They’d never been ones for central heating. And those bitter January snows had helped preserve her body for the first couple of days. He’d found himself talking to her of his loneliness and grief, confiding his feelings as he’d always done.
They’d had few friends and fewer relatives. They’d always been the type of couple who had done everything together. And he was a shy man, reclusive. It was easy to withdraw into himself, to bat away concerned enquiries with a shake of his head. Annie’s too weak for visitors.
And then, when the neighbours became too interested, She’s gone to stay with her goddaughter.
As the weeks had passed, as the state of her body had continued to deteriorate, he’d used his skill with the paintbrush to preserve her face, to keep her looking as Annie-like as possible.
But he’d known it couldn’t continue. That he was on borrowed time and the clock was ticking. That he would be discovered. That the continued cycle of freezing and thawing was accelerating the destruction of the tissues of her already-decomposing body.
But when the police came they would never believe him. He’d looked it up. They’d charge him, he was sure. Concealing a body. Preventing a burial.
The detective on the floor moved his head, groaned.
Trefor Lovell checked his watch. It was almost half past two. The officer was coming to. No need for an ambulance.
If he was going to run, he would have to do it now.
His wife’s eyes were closed, her lips the same deep pink as they’d been when he’d met her. If he shut his own eyes, he could hear the sounds of the dance halls, the fizz of the trombone, the swish of Annie’s skirt.
‘I love you,’ whispered Trefor, and blew her a kiss. He patted his pockets, making sure he had his wallet, the keys to his car.
As he left the room, he turned to look at his wife for a final time. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still and then, with a flicker of incredulity, he started back towards her, running those few steps across the room because Annie’s face seemed to be moving. He let out a bark of despair.
The maggots had found her.
65
Now
Smoke. Mirrors. Secrets. Lies.
We believe what we want to, don’t we? Our version of the truth. But there are many layers, many truths.
We sift and curate and cherry-pick the parts that best suit the face we present to the world. Nobody is a true version of themselves. Everyone pretends.
Take the telephone calls.
I knew that Mr Lovell was making them. But I did not let him know. I did not let anyone know. I allowed him to make them. I allowed him to telephone the house and whisper his threats because I knew he had a secret too.
And his truth became a telescope turned back onto him.
I knew what he was doing when the sun went down and why he was visiting the garage and where Mrs Lovell had gone. I saw him. And I knew what he had discovered about me.
It was a risk, of course. To let it lie.
But I knew that Mr Lovell – a painter of dolls clinging to the body of his dead wife – would become a prime suspect for the murders bringing this town to its knees.
And he was.
My plan worked perfectly. Until Olivia Lockwood ruined everything.
66
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
The Avenue – 2.32 p.m.
Wildeve ran into the street at exactly the same moment a police car sped down The Avenue and braked sharply outside Trefor Lovell’s address.
She started towards the house, but two officers she didn’t recognize jumped out and sprinted up the path, and an ambulance, sirens blaring, pulled in behind them.
Guilt needled her, pricking at her conscience. French’s instincts had been spot-on and she had ignored them. A knot of self-doubt wound itself more tightly. She shouldn’t be here.
An unmarked car roared past her and down the street, blue lights flashing, and she turned away, spotting DCI Roger Sampson in the passenger seat. Officers of such senior rank rarely turned up on the doorstep, so she guessed it must be serious.
Shit.
She lingered by the Lockwood house, uncertain what to do next. It was clear that things had moved on since that morning. French had been right. Leaving Lovell until this afternoon had been a serious error of judgement.
Trust your instincts, Wild.
Adam’s voice, so familiar and gentle. But this time, it did not have its usual calming effect. Instead, she longed to scream out her frustration at the sky, to demand of him answers to the questions that were haunting her.
Cooper Clifton had said that Adam was going to visit Lovell. Was it possible that he was the last person to see her husband alive? She had to speak to him. But it looked like her colleagues would be arresting him, and then it would be too late.
The afternoon air shimmered with heat. A skin-sticking sort of a day. Another car drove slowly down the road and pulled in next to her. Mac. His T-shirt and shorts had been replaced with his customary uniform of a shirt and trousers, and he was sucking an aniseed ball. It comforted her. In a world where everything else had gone wrong, this was the correct order of things.
‘Sorry, I got stuck in hellish traffic. What have I missed?’
But Wildeve did not answer his question because an elderly man had just emerged from the bushes at the entrance of Blatches Woods. He threw a glance down the street and walked briskly towards the parade of shops on the corner of The Avenue before climbing into a battered blue Ford Fiesta parked outside the Doll & Fancy Dress Emporium.
Wildeve pulled open the door and slid in next to Mac.
‘That man,’ she said, pointing to the car. ‘Follow him – and whatever you do, don’t lose him.’
67
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
26 The Avenue – 2.33 p.m.
Dessie settled herself at the kitchen table, the neat rectangle of her laptop in front of her.
She stared at it, knowing that by opening its lid and switching it on, she might be risking everything she held dear.
Since Fletcher – Benjamin, a tiny voice whispered – had come into her life, she’d found a new sense of belonging. She’d dated men – and a couple of women – and enjoyed a handful of long-term relationships, but none had made her feel as Fletcher did, both safe and seduced, that rarest of feats.
From the first time they’d got talking at the station and both missed their trains, he’d struck her as a decent guy, ordinary, straightforward. He’d lived an itinerant lifestyle, swapping jobs, moving from one town to the next because he ‘liked meeting new people and experiencing new things’. But they had connected and the weeks stretched into months, and before long, she had invited him to move in with her. With a well-paid job of her own, she didn’t want him to impress her with Michelin-starred restaurants or expensive weekends in luxury hotels. She could pay for those herself. What she enjoyed most were the simple things. He called when he said he would and showed up to dates on time. When she was cold, he took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders without being asked. He didn’t indulge in mind games or petty jealousies, and had never given her cause to doubt him. Until now.
‘What’s going on, Fletch?’ She muttered the words into the stillness of the kitchen, as if the universe might answer her and she wouldn’t have to wade through the murky waters of secrets and lies. But she lacked the temerity or strength, she couldn’t decide which, to turn a blind eye.
She switched on her computer, drew in a breath and typed in Benjamin Turner.
68
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
London Road – 2.41 p.m.
The traffic on the London Road was lighter than usual, the holiday season in full swing. Wildeve’s gaze was fixed on the blue Ford Fiesta three cars ahead.
‘I think we should call this in,’ said Mac.
‘No.’ She sounded sharper than she meant to. ‘I need to speak to him first. We’ll take him in ourselves.’
A cloud passed over Mac’
s face. ‘We’re inviting in a world of pain if we do that.’
How could she make him understand that this was a compulsion for her? That the desire to untangle the truth about Adam was the only reason she was able to keep going. That she was certain Lovell had some answers.
‘I’ll keep you out of this, Mac.’ Softly. ‘I promise.’
He drummed his fingers on the wheel. His face was baggy with concern. ‘Look, there’s something you should—’
‘Wait.’ She held her hand up, interrupting him. ‘I think he’s turning left.’ She waited a beat. ‘OK, he’s parking by the church. Let’s keep our distance. We don’t want to spook him.’
The choir was practising in St Margaret’s Church and their voices rose in joyful song as Wildeve and Mac pushed against the church doors.
Lovell was sitting four pews from the front, his head bowed. The scent of incense weighted down the air, underscored by the heaviness of lilies in several vases and wood polish, freshly applied. The pompous drama of the organ was fitting.
Wildeve walked down the central aisle and slid in on one side of Trefor Lovell. Mac took the other side, blocking his exit. For a brief moment, it looked as if the man they had come to question was going to climb over the back of the pew and make a bid for freedom. But when he saw them, he collapsed onto his knees, the floor cushion beneath him.
As one, the choir filled the spaces inside the church with their song, and Lovell clasped his hands together in prayer.
Time seemed to slow down and still. Wildeve was aware of the singing, the sun seeping through the stained-glass windows, the presence of Lovell, and the rising smell of his sweat. She was not religious. But there was something about being inside a church that moved her. Sometimes, it would have been much easier, a comfort during her darkest days, to believe in a higher power, a force for good, the reassurance of Heaven.
But her mother had always insisted that if one believes in God, one must believe in a counterpart, the Devil.
Wildeve had seen enough of the destruction that humankind inflicted on one another to know there was evil in the world. That while most people were decent and kind, others were possessed by a malignancy, a cruelty. Despite the heat of the day, the coolness of the church made her shiver.
Several minutes later, when the choir had finished its rehearsal and were calling out their farewells, Wildeve touched Lovell on the shoulder.
He lifted his head and she was surprised to see he was crying.
‘Mr Lovell—’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said, wiping his sleeve roughly against his face. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘Did you see Adam Stanton on Sunday?’ Mac was unflinching, the authority in his voice unmistakeable.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
Lovell wiped his eyes again. ‘I can’t remember. Lots of things. My doll business. The bodies in the woods.’
‘Did you kill him?’ There was an unrelenting hardness to Mac’s voice, and Wildeve flashed him a surprised look.
Lovell’s eyes widened. ‘Of course I didn’t bloody kill him. He was as right as rain when he left my house.’
Wildeve cut in. ‘So why are there police surrounding your property at this very moment?’
His face collapsed. ‘That man. French. He was hitting me with a baton. I . . .’
‘You did what, Mr Lovell?’
‘I hurt him.’ He whispered. ‘I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Did you hurt your wife too?’
‘No, I would never hurt Annie.’ He lifted his head and slammed a hand against the polished wood. The pew vibrated with his anger. ‘I can’t believe you would ask me that question.’
‘Is your wife alive, Mr Lovell?’ She did not know if this man was telling the truth. Originally, she had believed him, but it was clear he had a temper.
Lovell buried his face in his hands, but not before he shook his head.
‘And those bodies in the woods? Did you kill them?’
Lovell lifted his face to hers, and she glimpsed a flicker of something in his eyes, although she wasn’t sure what it meant.
‘No,’ he said, a quiet defiance infusing his words. ‘I did not kill anyone.’
Mac and Wildeve exchanged a glance. Although she was officially off duty, DS Wildeve Stanton still had a responsibility to uphold the law. For Mac, it was different. He was officially retired. He owed nothing. But she had always believed in the importance of doing the right thing.
‘Trefor Lovell, I am arresting you on suspicion of assaulting a police officer.’
‘I didn’t kill my wife,’ he said again. ‘And those murders, you’re looking in the wrong place.’
69
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
25 The Avenue – 4.23 p.m.
Evan Lockwood was sitting on his bedroom floor surrounded by sweet wrappers and a thin, brown ribbon of unspooled tape.
His sister stuck her head around his door. Despite her summer tan, she looked heavy-eyed and pale.
‘Can I come in?’ she said, leaning against the door frame. She didn’t give him a chance to reply. ‘Look, don’t tell Dad I left you on your own. He doesn’t need to know.’
‘He knows already.’
‘Shit.’
‘That’s a swear, Aster.’
‘Sorry, buddy. You’re right. Naughty Aster.’ She mock slapped her hand and sat cross-legged next to him. ‘I know things are a bit weird at the moment, what with Mum and everything. Are you all right?’
‘No. I. Am. Not. All. Right. The tape’s broken because you weren’t here to help me.’ Tears swam in his eyes like silvery fish.
‘I told you to wait for me,’ said Aster, trying to button down her impatience.
‘You were gone for ages.’ A whiny, stubborn tone crept in. ‘It’s not my fault.’
Aster bit her lip. It wasn’t her fault either, but nine-year-old boys could be irrational, and he was worried about their mother, and she didn’t want Evan telling their father any more than he already had.
‘Let me see if I can help,’ she said, offering an olive branch. Evan accepted it with a tremulous smile.
The tape was strewn across the place like a streamer. Aster wasn’t sure it could be rescued. She pulled out her phone, searching out solutions on the internet.
‘Have you got a pencil?’ she said.
Evan jumped up and scrabbled around in his drawer for his favourite, with its My Neighbor Totoro topper. He thrust it at Aster. ‘Here.’
She slid the pencil into one of the holes in the middle of the cassette, and slowly began to wind, sucking up the tape like a strand of spaghetti.
‘Is it working?’ asked Evan, peering over her shoulder, his bony knees pressing into her back.
‘Not sure yet.’ She glanced at him and the doubt spreading across his face. She softened. ‘Patience.’
Evan flicked through his pile of football trading cards. Leafed through the pages of a Knock-Knock joke book. Whispered questions to his Magic 8 Ball. The sun dappling the walls of his room was deepening into a molten bronze, throwing down shadows. The day was thinking about ending, and Aster still hadn’t decided if she was going to meet the boys. She didn’t want to. That old man scared her. But she hated the idea of them dismissing her as a coward.
‘Where did you go, Aster? Earlier, I mean. It doesn’t take that long to go to the shops.’
‘I got distracted.’
‘Were you talking to those boys?’
Aster did not lift her eyes from the cassette, but pink roses bloomed on her cheeks. ‘What boys?’
‘The ones on their bikes. I saw them out of your window. You were with them, remember?’
She wanted to shake him for going into her bedroom, but instead said, ‘Oh, those boys. I said hi, that’s all.’
Her answer seemed to satisfy Evan, who turned his attention back to her slow-turning pencil.
‘Have you done it yet?’ He leaned against her,
knocking her slightly off balance. He was skinny and warm, and smelled faintly of orange Fruit Pastilles.
She inhaled, and imagined she was breathing in calmness and tolerance and all those qualities that a good big sister should possess.
‘Almost. But I’m not sure it’s going to work. See, the tape looks a little twisted.’ Her fingers worked to smooth it out, but she couldn’t make all the kinks disappear.
Evan rolled back and forth on his heels. Then he jigged his leg and stuck his finger into his nose. Eventually, he sat next to her on the carpet and watched her nimble fingers do their work.
Time rolled on. Evan’s stomach rumbled. Aster’s phone pinged with notifications. And finally, with a triumphant flourish, she held up the tape. ‘Finished.’ She smiled at him. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see if it works.’
Evan bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning at his sister. ‘Thank you,’ he said, throwing his arms around her. Aster blushed and hugged him back. It felt good to do something nice for her brother for a change. He handed her the borrowed Walkman and she slid in the cassette. They huddled together, each claiming an earphone. Aster winked at Evan and pressed play.
A high-pitched voice was singing about eagles flying higher and higher and something called St Elmo’s fire. The voice then adopted the over-the-top drawl of a radio DJ, introducing the next song. Both children started to laugh. The voice was an excellent mimic.
And then it stopped.
If someone had filmed that very moment – in the half-light of a summer holiday teatime in an ordinary bedroom on a not-so-ordinary street, two heads bent together – they would have witnessed the anticipation on both young faces dim into darkness.
At first, the hum and crackle of recorded silence, a sense of waiting for something important to happen, of drawing in their breath and holding it.
And then a voice, whispering, urgent, the words tumbling out so quickly it was almost impossible to pick out the distinctions between letters, the vowels and consonants running together to form a plea, yearning down the tunnel of the years.
The Neighbour Page 18