‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t ever come to it.’
‘You’d best not sell to them, then,’ Davina says, closing the door again and finally sitting down. She eyes me over the top of her mug as she begins noisily sipping her tea.
I don’t quite know how to take her statement. It almost comes across as a demand, or a threat. I suppose it could’ve just been meant in a jokey kind of way, but that didn’t seem apparent in her tone. I laugh awkwardly and change the subject.
‘What type of novels do you write?’
She sits up straight, a broad smile on her face, and becomes animated now I’ve asked her about her writing.
‘Crime, mostly,’ she says. She goes on to tell me she sits at a desk facing the lounge window, and the view of the road and people wandering by often gives her inspiration. So, that’s one reason she’s always watching this street like a hawk, then. It could also account for her interest in Nick – maybe she wants to tap him up for insider knowledge – she had been trying to ask him a question when I rudely interrupted her yesterday evening. All this time I’d presumed she just wanted to know the gossip about our separation and maybe it was information about his job she was after so she could give her crime novel authenticity. Perhaps I really do have Davina all wrong.
‘That’s really interesting, Davina. I had no idea Apple Grove had its very own Miss Marple,’ I say. I’m trying to be light-hearted, but she stares at me for a moment saying nothing. Is saying that to a crime writer not the done thing? She’s probably heard it a million times, which is why she seems to have ignored my statement.
‘Don’t tell him, but I’ve put your sexy estate agent in my current book!’ Her face lights up when she mentions Carl. She really does seem to have a thing for him. Personally, I’ve never looked at Carl in that way, and certainly not thought of him as sexy. But I can see the attraction, I suppose. Visually, he is appealing – what I’d call a typically good-looking man with all the features that might come high on a tick list of ideal physical attributes – and he’s financially secure. I laugh and tell Davina her secret is safe with me.
‘And the way he’s so shifty, it got my mind working overtime,’ she continues, her eyes widening. ‘So, I’ve created a whole story around his character.’
‘Oh?’ I frown. ‘Shifty in what way?’ I’m curious now – maybe Davina’s tendency to be nosy will be helpful in this instance.
‘The way he brings the same people over to your house on different occasions. I mean, I realise they might just be wanting subsequent viewings, of course, but it’s as though he’s trying to make it seem as though there’s lots of interest, when in fact there’s none.’
My stomach leaps up at the same time my heart plummets. A heaviness pushes onto my shoulders and I feel completely deflated. Is that what Carl’s been doing? Bringing fake viewers over so I think he’s working hard to sell my property? If that’s the case, it’s no surprise I haven’t heard the outcome of the supposed second viewing yesterday. But before the open house there’d been zero visitors, so what Davina’s saying must only have been occurring recently.
‘Are you sure it’s the same people?’
‘I’ve a good memory for faces. Yes, I’m certain. What has he been telling you?’
I’m reluctant to share more information with Davina. I’m not sure who else she’ll revel in telling.
‘Well, he’s told me there’ve been several interested parties from the open-house event.’ I find I have the need to lie here but follow it up with the truth. ‘Although, nothing appears to have come from them.’ There has, of course, only been one second viewing that Carl has informed me of. Either there’s been more, and he’s not told me because they didn’t go well, or there haven’t been any and Davina is right. Carl’s been conducting fake viewings to make himself look good and have something to say when I ask him about progress. To keep me happy and on his books.
More and more it feels like there are too many odd things surrounding Carl Anderson and his management of my house sale. Things that feel wrong.
I think it’s time to instruct a new estate agent.
Chapter Thirty-One
Amber
I have a rare morning off work – Olive and Henry have closed the optician’s as they are both visiting Henry’s elderly father in hospital following a hip operation. I don’t need to be in until twelve, then I only have to do two and a half hours. This window of a few spare hours gives me the opportunity to go online and search for a new job in Kent. I know I don’t have any firm dates, but I want to have an idea of what’s about. If I could line something up, even if it’s just working in a supermarket for the time being, it would mean I have independence. Richard has said once his house with his ex sells, he would have enough to support me and the boys for a while, but I don’t want to be financially indebted to him.
I log on to Totaljobs, Kent, and over five thousand results appear on the laptop screen. Only four hundred and fifty are in the Maidstone area, but this could still take some time. I make a cup of coffee and set up on the kitchen table. There are lots of support workers, customer services and IT jobs listed. A knot of anxiety grows. Can I really up sticks and take the boys to start again in a new county? It’s a worry I’d already had and discarded early on when Richard first asked me to move to Kent with him. But it’s one that’s rearing its ugly head with more frequency these past few weeks. I think it could merely be the jitters – made worse by the open house and key fiasco. I need to put my big-girl pants on.
Although that thought bolsters me and makes me carry on my search, something else now bothers me. The fine hair on my forearms become erect as ice-cold fingers of fear touch the back of my neck.
I’m suddenly sure I’m being watched.
My muscles freeze as I hear a banging noise; I listen intently. Am I going to turn around and find someone standing behind me? Sucking in my breath, I slowly turn my head. A shiver violently judders my body. There’s no one there. But I’m sure I heard the bang. Upstairs? Or was it outside? Willing my limbs to move I get up and take a knife from the block then walk to the back window. There’s nothing untoward outside that I can see. I take tentative steps towards the hallway, listening the entire time for further noises. With my free hand I click on the SmartRing app on my mobile. There’s nothing but darkness. That’s odd. Something must be obstructing the camera. A person? My mouth dries. I don’t want to open the door now to check. It’ll alert whoever might be upstairs that I’m coming – and what if it’s one of those awful con tricks burglars use, where one person distracts the owner at the door, while the other raids the house? I edge my way up the stairs, knife held out in front of me. It shakes.
A knocking sound.
Definitely upstairs.
Or is it my own heartbeat?
I punch in 9 … 9 … 9 on my mobile – but don’t hit the call icon yet. It could be nothing but my own imagination.
I hear it again.
It’s a gentle knocking; rhythmic. As I near Finley’s room, the noise is clearer. His door is ajar, so I peek through the gap. My mouth is dry, my saliva evaporated. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m confronted by someone in there. I can only see part of his room: the desk, the left half of the bed. Do I go with whacking the door open so I have the element of surprise? Or, push the door gently open a tiny bit more to get a better view before making my move? My heart is banging so hard against my ribs, adrenaline takes over and I slam the door open with my shoulder. The noise I hear is my own war cry as I rush inside, my knife-wielding hand jutting out in front of me.
The room is empty.
I lower my hand, the knife touching my thigh, as I attempt to regain control of my breathing.
Finley’s room might be empty, but I can still hear a knocking noise. I walk over to the wall that adjoins with the neighbour’s and press my ear against it. The noise is from next door. But no one’s living there – it’s completely empty. Maybe it’s their central-heating pipes making a knoc
king sound as they heat up and cool down. As I relax, confident that’s probably what it is, the noise ceases. How strange. And the question of why Maggie would have left the central heating going anyway shoots through my mind.
I make my way back downstairs. I have to hold on to the bannister, my legs are shaking so much. I remember the obstructed SmartRing app. Now I know I’m safe from any internal intruder, I open the front door to see if someone is standing there or has put something in front of the bell.
There’s nothing blocking it.
It’s broken.
Someone has smashed my doorbell.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Amber
Back inside my house, I lean against the closed front door and contemplate what I should do. The doorbell has been deliberately broken – there’s no way it could’ve been an accident unless someone was moving something large and heavy in or out of the house and banged against it. This is not the case and I’ve been home all morning with no one coming to the door. The last time someone rang the bell was days ago now, so I can’t pinpoint when it might’ve happened. But surely I’d have noticed the damage this morning – if not when I left the house to take the boys to school, then on my return. It’s so obviously broken, with shards of dark plastic hanging from it, I’d have seen it when putting the key in the lock. Therefore, it must have occurred between ten past nine and now – eleven thirty. Maybe that was the noise I’d initially heard when I was sitting in the kitchen looking at my laptop.
The obvious person to ask about whether they saw anything is Davina. She said herself that she sits at the lounge window looking out on the street. If anyone had been hanging around my house, she’d have spotted them. I grab my phone, handbag and key and leave.
‘Ah, Amber. An unexpected delight,’ Davina says as she opens the door and lets me in. Her reaction is stilted. Guarded. Her tone falsely light. I immediately sense I’ve walked into an awkward situation. I gaze around her lounge. It manages to be minimalistic yet crowded at the same time; I’m not sure how – it’s larger than mine, as Davina’s is one of the semi-detached properties on Apple Grove. There isn’t a lot of furniture: a cream-coloured sofa runs along one wall, a slimline bookcase opposite. It’s that which makes the room feel cluttered, I think – there are so many books and magazines all haphazardly jammed onto the shelves. I peer to the right, which would be where her kitchen is situated. I can hear some movement in there – her husband, I assume. Perhaps I’ve just disturbed an argument. Now, as Davina stands beside me, I notice her eyes are red-rimmed. God, what timing I have.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ I say.
‘No bother. Sit down. You want a cup of tea?’ Her voice is tense, her words delivered in a staccato fashion.
I don’t want to stay in this atmosphere any longer than necessary, so I sit, but decline her offer of a drink. ‘Have you been writing this morning?’ I ask as a way of breaking into the conversation I want to have.
‘No. Not yet.’ Davina’s eyes don’t make contact with mine. This is not the Davina who was in my house yesterday. I’ve never met her husband. In fact, I’ve barely even set eyes on him bar the odd glimpse of a man leaving the house. The fact I can sense his presence as he stays, silently, in the kitchen is slightly unnerving. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but I feel it’s too intrusive. We’re not friends, really; I don’t feel comfortable delving further. Although, I know she wouldn’t have the same regard for my privacy. I shift uncomfortably on the sofa. I’d put money on them having been in the midst of a marital blow-up just prior to me knocking on their door. I’m surprised she let me in.
Maybe I was her saviour. Though from my point of view the timing was terrible, what if it was perfect timing for Davina – a way of preventing her husband arguing with her further? I’m intrigued about what they were arguing about, which is a terrible admission, but I can’t help myself. I sit forward and look towards the kitchen, then turn to Davina.
‘Everything all right, Davina?’ I keep my voice low, almost a whisper.
She gives me a small, meek smile. ‘Yes, yes of course.’ She matches my hushed tone.
‘Would you be able to pop over to mine for coffee? I need you to see something.’ I say this louder, so her husband can hear my offer.
Davina’s eyes widen with what I imagine is curiosity. ‘Erm … I should start writing,’ she says, her voice also loud. I’m taken aback by this refusal; I felt certain she’d immediately take me up on the offer.
‘It would really help me out,’ I say. ‘I won’t keep you long.’
Davina nods and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a small handbag that looks brand new. There was no audible discussion between her and her husband. ‘Let’s go, then.’ Davina is out of the front door before I even get up from the sofa. I hurry out after her, slamming their front door behind me.
‘Ooh, what’s happened to your doorbell?’ Davina asks as we are about to enter my house. My shoulders slump.
‘Ah. Well, I was kind of hoping you could tell me,’ I say as I step inside.
‘It was nothing to do with me,’ Davina says abruptly. ‘How would I know?’
I’m startled by her reaction and for a moment my mouth opens and shuts without words coming out. I splutter an explanation. ‘Oh, erm … I wasn’t accusing you, Davina. I guess I was just hoping you may have seen something. You mentioned yesterday you sit at the front window when you write …’
Davina’s face visibly relaxes. ‘Oh. Of course, sorry. Yes, I usually do sit in front of the window and see everything that’s going on. But I’m afraid I broke my routine this morning and stayed in bed longer than usual. I didn’t see or hear anything.’
‘Oh, that’s okay.’ I try to hide my disappointment.
‘Any chance Mr Vickers saw something?’ Davina cranes her neck to look over the fence into next door’s house. ‘Hmm,’ she says before I respond. ‘Looks empty. I think he’s probably with his new lady friend; he’s staying with her a lot these days. I’m glad for him. I didn’t think the poor man would get over losing his wife.’
‘I know he’s rarely home but didn’t know why,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. Davina seems to know more than I do – there’s a surprise. We go on inside and I motion for Davina to sit on the sofa. I sit in the chair facing her. ‘Who would’ve wanted to break my bell?’
‘Kids?’ She shrugs. ‘There are so many on this estate, and they treat it as though it’s their playground. No respect for other people’s property or boundaries. Cheeky too, I might add. I’ve had to shoo loads out of my garden – they come in and out like they own it.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ I say.
Davina’s eyebrows knit together. ‘You obviously don’t think so. Who do you think has done it then?’
‘I don’t know who, exactly. But I’m beginning to suspect why.’
‘Oh? Go on.’ Davina sits forward, a look of anticipation on her face.
‘I’m being sabotaged. Or, rather, the house sale is. Someone, or even some people, don’t want me to sell this house.’ I curse myself for giving so much information away.
Davina considers this for a moment. ‘But why would breaking a bell be sabotaging your house sale?’
It’s a valid point. ‘I’m not sure either … I’m probably jumping to conclusions. Ignore me,’ I say, flitting my hand. Now I’ve voiced it, it does sound improbable and maybe I should just change the subject now.
‘No, it’s clearly something you’ve been thinking about. Have there been other things going on? Things that are adding to your suspicion?’
Davina’s concern is strangely comforting. Now, I either choose to bring her in on everything, or I play my cards close to my chest. Should I trust this woman? Or should I wait to discuss all of this with Jo? I don’t have any doubts about trusting her. But she’s not here right now. She doesn’t live right across the street and have immediate knowledge of comings and goings like Davina has.
‘Well, it’
s all been so slow – and with what you said about Carl bringing the same people to view several times, it’s made me think more deeply about it.’
‘So, you think Carl is sabotaging the sale?’
‘And Barb,’ I say, without really thinking it through. Damn. I screw up my eyes; I’ve been too quick to confide in her. It’s so weird how I suddenly feel the need to open up to Davina of all people, but now I’ve overstepped the mark I can’t take it back.
‘I get why Barbara wouldn’t want the house to sell,’ Davina says, her chin cupped in one hand, a finger on her lips. I can almost see the cogs turning in her brain. ‘Carl, though? He would be shooting himself in the foot, surely? It doesn’t make sense for him to be preventing a sale. He’ll want the house to sell as he’ll be getting commission, won’t he?’
‘Yes. Of course. And I know it all sounds mad, but something isn’t sitting right.’ I don’t mention the thirteenth viewer, the odd things going on in the house, or the noises. I’ve entrusted her with enough for now. Maybe even too much. Could Davina herself have a reason to sabotage my sale? I could be playing right into her hands for all I know.
‘I’d definitely look into Barbara, to begin with.’ Davina stands up and begins pacing the lounge. ‘I said yesterday, she’s a strange one. I would certainly consider her to be your number-one suspect at this time.’
I take a deep breath. Telling a crime writer my suspicions might not have been the brightest thing to do. I fear we’ll have a wall dedicated to each suspect and a full-blown CSI-type investigation going on in my lounge if Davina has her way.
‘I don’t really have any evidence for it being her, though.’
‘Right. Well, then, that’s the first action point. Gather intel. Make a case.’
‘Look, I really appreciate your … er … enthusiasm, but I don’t want to make this into something it’s not. If Nick got wind of this …’
‘He won’t. We’ll keep it between ourselves.’ Davina walks to the lounge door. ‘Leave it with me, Amber. I’ve a few things I can add to the evidence chain …’ And she’s gone.
The Open House Page 11