, glancing into them as she passed. The first was a butcher’s, and beside it a busy newsagent. There were only four parking spaces outside and as soon as a car pulled away, another took its place.

  Diane checked her watch. Twelve twenty-nine. With a final glance towards the empty nursery car park, she stepped into the alleyway. Positioned as it was between the high garden wall and the side of the shop, it was cold and damp and she regretted immediately that she hadn’t worn gloves. She pulled up her hood, shoved her hands into her pockets and concentrated on the spot across the road from the school where the woman had stood.

  There was five more minutes of calm before cars started pulling into the car park and she moved closer to the edge of the wall, her eyes
narrowing to focus on that spot only a few hundred feet away. Rose Metcalf’s blue Focus pulled in at exactly twelve fifty-five.

  From where she stood, Diane couldn’t see the children coming out of the nursery. She hoped Emma would remember she wasn’t going to be there, hoped too that she hadn’t made a huge mistake leaving her with a stranger. She shook the idea away; Rose was a good mother, you only had to see Tommy to know that. She’d be good with Emma.

  Stupidly, she’d been focused on the nursery and when she looked back across the street she gasped. The woman was there. Where had she come from? She’d only taken her eyes off the spot for a few seconds. Diane rested a hand on the cold, damp garden wall and kept her eyes fixed on the woman, barely blinking in case, in that nanosecond when her eyes were shut, she disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared.

  She wasn’t wearing her navy coat this time. Instead, she was wearing a pale green puffa jacket and dark trousers. It was the first time since the charity shop that she was able to observe her. Nice-looking, she decided, but nothing out of the ordinary. Her sleek bob was, in fact, her best feature.

  As the crowds of parents and their cars dispersed, she saw her look at her watch and then up and down the road, but it wasn’t until every car had gone that she turned on her heel and started to walk away. Diane waited a few beats and then stepped out of the alleyway and crossed the road to follow her, adjusting her pace to match hers, keeping her hood pulled up.

  Apart from the nursery, the area wasn’t one she knew. She followed as the woman walked steadily, crossing roads, turning corners, never looking back. Once, at a pedestrian crossing, Diane had to stop and wait and then dash forward to cross before the lights changed.

  After thirty-five minutes, just when she thought she was going to walk forever, the woman stopped outside a house. She opened the gate and walked up a short drive to a front door. Diane hung back and watched as the woman vanished inside and then waited a few minutes before walking past, her eyes scanning the house to see if there was anything to see. A house, not a block of apartments. It was just what she’d hoped for, she couldn’t believe her luck. She took note of the house number and then walked to the end of the street to read the street name. Bridgemead Street. Pulling the pen and notebook from her pocket, she scrawled it down and put it away.