helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpme
Sister and brother looked at each other, half laughing, waiting for the voice to say it was all a joke. But then a clatter and scrape, like a cassette recorder being hastily dropped and pushed out of sight. The sound of somebody new climbing a ladder. And then the voice was crying, and apologizing over and over again.
A muffled thump, as if something heavy – a body, thought Aster – was hitting the floor, a shift in volume, the voice pressing closer to them, begging for whoever it was to stop, locked inside their heads, and the sound of fear saturating everything, past and present.
Evan clung to his sister, his eyes screwed shut, his fingers trembling like dead leaves in the breath of the wind.
Aster tugged at the earphones, but the wires were tangled, wrapped around each other, and she was not quick enough to save her brother from the climax of the recording, played out by a macabre conductor of death, saving the greatest symphony until the last.
A scream, long and loose. Swollen with the kind of horrors that no one should witness. Another thump. A series of breaths, fast and ragged. A wet sound like meat on a chopping board.
And then nothing, except the sound of footsteps walking away and the hiss of the still-rolling tape.
Aster and Evan locked eyes, falling into the well of each other’s shock, frozen and unable to move. A few seconds later, just as it occurred to them to switch off the tape, they caught a sound, like a sack of potatoes dragging itself across the floor.
Evan squeezed his sister’s hand.
And then the voice was up close again, a thickened, halting mumble, telling them that it was bleeding and it hurt so much and it was scared of dying but it might be better than living. That it was going to turn off the tape, and take it out of the Walkman and hide it inside a cushion. That it hoped someone would find it. That the person who had done this was—
The Lockwood siblings leaned forward, desperate to help this stranger, this voice from the past, but the Walkman stopped playing, the abrupt pop and click of its buttons making them jump.
The tape had run out.
70
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
26 The Avenue – 4.38 p.m.
Five seconds, sometimes less.
That’s all it takes to turn a life inside out. A moment of inattention changing lanes on the motorway. A shortcut down an alleyway on a rain-dirty night. The discovery of illicit texts. A luxury hotel on an itemized credit card bill.
A newspaper story.
Dessie stared at the computer screen without blinking until her eyes swam and she had to rub at them with her knuckles to clear her vision.
Finally.
Now breathe.
A part of her wished that she had never begun this journey down the rabbit hole, filing her discovery under Forget as Quickly as Possible and burying her head in the sand.
But that had never been Dessie’s way. She did not shy away from uncomfortable truths. That was why, two hours after opening her laptop, she had found what she was looking for.
After multiple references to multiple Benjamin Turners, she had narrowed her search to include Lincolnshire. The newspaper story was dated six years previously and she had known it was him because the photograph, although the size of a thumbnail, was clear as the estuary skies.
A pharmacist caught spying on women with a telescope has escaped jail.
Benjamin Turner, from Lincoln, spent hours at a time watching his victims in their own homes without their knowledge or consent.
Turner set up a telescope in the spare bedroom of his parents’ home to observe women as they undressed.
Prosecutors told Lincoln Crown Court he had ‘waged a sustained campaign on the vulnerable women in his street, including a young mother and a pensioner.’
Turner insisted that he had ‘made a mistake’ and had originally intended to use his telescope for documenting cloud formations and stargazing.
Turner pleaded guilty to two counts of voyeurism between 2011 and 2012 and was sentenced to a three-year community order. He was ordered to sign the Sex Offenders register for five years.
He was sacked from his job in March.
Dessie was finding it difficult to breathe, the truth as cold and stinging as winter rain.
Five dead bodies had been found in the woods a stone’s throw from her house. No suspects. No arrests. Nothing. And here she was, living with a stranger who had lied about his past.
A lump of iron settled in her chest.
Fletcher Parnell had changed his name to escape his criminal record. He had preyed on vulnerable women. He had kept a terrible secret from her.
The question was, what else was he capable of?
71
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
25 The Avenue – 7.31 p.m.
Their father was on the telephone to their mother’s sister.
Aster emptied half a saucepan’s worth of baked beans onto her brother’s toast and sat down opposite him. Both children picked up their knives and forks. Put them down again.
‘I can’t stop hearing it.’ Evan seemed shrunken, a shadow of himself. Aster’s mouth was still dry from fear. She nodded, surprised by a wave of tearfulness.
Her brother pushed his plate away. Dark patches beneath his eyes. A scar on his cheek from a toy car she had thrown at him when he was a toddler and had scribbled on her drawing of a cat.
He looked across the table at her, seeking reassurance and guidance. His expression said what shall we do? But she didn’t know.
‘Who do you think it was?’ He poked at a bean with his finger.
‘I haven’t got a clue.’
‘Do you think it was a child or a grown-up?’
‘Evan—’
‘Do you think we should tell Dad?’
‘I think Dad’s got enough on his mind at the moment.’
‘Do you think we should tell someone?’
Aster picked up her plate and scraped its contents into the bin. Ran warm water into the pan. From her vantage point at the sink, she could see a police car parked on the street outside. Perhaps Evan was right. They could tell the police. Or Bailey and the other boys. But the idea of talking about the contents of the tape made her squirm with embarrassment and fear. It had upset her more than she was letting on.
Evan dug up a forkful of beans. Took a sip of his milk. Aster smiled to herself. It looked like her brother’s appetite had returned. Some things never changed.
‘I’ve got an idea.’ His mouth was full of beans and toast.
‘Go on.’
‘I found the tape in the treehouse, right? Why don’t we see what else we can find? Maybe there are other clues in there.’
‘I don’t know, Evan. It might be best to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means not poking about in stuff that isn’t our business.’
His mouth set in a line, but he didn’t argue.
The floorboards above their heads creaked. Their father was pacing about, still talking to their Auntie Carol. The house felt empty without their mother. She was the one who cooked dinner, and made them read and shower and tidy their rooms. The steady hand on the tiller. Aster missed her.
‘Do you think Mum’s OK?’ Evan’s voice was small, as if he needed to ask the question, but didn’t want her to hear.
‘She’s just gone out for a bit.’ Aster picked up his empty plate. ‘She’ll be home soon.’ She didn’t believe that, but she didn’t want to frighten him.
Dusk slid into darkness. Their father sat in the armchair, nursing a bottle of beer, the shadows deepening around him. He didn’t say much. Earlier that afternoon, he had knocked on every house in the street but no one had seen her. Both children cleaned their teeth and changed into their nightclothes without being asked.
An air of expectancy hovered around the house like an unwelcome guest. All of them were waiting for something to happen, for Olivia to call, for the sound of her key
in the lock or a knock on the door from DS Stanton. Anything.
But time pressed on without empathy or compassion, as time always does. The clock in the hallway marked out the minutes, two children went to bed that night without a kiss from their mother and Olivia Lockwood still did not come home.
72
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
4 Hillside Crescent – 9.11 p.m.
‘Thank you, Wildeve. We’ll take it from here.’ A pause. ‘Let’s hope you haven’t screwed things up for the rest of us.’
Those had been DCI Roger Sampson’s precise words when she had delivered Trefor Lovell to the officers still gathered outside his house that afternoon. Mac had stayed in the car, and she had escorted the old man across the road, knowing he wouldn’t try to run, all fight sucked from him.
She wasn’t certain what Sampson was driving at. Although off duty, she had only behaved as any other half-decent cop would have done. But that wasn’t the issue. Instead, she suspected he was alluding to the fact she should have been at home on compassionate leave. Any solicitor worth their salt would use it as a stick to beat her with, calling into question her judgement and challenging her ability to stick to the rules, seeking out that kink in the tracks that would derail any potential case.
She cast her mind back, trying to reassure herself that she had followed procedure to the letter. She knew she had done the right thing.
His words still stung, though.
She had hoped that Sampson would urge her back into service, that her arrest of Lovell would make him realize she was an essential cog in the machinery of the investigating team, but his clipped tone had told her everything she needed to know. Run along now, there’s a love. He had even threatened her with a disciplinary if it turned out that she had messed up Lovell’s arrest, the collapse of a future trial. Naive, that’s what she’d been.
The news had broken within a couple of hours. She’d heard it on the radio, driving home. ‘Police investigating the Doll Maker murders have a suspect in custody. The body of a woman has been recovered from a property in The Avenue near Rayleigh, Essex.’
Put like that, it didn’t look good for Lovell. Naturally, the press office hadn’t confirmed his arrest for murder, because it wasn’t true. Yet. But they hadn’t denied it either, simply stating that a seventy-seven-year-old man had been arrested on suspicion of assault. It would quieten the detractors for a while, at least. Give the team some time to search Lovell’s house and gather evidence. Breathing space.
The incident room would be buzzing with this injection of adrenaline. She could almost taste the stale water and feel the glare of the strip lighting on her skin. If she closed her eyes, she could hear Adam’s voice, calling across the room to another officer, the rumble of discussion and debate and the best way to proceed. The gritty tiredness behind her eyes. They would be taking Lovell’s house apart, looking for clues, examining what they had discovered and what they already knew. She should be there.
Adam.
Come back to me.
Grief, with its teeth, its hungry mouth, swallowed her. An hour, that’s all it would take to rub out the pain. A handful of pills. The bite of a kitchen knife against her wrists. A step off a bridge and the cold, hard welcome of the concrete below. What did she have to live for? A job where she didn’t matter. No family left. All gone. Everything.
She sat in the darkness of their home. If Adam was here, he would be preparing a late supper, opening the wine, cutting up cheese, listening to her day, sharing his. Music. Slow dancing. The press of his mouth against hers.
And now all she had left was the bumping up against his absence, the understanding that all the routines of their lives together – her life – would have to be remade.
For so long, she had been alone. Functioning. Capable. An island. But Adam had thrown her a rope, and she had held on, tentatively at first. Allowed herself to scale it, little by little. Put her trust in the strength of this stranger who she had come to love with a force she’d forgotten she had.
They had made her greedy, those glimpses of a life long forgotten, filled with the glitter of compassion and warmth and equality. A sense of coming home. She had grabbed for it, clung on to that rope with everything she possessed. But somewhere along the way she had taken it for granted. The rope had slackened. And here she was again, drifting on her own.
In the medicine cabinet in the bathroom upstairs were several boxes of painkillers.
Fifteen steps or so. And she could turn herself off.
The doorbell rang.
It was so late. She ignored it.
Her mobile phone beeped.
It’s me. Open the door.
Mac.
She thought about ignoring him, but he pressed down on the bell again, and she knew he wouldn’t go away. Mac wasn’t a quitter.
He grinned at her and held up two white plastic bags, filled with food. In the kitchen, he unloaded containers of fragrant curries, pilau rice, tarka dhal, thick naan studded with coconut and raisins. Tall bottles of beer. Her mouth watered at the smell of spices and comfort.
‘I knew you wouldn’t bother to eat,’ he said. ‘And you don’t have to, but in case you’re hungry . . .’
She didn’t say much, but touched his arm to show her thanks.
‘You get the plates,’ he said, ‘and I’ll find a bottle opener.’
Her mouth was full of cardboard, but she managed a couple of spoonfuls of curry, some rice. Mac took a swig of beer. ‘Lovell’s hiding something.’
She shook her head. ‘No way. Sampson’s warned me off. I need this job, Mac.’
Mac tore off some naan, swiped it in his leftover sauce. ‘Look, I wouldn’t sanction breaking the rules, but there’s more at stake here than you realize. I – it’s not my place, but you have to trust me on this.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I haven’t been entirely honest.’
She looked at him, surprised, but he met her gaze. Defiant, almost. Authoritative. As if he still occupied the role of her superior.
‘I can’t tell you why,’ he said. ‘It will compromise the investigation. But I will in due course, I promise.’ He wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Sampson’s blinkered, he’s gone off half-cocked after Lovell, probably because he was stupid enough to attack French, but my instinct tells me that although he’s holding something back, he’s not responsible for the murders.’
‘Oh, come on. He lives in The Avenue. His wife is dead. He makes those creepy little dolls, for Christ’s sake. One of the Scenes of Crime guys said she even had the same weird painted face.’
‘Think, Wildeve. You’re not the only one who spoke to the SOCO guys. She’s been dead a long time. That’s not how this killer operates. And yes, Lovell has got opportunity, there is some circumstantial evidence, but it’s not enough, is it? What about motive?’
He was right, of course. Wildeve’s head whirled, filling with questions. Was it possible her own instincts hadn’t been off-kilter after all?
‘But you said Lovell was hiding something. How do you know that?’
Mac pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I should have told you this yesterday. Adam was on to something. A few hours before his body was found, he left a voicemail explaining that he needed to speak to me. He was in The Avenue, he said. He sounded excited, that he had a theory and he’d explain when he saw me.’
He fumbled for his mobile. ‘Adam didn’t show up when he said he would, but he did send this text.’ He passed it to Wildeve. LOVELL KNOWS. Mac shook his head. ‘I don’t know what he meant by that, Wildeve, and my hands are tied. I’m just a retired copper and Sampson won’t listen to me. But if you could somehow speak to Lovell again, and persuade him to tell us what he told Adam, we’ll have the key to unlocking this case.’
73
Wednesday, 1 August 2018
25 The Avenue – 2.06 a.m.
At first, she thought it was rain, throwing itself in angry handfuls at her window.
She rubbed her eyes, swimming up through sleep. But there was no trickling sound of water from her open casement window, no drumming on the roof. The glowing numbers of her alarm clock informed her it was six minutes past two. She switched on her light and saw two or three pebbles lying under her sill.
She padded over to the window and looked out on the street below.
A mass of blond hair, a face grinning up at her. Bailey. And a couple of shadows behind him. Charlie and Marco, she guessed. They were all dressed in black.
‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ he called softly through the darkness. ‘Time to go.’
She folded her arms across her chest, her vest top making her feel exposed. She wanted to refuse, to fetch her father and make them go away, but it was harder to speak up for herself now they were here.
‘My dad will kill me.’ The murmur of her voice sounded too loud in the stillness of the street.
‘So don’t get caught,’ said Bailey. He smiled at her and her stomach turned inside out. ‘Get dressed. We’ll wait for you.’
Despite the late hour, the air was swollen, like overripe fruit. When she walked up to them, Bailey slung an arm around her shoulder, claiming ownership. The weight of it was uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to shrug him off, seduced by the fickle allure of belonging.
She flicked a glance back at her house. Evan had cried out as she’d crept down the stairs, and she had paused, half hoping her father would wake up and put a stop to this nonsense. But her brother had settled back into sleep, and Aster blew out a breath, not in relief, but reluctance. Still, she had pressed on and now it was too late. She’d aligned herself with them.
‘So, what’s the plan?’
The others had barely acknowledged her, and she was hit by an overwhelming sensation that she had been wrong, that she didn’t belong here at all, but was simply a stranger who had no other purpose than to serve as a distraction. Or worse still, a patsy.
‘Well,’ Bailey offered her another lazy grin, ‘my mother always encouraged me to think big.’
The Neighbour Page 19