The Neighbour

by Fiona Cummins

  Evan was tired and he rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the older boy was still there.

  His father did not react in the way that Evan expected him to. At all. He took one look at Aster’s face, and the boy clutching his arm, and he said, ‘Let’s get you sorted out,’ in a voice that was gentler than Evan had heard in a long time. Aster’s lip wobbled and she ran to her father, and Evan heard him murmur, ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, we’ve found Mum.’

  The ambulance had already left with Olivia, and so Garrick loaded the boy into his car and instructed both of the children to go to bed. Their aunt would be there in the morning.

  ‘You’re in charge, Aster,’ he said. ‘I’m trusting you not to leave the house this time.’ She nodded, a miserable expression on her face.

  Her father gave her a rough hug. ‘I’ll call you with news as soon as I have it,’ he said. Then he was gone.

  Neither child was tired enough for bed, the residue of adrenaline from the night’s events still spinning through their young bodies.

  Aster made them both hot chocolate, but Evan couldn’t bring himself to enjoy its cloying sweetness, fear for his mother like a lead weight in his stomach.

  His sister was reluctant to talk about what had happened at the old man’s shop, but Evan had been unable to contain his own adventure, the facts spilling from him like water from a well.

  ‘She might have been able to shout for help if she hadn’t banged her head,’ he explained. ‘They don’t know yet. Or maybe she did call for help, but it was night-time and no one heard her. Or maybe the pain from her broken bones was too much to cope with and passing out was her body’s defence mechanism.’ He was parroting the conversations he had overheard between his father and the paramedics. But then he was back to being Evan. ‘She hit her head on a box, Aster, and the bruise looked like a flower.’

  ‘What type of a box?’ It was an idle question from Aster. She was rinsing out their mugs, dark circles beneath her eyes like half-moons, yawning, not expecting much of an answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said her brother. But it triggered something inside him, and all of a sudden, he burned to know what was inside that buried crate with its smear of blood on the edge where his mother had hit it when she’d fallen.

  The first streaks of dawn were opening up the day when Evan ran down the garden, the grass still shiny from the rain. In his haste, he slipped over, muddying his knees, but then he was up and off again, through the gate in their fence and skidding down into the dip of the ditch.

  The crate was in exactly the same place. Not on either of their properties, but roughly halfway between 25 and 27 The Avenue, and in the copse that lay beyond the fences at the bottom of their gardens.

  It was about the size of the box that his parents’ wine was delivered in at Christmas, twelve bottles all at once. But it had a lid, and there were nails in the wood, and one corner protruded from the ditch. Evan did not know this, but the hot weather had pushed it up through the shrinking, dried-out earth.

  Evan tugged at it, but it was lodged in the dirt and it wouldn’t shift. He stared at it, hands on his hips, when a shadow-shape in front of him said, ‘Let me help you with that.’

  Cooper Clifton, the man from next door, was standing by the section of ditch that ran behind his own garden fence. He shut his gate before Evan had a chance to protest.

  In one hand he carried a spade, and its steel edge gleamed hard and sharp.

  87

  Wednesday, 1 August 2018

  4 Hillside Crescent – 2.48 a.m.

  Wildeve took a large mouthful of coffee and picked up her keys. Showered, dressed and ready to go in twenty minutes. Not bad, Wild.

  Of all the phone calls she might have expected to receive at almost half past two in the morning, that had not been one of them.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Wildeve, it’s Roger Sampson.’

  The Detective Chief Inspector had sounded wary, as though he was uncertain of his reception.

  ‘It’s very late.’

  ‘Or early, depending on your point of view.’ He had grunted and she guessed he’d been dragged from his own bed, which meant something significant had happened.

  She had stifled a yawn. ‘What can I do for you, guv?’

  ‘It’s Lovell. He wants to talk.’

  Wildeve bit back her natural instinct towards sarcasm. ‘That’s great.’ But that didn’t explain why Sampson was calling her at this unsociable hour. ‘I’m not sure what that’s got to do with me.’

  ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  Wildeve had leaned back against the pillows of her bed, the photo album forgotten, electrified by his change of heart.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because of Adam.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Any chance it can wait until morning?’

  ‘’Fraid not. He says he knows who the killer is.’

  88

  Now

  The beginning of the end.

  If only we could freeze that fragment of time when things begin to unspool, we might catch the end of the thread between our fingers, wind it back onto the reel and tie it off with a knot.

  I could not begin to say when I realized that the comfortable shape of my life was drawing to a close. Perhaps it was that third time I took a life that did not belong to me. Or Adam Stanton’s death. Or the day that the Lockwoods moved in. Perhaps it was Mr Lovell’s discovery, his subsequent phone calls.

  But if I had to choose, I believe it was in the uncertain light of the dawn when the ambulance came to The Avenue, and Evan Lockwood opened more than a can of worms.

  89

  Wednesday, 1 August 2018

  Interview Room, Rayleigh Police Station – 3.27 a.m.

  Trefor Lovell’s eyes were dark holes in his face, and there were bristles on his chin. He smelled of sweat and dirty clothes.

  A cup of coffee was on the table in front of him, but he did not touch it. When Wildeve entered the interview suite, he smiled up at her.

  DCI Sampson was not usually present for interviews, but he had opted to sit in on this one. In truth, he was dubious about the sergeant’s ability to conduct herself properly, but if this was the only way that Lovell would talk, he was prepared to take a gamble.

  He had given her an up-to-date briefing on the phone. Tests had confirmed that the ‘make-up’ on the victims was a specialist kind of doll paint. His attitude was evident in the way he held himself, the aggressive forward slant of his body. He had seen what Lovell had done to DC French and he was certain the old man was guilty.

  The harsh light blanched all lines from the faces in the room. It was not a large space. A table. Two chairs either side of it. A machine to record their conversation.

  Wildeve introduced herself, gestured at DCI Sampson and Trefor Lovell to do the same, recorded the time and date, and read the suspect his rights. She was ready to begin.

  ‘You’re entitled to legal representation, Mr Lovell. You may find it useful.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t need it. The only thing I’ve done wrong is hurt that officer of yours, and I’m prepared to take responsibility for that, even though he provoked me.’

  ‘There was a dead body in your house, Mr Lovell? Who was it?’

  ‘Annie, my wife.’

  ‘She’d been dead for a long time.’

  His eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She had bone cancer and it spread. I didn’t want to let her go.’ His voice broke. ‘I couldn’t.’

  Wildeve felt the heat of grief in the back of her own throat. Their eyes met and she read the sympathy in his, and so she busied herself by glancing through the paperwork in front of her. ‘Your GP has confirmed her illness. We’ll see what the post-mortem says.’ In truth, the PM might not show much at all, given the state of her body, but she wasn’t about to share that.

  He shrugged. ‘It won’t show anything different.’

  She ch
anged tack. ‘Mr Lovell, five bodies have been found in the woods that edge the place you live and work. Is there anything you would like to tell us about that?’

  ‘Aye, it’s awful. God rest their souls.’

  ‘Did you know any of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that you make dolls, and each of the victims was found with glass eyes in their sockets? That you have a talent for painting the faces of your dolls, and each face was skilfully made up with paint?’

  A bitter laugh. ‘Of course it’s not a coincidence. Someone was trying to set me up.’

  ‘Is that so?’ DCI Sampson couldn’t contain himself. Wildeve gritted her teeth, but Lovell only laughed again.

  ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not entirely.’ Wildeve leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea who?’

  ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Care to share them?’

  He opened his mouth to answer, but the door to the interview suite opened, and PC Taylor stuck his head through the door, his cheeks reddening.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you. There’s a call for you, Wildeve. Won’t wait, apparently.’

  Wildeve picked up the extension, irritated by the interruption.

  ‘This is Wildeve Stanton.’

  ‘It’s Mac.’

  She was surprised to hear from him. ‘What’s up, Mac? It’s the middle of the night. And I’m interviewing a suspect. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Sampson call you in, did he? I guessed he might need you in the end. Is it Lovell?’

  She heard the blare of an ambulance siren. ‘Are you at the hospital? Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’ve just had a call from an old nurse mate of mine who owes me a favour. He didn’t realize I was off the case.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Garrick Lockwood’s wife’s turned up.’

  In truth, Wildeve had forgotten all about her, distracted by events of the last couple of hours. ‘That’s great, Mac, but I’d better go. I think I’m getting somewhere with Lovell.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not all.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s just treated a kid with a gunshot wound in his arm.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the kid was breaking into a place in The Avenue when he was shot.’

  ‘Which house?’

  ‘It wasn’t a house.’

  A pricking across the back of her neck. ‘Where then?’ she said, but she already knew what he was going to say.

  ‘That toy shop at the top of the road,’ he said. ‘The one belonging to Trefor Lovell. And, Wildeve, you need to prepare yourself. Adam’s ID was inside.’

  90

  Wednesday, 1 August 2018

  26 The Avenue – 3.39 a.m.

  The dressing-gown belt was drawn so tightly around his hand that the bones of his knuckles were visible through his skin.

  Dessie recognized it as the one belonging to the new woman opposite. She’d been wearing it a day or two ago as she’d hefted rubbish bags into her wheelie bin. The same woman was now missing, according to her husband, who’d knocked on Dessie’s door earlier in the day, asking if she’d seen her. She swallowed and her mouth tasted sour.

  ‘What were you doing?’ Fletcher’s voice was pleasant and even. That frightened her more than anything else. His gaze lingered on the camera by her feet and they both knew.

  ‘I . . .’ She didn’t have the faintest idea what to say to him.

  ‘You found it then,’ he said. No question, just a statement of truth.

  ‘You lied to me,’ she said. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it broke on lied.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ He took a step towards her, and she flinched, pressing herself closer to the wall, trying to make herself disappear. ‘Are you going to tell the police?’

  ‘Fletch—’ The police had to be told. It was the right thing to do. The only thing.

  ‘They’ll put me in prison this time, Dessie.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no, I’m sure it won’t be like that. You can explain that you didn’t mean to take those pictures, and you need to get help—’

  ‘And you think they’ll believe that? This is a second offence, Dessie. A custodial sentence.’

  ‘You’ll think of something, Fletch.’ Her eyes were pleading with him to make this easy for her, to accept his mistakes and to walk away without a fight.

  His fingers bruised her arms. ‘Two years, Dessie. Maximum sentence for voyeurism.’

  She thought about lying to him, promising that she would not tell a soul about the photographs she had discovered on his camera, that she would keep his secrets buried in a place that she would never visit and would allow to grow over, covered in brambles. But she could not bring herself to say that. Because it was not true.

  He was looking at her, and she stared back at him, a challenge. She thought she saw love in his eyes, and a tentative plea for clemency. But she could not bring herself to offer him the reassurance of even a half-smile.

  A siren wailed in the street outside.

  ‘Why have you got that belt? It belongs to that woman across the road.’ She swallowed again. ‘The missing one.’

  ‘I saw her last night,’ he said. ‘She lost it.’

  She flinched again and his grip loosened, his hands falling away. She wrapped her arms across her chest, rubbing at her violated skin. The expression on his face had changed to sorrow.

  The camera was still lying on the floor. She calculated it would take less than three seconds to grab it. Around six seconds to make it to the end of the hallway, open the front door and run into the street. Another couple of minutes to alert the police. Or perhaps she could run to the end of the road. See if those officers were still waiting in their car outside number thirty-two.

  Fletcher was unspooling the dressing-gown cord he had wrapped around his knuckles. The skin on his hand was marked, indented. He smoothed out the belt, its silk creased and spoiled now.

  He stepped towards her, hands reaching for her.

  Dessie kneeled forward, her limbs loose and liquid, and for a tantalizing moment, it looked as though she was moving towards Fletcher, to immerse herself in the warmth of their love.

  But his girlfriend snatched up the camera and bolted for the front door.

  Fletcher watched the woman he loved run from him. But he did not call after her. He let her go.

  The mess of his life was nothing more than a dirty scribble on the page. No way to erase it. No way to start again now. Even if he tore it into a dozen pieces, the stain would still be there.

  The boxes of tablets were spilled across the hallway floor. He did not bother to pick them up. Soon the police would come. He would lose his job again. He had already lost the love of his life.

  They might try to pin those murders on him.

  And there was an ambulance outside number twenty-five. Was Mrs Lockwood hurt? She’d been upset but she hadn’t wanted to talk to him. Who would believe him when he said he’d found the belt snagged on the bushes after she’d left? That he’d intended no harm, but had wanted it as a keepsake, a coveted treasure to hide amongst his photographs. To stroke and press against his skin. With his track record, not even Dessie.

  The fear of prison – of what might happen to him while the guards looked away – was swallowing him up, threatening to drown him. He could run. He could grab his clothes and his wallet, and he could hide himself from the world until it was safe to live again. He’d done that before. He could do it again.

  But he remembered how that had felt. The scour of anxiety in the pit of his stomach at every job interview, every new friendship. That was no life. And if that was his future, that was not a future at all.

  The ribbon of silk had entwined itself around his fingers. He trudged upstairs, the weight of his body making every step creak.

  Marriage. A family. Once upon a time, he had longed for those prizes, but they were not for the likes of him. H
e could not resist his impulses, not even when every fibre of himself fought to look away. Caught in the pull of a magnet, he found himself helpless. Weakened. No woman would accept that. And the cycle of secrecy and discovery would roll on until he was wrung dry of all hope and feeling, and he would find himself right back in this dark place again.

  The spare room was how he had left it, telescope pointing to the sky.

  The rain had rolled in and the clouds were gathering. Nimbostratus. Cumulonimbus. He repeated their names over and over until he stopped crying and his breathing had calmed.

  From his vantage point at the window, a barefoot Dessie was half running down the street towards the parked police car outside Trefor Lovell’s house. Not much time. Five minutes. Ten, at the most.

  Fletcher opened the wardrobe door and dragged free the stepladder they used to access the loft. Its metal feet scraped his shin, an ugly burst of pain, but he did not feel it. He was somewhere else now, at peace with himself, a decision made.

  He positioned the ladder beneath the opening of the loft, climbed up, pushed against the hatch, and heaved himself through until he was sitting on its edge, feet dangling below him. Leaning across, he looped the silk dressing-gown belt around the floor joist, tying it off. He tugged on it as hard as he could. It held. With the tip of his toe, he kicked away the ladder.

  His fingers worked the rest of the length of fabric, deft and sure, the memory of his father’s voice as fresh as yesterday. The reef knot. Clove hitch. Figure of eight. Sheet bend. Bowline. Come on, Benji. Make sure it’s nice and tight. Don’t want it to unravel at a crucial moment, son. Your life might depend on it.

  Yes, Daddy.

  And the knot hadn’t unravelled, had it? Not twenty-five years ago when the path of Benjamin Turner’s young life, bordered by farm animals and meadows and sweet-smelling flowers, had taken him off the edge of the cliff.

  For a moment, he was back there again, right on the precipice. He remembered his own breath, coming faster and faster, a band of pain across his chest, tightening with each footstep, and the feel of wheat brushing against his calves as he pounded through the long grasses. Daddy, where are you? Dinner’s on the table. Daddy. Daddy.