The Housewarming: A completely unputdownable psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by S. E. Lynes

  In the evening, when the coast is clear of journalists, we order takeaway curry, to tempt ourselves. Most of it goes in the bin. We eat crisps, ice cream. We drink red wine to mute the world.

  Day two, stir crazy and in need of air, we head out super-early to avoid the journalists. In Bushy Park we sit on a bench in the gated, secluded water gardens, away from everyone and everything. The weather is still warm enough to sit out in sweaters and jeans. We take sandwiches.

  ‘We should eat,’ we say to one another.

  ‘Half each?’

  We make bargains. A glass of wine later if you eat half a round. We nibble at the corners. We drink coffee from a flask. We have not dared risk a local café.

  ‘You need to eat for Fred,’ Matt says.

  ‘Emotional blackmail is cheating,’ I reply, and the smile we share feels like a small miracle.

  We demolish a large bar of milk chocolate.

  In the early evening, Farnham returns to talk to us, pushing past the press without comment and stepping swiftly into our home. We make her a cup of tea without asking how she takes it and sit in the kitchen, on the high stools around the breakfast bar. She pauses, with that slow drama of hers.

  ‘We got the results from forensics,’ she begins. ‘From the paint.’

  I inhale. Matt straightens his back. The clock on the mantelpiece chimes a soft quarter past.

  ‘It was a dark orange colour,’ she says. ‘Like a burnt orange, you might say.’

  My head throbs. Heat fills me. Farnham asks if I’m all right.

  ‘Cayenne pepper,’ I half gasp.

  Farnham frowns. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Porsche Cayenne,’ I say, everything I have known falling backwards, rewinding, rejoining, like an explosion in reverse. ‘The Porsche Cayenne, like cayenne pepper. Johnnie Lovegood’s car.’

  Farnham nods, her expression quizzical. ‘Spot on. Lava orange is the shade officially. It’s compatible with Porsches manufactured between 2013 and 2019 – this year. You’ll find it on the 911, the Boxster.’ She lists them on her fingers. ‘The 718 Boxster, the 718 Cayman and the Cayenne.’

  Matt exhales heavily. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘We took the car in,’ she continues. ‘As well as your neighbour obviously. There was a small scratch on the front underside that had been patched up. A trawl through his bank statements established that he’d purchased a touch-up kit from an online retailer on the Tuesday following Abi’s death, so he wasn’t taking any chances. When faced with evidence of the paint, the scratch on his car, his bank statement, the injuries consistent with his vehicle, his own daughter putting them at the house at the same time Abi could have wandered out – well, you know all this – Mr Lovegood eventually confessed. Even then, he was keen to pin it on you guys, for leaving your front door open.’

  ‘I can’t take it in,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a lot, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Johnnie Lovegood killed her with his car,’ Matt says, almost to himself.

  ‘He killed her,’ Farnham says. ‘But not with his car.’

  Forty-Six

  Johnnie

  Jasmine is fussing – something to do with her shoes. Johnnie feels his blood pressure rising, the blunt stab of pain in his oesophagus.

  ‘I’ll bring the car out,’ he says, leaving Jen to it. She’s better at handling that sort of thing. And they’re late – well, they’re going to be late if Jasmine doesn’t calm down – and he has a client in Sunbury at ten for whom he hasn’t yet completed the drawings. It’s going to require some smooth talking and sleight of hand; the Armani jacket should do it.

  In the bathroom he pops two omeprazole, then dips his head and glugs water from the tap. A quick glance in the mirror. You’ll be fine, Johnnie Boy; you’ll be fine. You work better off the cuff. Downstairs, a soft clank from the utility tells him Neil’s here bright and early as usual. But he doesn’t have time to catch up with him now. The RSJs are in – that’s the most stressful part over. And after the embarrassing fuck-up with the measurements on Friday, the rather unpleasant argument that followed, Johnnie prefers to avoid him if he can.

  He heads out and clicks on the remote. The garage door lifts. A little before eight and the street is quiet. He jumps into the Cayenne, starts the engine. The DAB blasts into life, the surround sound wrapping itself around him. Radio 6 Music. A grime artist, he thinks, turning it up. The name is on the tip of his tongue, but it’ll come up on the digital reader in a second. He checks his hair in the rear-view and pushes it back, pulls one curl forward and runs his tongue over his teeth. Wonders about tooth-whitening toothpaste, whether he should tell Jen to put some on the Ocado order. He pulls forward, watching the display for the name of the artist. He can drop it into conversation later in front of the young graphic designer who shares the office space; he can casually—

  A bump. He stops, but another second, two, passes before he takes it in.

  He jumps out onto the driveway. Sees a little red ankle boot. A moment later, he is standing over the body of next door’s child.

  ‘Fuck.’ He scans the road. There is no one. No one. He scoops her up. Reaches down once again. Grabs the plastic bag of bread she’s dropped on the pavement. Into the open house he runs, heart thudding, head throbbing. From upstairs comes Jen’s voice, soothing Jasmine, bribing her.

  ‘OK, two more minutes. I’ll put Cosima in the car then I’m coming back and you have to be ready, OK? No, Jasmine, not those shoes, please…’

  The utility door is shut. The kitchen door is locked.

  He throws the body over his shoulder. It is so small, so light. His fingers scrabble through his keys. Christ, come on, come on, there, thank God, the key to the kitchen door. He opens the site, eyes darting, scalp itching. The washing machine? No, too risky. She might not fit. No, she definitely won’t. Come on, come on, Johnnie Boy. You’ve got twenty seconds. The garden? He takes a step, his torso twisting left then right. Something falls to the ground – a cuddly toy of some kind. A monkey? God knows. Christ, he doesn’t even know the child’s name. But there’s no time for this. There’s no fucking time.

  The trench.

  She wandered in. She fell.

  Good enough. It’ll have to be.

  No one knows he is here. No one.

  He throws her, gags as her head cracks against the ridge before she falls, rolls, lands on her back, horribly, limbs all wrong. She stares at him, eyes glassy as a doll’s. He throws the bag of bread in after her; it lands by her head, by her hand. It looks like she’s fallen. Yes, she’s fallen in. The bag has flown out of her hand. The new truth is already rehearsing itself in his mind. A tragedy.

  The kitchen door beckons: come out, Johnnie Boy. Come out now. Run.

  The utility-room door is still shut. No noise comes from within. No one knows he is here. No one knows what he has just done. If he leaves the kitchen door open, there will be no one to say it was him. Neil will come out and… Yes, Neil will come out and think there has been a terrible accident. This has been a terrible accident. She fell. The bag flew out of her hand. A tragedy.

  It will be Neil’s fault.

  Professional negligence.

  No one will believe the word of a builder over his. And on Friday, Neil was so aggressive with him, so keen to pin the mistake with the steels on him, like he had a point to prove.

  An accident. A tragedy. Professional negligence. She fell.

  It’s not perfect. But it has to work. Johnnie cannot be anywhere near this. He’s worked too hard to get this far. The mortgage on this place is a heart condition waiting to happen, and that’s without the extension, the lighting, the hand-made units and the Cayenne. His throat is already stripped raw with acid reflux from all the stress he has to bear. If he admits to running over a kid, it will ruin him. There’s Jasmine’s care going forward to think about. Neil hasn’t even got kids. He’s young. He’ll get two years, three, tops, whereas he, Johnnie, will never come back from this. He can’t do that to his kids. He
loves those kids. He loves Jen.

  From the new truth, another truth grows: he’s doing it for his family.

  At his hairline, sweat prickles.

  He slows to a walk as he steps out of the house. The chap from over the road is wheeling his green bin down his pathway. Christ. One minute earlier and he would have seen.

  ‘Hello,’ Johnnie calls out, waves, even though he doesn’t usually. This chap can witness him, witness nothing happening, nothing untoward. Take a good look. ‘Starting to rain, I think.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ The man raises a hand before parking his bin and returning via his side gate to the back garden.

  By the time Jen comes out, Johnnie is in the car, engine running. He pushes the sweat from his forehead into his hair, wipes his face with a tissue from the glove compartment, drums the steering wheel to the music.

  Jen is swearing at the car seat. Jasmine is still in the fucking house. For God’s sake, come on, woman, he wants to say, but presses his lips tight. The radio blares. He’s desperate to turn it down but daren’t do anything he wouldn’t normally in case she looks at him. Looks at him and says, what the hell is wrong with you? But she doesn’t look at him; she is intent on the car-seat clip, which is fiddly at the best of times. He didn’t check the drive. Oh God, he didn’t check for blood. She wasn’t bleeding. She wasn’t bleeding, was she? Dead, yes – probably – but not bleeding. Oh God, he can’t go down for this; he will not go down for a stupid accident that wasn’t… and the thought occurs to him only now… wasn’t even his fault. That’s right. This is not his fault. He is not to blame. Who the hell lets their two-year-old roam around without supervision? The parents. It was the parents’ fault, not his at all.

  ‘Finally,’ Jen says and heads back into the house.

  He closes and opens his eyes. Closes, opens. God, the agony. The prolonged torture of it all. Come on, Jen. Come on, come on, come on.

  A minute later and finally Jasmine comes out of the house.

  There is still no one on the street. He’s not yet used to suburbia. It’s like no one even lives here sometimes.

  Another minute or two and Jen jumps into the passenger seat beside him.

  ‘Right,’ she says, blowing good-humouredly at her fringe. ‘Finally.’

  ‘Did you see Neil, by the way?’

  ‘No, actually.’

  ‘Right.’

  He pulls out. The garage door closes slowly. He drives into the longest day of his life.

  He has no memory whatsoever of the 10 a.m. meeting. The rest of the day is a wash – colours, noise, a panic attack in a toilet cubicle. Liquid guts. All day, all fucking day, he was expecting a call from the police.

  Mr Lovegood? I’m afraid there’s been an accident at your property.

  But nothing. It makes no sense. Hours-long tension of waiting, waiting, waiting. Rehearsing his story. There is no story. It’s the truth now. He got up, fetched the car. Jen and the girls were last in the house. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. He thinks Neil might have been there but can’t be sure – yes, best to be vague, he doesn’t want to look like he’s trying to pin it on anyone. Jen didn’t see Neil. Best keep out of it all together. He doesn’t know. He went to work. Literally nothing out of the ordinary. He had no idea. The less he says, the better. My God, this is terrible, he will say. How did this happen? He told the builder, told him… his wife had a lock fitted, had a key made for him. Totally irresponsible.

  But no such call comes. All day, no call. He has no idea what this means, knows he will not find out until he gets home. Can’t go home until he would normally.

  Towards seven, he picks up Jen from the station, nerves jangling like loose change.

  ‘Johnnie? John?’ Jen is looking at him with concern as she buckles her seat belt. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I feel a bit sick actually,’ he says. ‘I think I had dodgy sushi at lunch.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  He lets Jen talk as he drives the short distance home. Today wasn’t too bad actually. She’ll probably have to work at the weekend though – there’s quite a complicated case involving—

  ‘Is that…’ She breaks off. ‘Is that a policeman at the end of our road?’

  Yes. Yes, it is. Momentarily Johnnie thinks about revving hard, speeding off, away, away, before, guts folding, he slows the car. The guy waves at them to stop.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jen asks.

  ‘No idea.’ Sweat beading on his brow, he lowers his window and greets the cop.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Do you live here, sir?’

  ‘Yes. We’re just coming home from work. What’s happened?’

  ‘Little girl has gone missing.’ He takes out a notebook. ‘Can I ask you a couple of questions? We’re talking to all the neighbours.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Sure. But we’ve been out all day. We were at work.’

  ‘A little girl?’ Jen says. ‘Oh my God, that’s terrible. Can you say who?’

  The policeman hands Johnnie a leaflet: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

  Yes. Yes, he has. But she wasn’t missing.

  Her name is Abi Atkins. If you have any information, please call…

  His hand shakes. He hands the flyer to Jen.

  ‘Do you know her?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh my God, I think that’s next door’s little girl!’ She weeps, immediately, into her hand. How do women do that? ‘Oh, poor, poor things.’ Christ, she is sobbing. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it.’ Her hand drops from her face and he can feel she’s turned to look at him. ‘It’s next door’s little girl,’ she says again, her tone urgent. ‘I didn’t know her name but I think she’s about Cossie’s age. Oh God, how awful, how absolutely awful.’

  ‘We’ve been asking all the neighbours if they saw anything at all. We believe she went missing at about eight fifteen this morning. Did you see anything around that time?’

  ‘We’d gone by then,’ he says, more quickly than he would have liked.

  ‘Yes, we would have left by then, sorry,’ Jen adds, thank God. ‘We left at eight or so, didn’t we?’ She looks at him, concern already written on her brow. ‘Did you see anything?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing whatsoever.’ Shut up. Shut up, Johnnie.

  ‘And can I confirm that your builder, Mr Neil Johnson, wasn’t at your property at that time?’

  ‘He might have been,’ Johnnie says. ‘He probably was actually.’

  ‘No.’ To his immense irritation, Jen contradicts him. ‘He messaged to say he’d be in later. He had to pick up some supplies.’ Again, she turns to him. ‘He put it on the WhatsApp – didn’t you get it?’

  No. No, he didn’t. That’s Jen’s domain: organising the day-to-day. The details.

  Jen’s words filter in: Messaged to say he’d be in later. He had to pick up some supplies. That’s not true. Neil was there. Johnnie heard him; could swear he did. And if the child is believed missing, then that means Neil has not taken the rap after all. The builder, believing himself culpable, has cleaned up the mess. This has worked better than he could have predicted.

  ‘Do you need anything else?’ Jen is asking the cop. ‘Please don’t hesitate if you do.’

  ‘Could I get your house number?’

  ‘Sure. It’s number ninety. We’re next door.’

  They exchange thanks. Johnnie buzzes the windows up. The cop waves them on; Johnnie nods as he drives past.

  Jen is fully weeping now and he feels himself bristle. Over-empathising to the point of neurosis. A bit OTT, frankly.

  But as he reverses onto the driveway, the man whose daughter it is arrives home on his bike.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Jen says. ‘That’s him. That’s next door.’ She gets out as if ejected before he’s even had time to brake.

  ‘Hi,’ he hears her call before she slams the car door.

  His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He too will have to get out. He will have to som
ehow get through a conversation. He steels himself and opens the car door.

  Jen and the chap are talking. He offers his condolences, repeats what the cop told them moments earlier. It’s all he can think of to say. More condolences – he can run off some posters if needed.

  ‘Thanks.’ The guy looks like a marionette whose strings have been cut. This is all so unfortunate. It’s truly awful, really.

  ‘We’ll let you go,’ Jen is saying, offering her number as if she has all the time in the world.

  Unable to bear it a second longer, Johnnie walks towards his house, his hairline prickling. He resists the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand in some cartoonish gesture of relief. Neil has not come forward. He has not held up his hand and claimed it. He must have hidden the body, disposed of it somewhere. But where?

  Unless it’s still there?

  Dear God.

  He slides the key into the lock. Creeps up the hallway. Just like this morning, he can hear his children upstairs, talking now to the nanny. He unlocks the site door with the stealth of a burglar. Once inside, he tiptoes forward, peers into the trench. She is not there; of course she is not there. A faint floral aroma – soap? Have the police checked the house? They must have. Neil must have moved her before they got here. A wave of exhaustion rolls over him, a great draining-down of relief. His knees almost buckle. Where has he put her? Where the hell has he hidden her?

  The question pulses in his mind late into the night. Long after he has held his children all the tighter before settling them to bed with an extra story, an extra kiss, long after Jen has whispered to him that she can’t sleep and he has taken her in his arms until he heard her breathing slow, long after he has smoked a celebratory joint out of his loft room window, been startled momentarily by a fox clattering against the back fence while he waited for the blow to kick in.