The Open House

by Sam Carrington

  ‘I don’t know, Davina. Right now, I don’t even care about Carl.’

  ‘Oh? Has something else happened?’ I can almost see her ears prick up in excitement.

  ‘I can’t say. Not yet. But yes, something else has come to light. Nothing to do with Carl.’

  I find myself wanting to tell her. I know I can’t. It’s part of the police investigation now; I shouldn’t divulge the information, especially not to the village gossip. While I am trusting her with a lot, this is too big to share. But I have to give her something or she won’t stop interrogating me until I break.

  ‘Barb is acting peculiarly …’

  ‘Tell me something new!’

  It’s a dumb thing to say. There’s nothing new on Barb so how can I convince Davina that something has happened without making something up? I’m about to come out with a suitable white lie when Davina carries on.

  ‘I told you about Barb and the postcard incident, didn’t I? She lifts one eyebrow in a high arc.

  I close my eyes, dredging my memory bank. ‘No. I don’t recall it.’

  Davina gets up and walks to the far side of the kitchen. ‘It was here.’ She points to the corner. ‘On a large white fridge-freezer, covered in tacky magnets.’

  I can’t imagine Barb having anything tacky in her house, let alone magnets – I have never seen what Davina is describing in the entire time I’ve known Barb and I’d been visiting this house long before moving in myself. ‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Because I never once saw anything covering the fridge-freezer.’

  ‘It was only the once – well, the one time I was ever invited in here. Before now, of course. From her reaction, I’d hazard a guess she got rid of everything on that fridge after I saw it.’

  ‘Saw what, exactly?’

  ‘The postcard. I can still envisage it now.’ She closes her eyes and lifts her fingers, tracing the invisible memory. I wonder if her writing is as good as her acting.

  ‘I’m going to be late for the boys …’ I check my watch. I’ve only five minutes before the bell.

  ‘She seemed so angry with me for touching it,’ Davina continues, as though I haven’t spoken. ‘I shifted the Mickey Mouse magnet from one edge and pulled it away from the other one that had pinned it in place. Barb immediately shouted from across the kitchen: “PUT THAT BACK!” I remember being so shocked I dropped the postcard and it flittered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and managed to catch a glimpse of scrawled handwriting before Barb lurched forwards, snatching it from my hand.’

  I’m curious to know where this is going now. ‘Did she say who it was from?’

  ‘No. She practically pushed me out of the front door,’ Davina says, dramatically. ‘I had seen it was a picture of London Bridge, though, and when it flipped over, I noted there was only a line of writing and an initial, possibly, with a single kiss underneath.’

  ‘And when was this again?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say about six months or so before she moved out and you moved in.’

  So, that would make it seven years ago. I can’t think what the relevance of this is, but somehow it feels key.

  I think Barb is hiding something.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Barb

  I didn’t sleep well after the burning of the picture. But it wasn’t only the memories of the boy and the kitten that kept me awake. It was him. I hope I don’t have the misfortune to bump into Patrick again. I don’t believe he’s just here to visit the place where I scattered Bern. Why now? Bern’s been dead for thirty-three years and, to my knowledge, Patrick hasn’t set foot in Stockwood since the mid-Eighties. He wasn’t even at the funeral service. Although, that was by design on my part.

  ‘What are you up to?’ I say out loud in my bungalow. My mind is filled with curiosity and, if I’m being honest with myself, fear, too. Patrick’s choice of words have put me on edge: When you get to our age you don’t want to leave anything behind that might upset those left; the ones who’ll find it.

  What precisely did he mean by that? But the most chilling line was his last: I’ll be seeing you. I don’t like the sound of that one bit. Whatever ghosts he needs to lay to rest, I wish he’d leave me out of it. I never did like the man. There was something about him – the way he treated Bern, always mocking him in his supposed loving-brotherly manner. It used to upset me. But Bern would never have a bad word said about Patrick, so I put up with him when Bern was around. For his sake. But I’ve no desire to do so now. No need to. If he’s planning on hanging around for a while, I’ll just have to ensure I avoid any contact.

  As I’m having a shower to liven myself up, a thought strikes me. Is Patrick back in Stockwood to see Nick? I can’t see a good reason why he’d want to; he never played the kind, affectionate uncle before, therefore all I can conclude is it would be for a bad reason.

  I wonder if Nick is the person he wants to unburden himself on before “meeting his maker”.

  My heart flutters furiously.

  Over my dead body.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Amber

  Richard picks up on the second ring. ‘You okay? What’s happened? Is something wrong?’ he says before I’ve even said hello.

  ‘Why would you automatically assume something is wrong?’ I laugh. But it’s obvious; each call I’ve made to him lately has been verging on the hysterical, so his natural assumption is I’m calling because there’s been yet another drama.

  ‘Sorry. It’s being so far away from you, Amber; it puts me on edge knowing you’re going through things I have little control over.’

  This is a nice sentiment, though I just wish he’d say, “I’ll drop everything, babe – come down right away.” But, I know that’s asking too much. At least he hasn’t immediately said he’s too busy at work to talk long, so that’s something.

  ‘Well, it is difficult at the moment, and yes, there are things going on.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like …’ I take a breath to give myself a moment to think. Should I tell him about the bracelet that was sent to Nick? I’d like to share my fear with him; after all, he is my boyfriend. Someone I’m preparing to up sticks and move in with. I should confide in him. I’d want him to tell me if it were the other way around. ‘Nick told me something yesterday …’

  ‘God, what now? Is he trying to stop you—’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. A parcel came here for him a couple weeks back. And it turns out it was something linked to Nick’s cold case.’

  ‘Linked? How so?’

  ‘It was a bracelet. Identical-looking to the one belonging to a missing girl from the Seventies. A cold case he’s working on.’

  ‘Jesus, really?’ The line goes quiet. I imagine Richard is attempting to absorb this information before giving me his appraisal of the situation. Surely, he’ll be of the same opinion – that this is bad news and means potentially a murderer knows where I live.

  ‘Yes, really. Nick seems to think it’s from someone trying to tell him there’s a link between his cold case and Tim – his missing brother who he’s convinced was also abducted and murdered by the same person.’

  ‘That’s heavy,’ he says, simply.

  ‘I’d say!’

  ‘So, Nick believes whoever sent the bracelet not only knows he’s working on the cold case but also that his brother went missing in the late Seventies. Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?’

  ‘Possibly, but to be honest, that’s not my concern.’ I can’t believe Richard hasn’t immediately come to the same conclusion I had – the obvious one.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you should be concerned, Amber. If you’re thinking a murderer has sent this bracelet to your house, you’re going down the wrong rabbit hole.’

  ‘Really? What makes you so sure? You don’t know who sent it and why.’ Indignation punctuates my tone. I don’t understand how everyone is being so blasé about all this.

  ‘Because it doesn’t make sense for the murderer to be sending his trophies to a
detective after all this time. Why now?’

  ‘He might be dying or something, and wanting to gain closure, or own up to what he did before he’s judged by God.’

  ‘In which case, why not simply hand himself in to the police? Or write a confession and send it. Surely he wouldn’t have known Nick’s address to send it to him? No, I think this is something different; maybe just a coincidence – something entirely unrelated to the missing girl. What does Nick think?’

  I don’t even want to speak about it anymore. I’m infuriated both of the men in my life think I’m over-reacting by even contemplating the fact this could be the murderer toying with Nick. But, still, I tell Richard Nick’s theory.

  ‘It sounds to me as though there are some things requiring unearthing.’

  ‘Yes, but the worrying thing is, I don’t think anything good will come from it.’

  ‘Well, I imagine the family of the victim, and Nick’s family, might disagree. They want closure – don’t you think they’ll welcome that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ It seems odd for me to doubt this, but it’s a gut feeling.

  ‘Either way,’ Richard says, ‘you’re better off out the way. I don’t want you and the boys getting mixed up in all this. None of it is to do with you; it’s other people’s mess. The sooner I get you here, with me, the happier I’ll be.’

  Finally, he says something I agree with.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  It’s not until certain things align that the course of action becomes clear. In the beginning, I was selfish. Maybe I still am. But I know now what I must do. All the signs point to this. I wish I knew how it would end, though. How each person would come out of this. If each person would come out of this.

  Especially Amber.

  I never intended for her to get involved – it wasn’t my fault. That’s what I tell myself. It helps, sometimes. But not in the dead of night, in the darkest recesses of the room; of my mind. During those dark hours, cloaked in regret, I know I could’ve, should’ve done something before.

  I could’ve stopped this.

  If I’d only opened my eyes.

  But they’re open now – that’s what matters. And I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Amber

  I’ve settled Leo – read him a story and tucked him in. But Finley isn’t ready for bed; I think his mind is too full.

  ‘Did you figure it out, Mum?’ Finley sits on the edge of my bed, his narrowed eyes trained on mine.

  ‘Figure what out, my lovely?’ I reach forwards and take his small hands in mine.

  ‘The man in the house?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, carefully choosing my words. ‘I thought about everything you said – and about your dad’s brother coming back. In fact, your dad was talking about him too earlier today. But he really believes Tim is … is no longer around.’

  Finley pulls away from me, then draws his legs up underneath him, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He sighs. ‘Who’s been walking around at night, then?’ His voice is filled with concern, but not fear. He’s braver than me.

  ‘I think maybe our senses are heightened. Do you know what that means?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Sometimes, when we’re afraid, or thinking something bad is going on, our brains can do weird things. Like trick us into seeing and hearing things that aren’t really there.’

  He takes a deep breath in and holds it for a while before letting it huff out again. ‘I see what you mean, but I don’t know if I believe it. I don’t mean I don’t believe you. But I know how I feel, and I know what I’ve seen. I don’t think it’s a dream or my brain playing tricks, Mum.’

  ‘Okay. Then I think we might have to do a bit of detective work. How do you feel about that?’

  Finley sits up tall, smiling. ‘Cool. A detective, like Dad! Shall we set a trap?’ he says, excitedly.

  ‘I think so.’ I hope I don’t regret this. I suddenly feel like a completely irresponsible parent dragging my eight-year-old son into this. ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘I say we go full-on Home Alone!’

  ‘Oh, erm … I think that might be a bit much, Finley. I don’t want to frighten your brother. I was thinking a little more undercover – like setting up a camera.’

  ‘Aw, Mum. That’s a bit boring.’

  ‘Ask your dad – it’s what the police would do.’ I smile and hope Finley buys it.

  ‘Fine. We can do that for starters, I guess.’

  ‘Good. Right, let’s get started.’ Guilt pulls at my conscience. Am I drawing my son into my delusional thinking? What will Nick think if he hears about this? ‘Fin, love?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah?’ He’s already up and walking towards his room. I follow.

  ‘Can we keep this to ourselves for a bit?’ I whisper. I don’t want to wake Leo.

  ‘You mean keep this as our secret?’

  ‘Well, not a secret, as such. You shouldn’t agree to keep secrets, really, Finley.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘Because sometimes people who ask you to do that are doing it because what they’re doing is wrong …’ I feel I’ve opened a whole can of worms with this. But I don’t want Finley being encouraged to think it’s okay to keep secrets because, ultimately, that could be a harmful thing for him to learn.

  ‘So, what are you asking me to do then?’

  ‘I don’t want to alert your brother to what we’re doing because I think he’ll worry. As soon as we have some evidence something is going on, we’ll go straight to Daddy with it. So, not a secret – but a work-in-progress that only you and I are involved with at the moment.’

  ‘Sure. I get it. Don’t worry, Mum. I’m more grown-up than you think. I am almost nine.’

  I touch my fingertips to his baby-soft cheek. I want to cry. ‘You’re a good boy, Finley Miller. I’m sorry this is happening.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Anyway, have you got a camera or are you going to use your phone?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’

  Finley looks thoughtful. ‘Make sure your phone is fully charged, Mum. And we’ll set it to record. Where should we put it?’

  ‘Somewhere out of sight, but with a clear view of the landing, I think,’ I say, casting my eyes around. Finley does the same.

  ‘The high window, then,’ he states, pointing to the small, landing window.

  It’s at eye level to me, but the boys always call it the high window, as they have to be lifted to see out of it. It’s the best place to achieve as wide a view of the upstairs as possible. We try it out, moving the phone to different positions on the windowsill and recording a few seconds to see how it looks. We decide on the best angle – the one where the bathroom door, Finley’s and Leo’s bedroom doors are all visible. Mine isn’t, but that’s fine – we can always reposition another night to get mine in view.

  ‘You won’t forget to press record, will you?’ Finley says.

  ‘I won’t. I’ll wait until it’s late so the battery lasts until morning. Is there a maximum amount of time I can record for, though?’ I search my settings.

  ‘I think it depends on data storage or something,’ Finley says.

  ‘Great. Well, I have no clue about stuff like that.’

  ‘Well, we can try it tonight and see. If it doesn’t record for long enough, maybe we could buy a proper recorder?’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’ I don’t have the spare money to buy a camcorder, or the like. But I’m fairly certain Jo and Keeley have one I could borrow.

  ‘Plug it in to charge, then we are all set.’ Finley smiles.

  ‘Are you all right about this? If you’re scared about …’

  ‘I’m fine. I want to know.’ His eyes settle on mine, and he holds my gaze. ‘I’m the man of the house, remember.’

  I hug him tightly, then he kisses me on my cheek, goes into his bedroom and closes the door. A nervous energy shoots through me. If Finley can be brave about th
is, then so can I. I make my way downstairs and put my phone on to charge.

  Tonight, I will get evidence. The kind I can confidently take to the police.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Amber

  I’m lying on my back, staring blankly at the ceiling. I’ve got my mobile on the pillow beside me, an alarm set for 1 a.m. I don’t suppose it’ll wake me as sleep is virtually impossible right now. My mind is currently having an argument with itself. Should I place the phone on the landing window to record? Or, should I stop torturing myself and reconsider the events that have led me here?

  You’re scared that you’re right.

  Yes. I can’t refute the voice – I am scared. It’s one thing thinking there’s someone stealthily roaming around my home at night doing Lord knows what, but to capture that person – see actual evidence there’s someone watching us – that’s a whole new level of fucked up. And I have no clue how I’ll react if I replay the recording tomorrow and do see someone.

  God. I’m driving myself mad.

  I could tell Finley the phone failed to record. Blame it on my stupidity with technical stuff. But he’ll merely say to try again the following night. Maybe I should just do it. Get it over with. If there’s nothing to see, at least it will put my mind at ease – as well as Finley’s.

  And if there is something to see?

  I turn on my side, facing the window. My head throbs.

  I go over it all again and again. If the recording captures a person walking the landing, going in and out of the boys’ bedrooms; mine – who am I expecting it to be?

  Carl? He is the one who’s had easy access to the house whenever he pleased. Up to the point the locks were changed, anyway. I’m certain he’s been conducting his affairs using the houses on his list, and Davina thinks he’s gone a step further and maybe recorded the women too. Initially, the idea of him being some sexual predator was madness, but the way he’s been acting, the disappearance of the picture and the diary add weight to her theory.