‘What will you do with them?’
The following morning, not long after Deirdre’s locksmith friend leaves, Bob, Richard and Steve arrive at my door.
Bob is friendly as ever, eager, even excited.
Since I saw him last, Richard has been on a sunbed and lost yet another shirt button.
Steve avoids my eyes and stands a little way behind them, shifting his weight from foot to foot and avoiding our prologue of polite small talk.
Mikey, Bob explains, couldn’t get off work.
A part of me – a large part – knows this is mad.
But it’s a means to an end. And it’s daytime, I have my phone in my pocket and Bob is here, who I trust as much as I can a man I’ve only met once before.
I have new, sturdy locks, front and back, and I’m in sole possession of the keys.
Almost everything I own is upstairs, in the office, and its door is closed.
The rest of the rooms look just as they did when house-hunters were wandering around here during the one viewing Deirdre managed to organize before she found out that the seller wasn’t the owner.
So while it is my house, it doesn’t feel as if these men are in my home.
Let them see it now, while it’s empty. Let them scratch this morbid itch today, so that when I’ve filled it with colour and furniture and pieces of me – when I’ve made it my home – I won’t have to worry about them doing it then.
I direct them into the kitchen, where Bob and Richard stop and look around, awestruck, as if it’s actually a gold-drenched chamber in the Palace of Versailles.
They unpack two laptops, two serious-looking cameras, and various leads and cables while Steve stands silently by the patio doors, looking out into the yard.
‘We’re OK to take photos?’ Bob asks.
‘What will you do with them?’
I do not want to end up on their Facebook page.
‘Add them to our files. They don’t have to go online, if you don’t want them to.’
‘I don’t.’
‘No problem.’ Bob looks visibly relieved that I haven’t outlawed photography altogether.
He takes out the same three-ring binder he had at the meeting on Tuesday night, plus a packet of bright pink Marigolds and a white plastic bottle covered in warning labels.
‘Is that the …?’
He nods. ‘This is the sodium hypochlorite.’
Meanwhile, Richard is unwrapping … a pillar candle?
‘And this,’ he says, flashing his eyebrows, ‘is for talking to the other side.’
Bob rolls his eyes. ‘Not this again.’
‘Death is a natural part of life, Bobby boy.’ To me, ‘In some houses, you can sense a presence. Past inhabitants, not ready to leave yet. Or tortured souls who didn’t get to leave. If they want to speak, I’m here to listen.’ He winks. ‘I’m a little bit psychic, you see.’
I stare into his eyes and say in my head, It’s so obvious it’s a hairpiece.
After a beat, he colours and looks away.
I don’t know, maybe he is.
‘Shall we start with the stain?’ Bob suggests. ‘Tour after?’
‘It’ll be a short tour, but sure.’ I move to go. ‘The stain’s upstairs.’
Steve whips around. ‘Upstairs?’
His first word since he arrived.
‘Yeah.’ I point at the ceiling. ‘It’s in the bedroom.’
‘That’s not going to be anything to do with Billy Creen, then,’ Bob says.
‘Who’s Billy Creen?’
‘The missing husband from nineteen sixty-eight.’ He flips open his binder, removes one of the carefully labelled plastic wallets and hands it to me. It’s protecting a small, grainy, sepia-toned photo. ‘See?’
But I don’t, initially.
The photograph is of Delaney Row, taken from the village end of the lane before the bank building and its perimeter wall existed.
The terrace faces a row of garages, each one with a set of double doors and just big enough to fit a single vehicle.
A light-coloured car with FORD fixed to the front of its bonnet is parked at the edge of the frame.
‘Spot the difference,’ Bob prompts. ‘Look at the side of your house.’
And then, finally, I see it: the room we’re standing in right now has nothing above it but flat roof.
‘No upstairs,’ I say.
Richard shakes his head. ‘Not until the seventies.’
‘The story doing the rounds at the time,’ Bob says, ‘was that, if the wife did kill him, she could only have managed it when he was asleep. So if it happened, it happened in their bedroom.’
‘Which would’ve been in there.’ I point at the kitchen wall, indicating the room on the other side of it, the one with the spreading stain on its ceiling that gets my vote for the worst room in the house. ‘That would’ve been the original bedroom.’
‘Can we take a quick look?’ Richard asks. ‘Before we head upstairs?’
‘Sure.’
Richard and Bob hurry out into the hall, eyes gleaming.
But Steve makes no move to go. He’s hanging back, watching the other two leave. Waiting for them to, I realize, when he suddenly darts towards me, coming close enough for me to hear him when he whispers, ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
I blink at him, confused by both the question and the look on his face.
Because if I had to call it something, I’d call it concern.
For me.
Which doesn’t make any sense.
‘What am I doing?’ I ask.
‘If it’s real, I wouldn’t let them near it.’
‘If what’s—?’
But I’m interrupted by the electronic siren of the doorbell. Steve throws me a pleading look before pushing past me. I turn and see two blurry figures through the glass of the front door, one of which lifts their hand in a wave, letting me know that they’ve seen me too.
Alex and Sophie.
Steve disappears into the stained-ceiling room just as Richard pokes his head out.
‘Neighbours,’ I say as I walk past. ‘I’ll get rid of them.’
Imagine the introductions if I don’t.
Although Sophie mightn’t need any. She might already know one or more of them.
I open the front door, positioning my body to block the view as best I can, and say what I hope sounds like a distracted and busy ‘Hi.’
Sophie thrusts a wicker basket at me. ‘Peace offering,’ she says.
‘Er, thanks,’ I say, taking it.
It’s a hamper from Sips. A bag of coffee, some kind of cake, a bright yellow coffee pot and a matching mug.
Alex seems nervy, anxious. ‘Did you get my text?’
I shake my head.
‘I just sent it.’ His face says, Read it.
Struggling to keep hold of the hamper, I slip my phone out of my pocket and unlock the screen.
I actually have three texts from Alex, because I’ve been ignoring him.
Yesterday morning: Hope you slept well. What time would it suit you for me to annoy you further by bringing the furniture around?
Last night: I’m not avoiding you, I hope you’re not avoiding me …
? You don’t have to worry about me saying anything to Soph, I promise I didn’t.
And won’t. Three minutes ago: Can’t stop her don’t worry when she looked she found USA woman maybe say Ellie is a nickname?
What the hell does that mean?
I give Alex a look that silently asks the same question.
‘I wanted to say sorry,’ Sophie says, oblivious.
‘I think we got off on the wrong foot. Because of me. But I just didn’t understand how a house sale could’ve gone through so fast, and I was pissed off that Deirdre wouldn’t tell me anything …
And I forgot, for a second, that it was absolutely none of my business. ’
The text suddenly snaps into sense. Can’t stop her don’t worry when she looked she found USA woman maybe say Ellie is a nickname?
meant Sophie is coming round to apologize and force Sips merchandise on you, I couldn’t stop her, but don’t worry because although she did google your name, all she found was your friend the nutritionist from Denver, which only leaves the question of why you told us your name was Ellie when we know it’s Hannah, so maybe just say Ellie is a nickname and let’s all move on with our lives?
‘Anyway,’ she continues. ‘Sorry for being a nosy bitch, but I hope we can start over? And that you’ll come to the party tonight. Everyone will be there and it’d be great if you were too.’
She looks at Alex for approval, as if she’s the neighbourhood bully, frogmarched to the home of a victim to make a sulky apology under obvious duress.
But he ignores her. He’s too busy staring at something over my shoulder, eyes widening, mouth falling open in shock.
When I turn to look, I see that Steve has walked out into the hall and is turned towards us, looking at Alex in the same way.
Shit.
‘That’s him,’ Alex says in a furious whisper.
OK – not shit, actually. Good. Now I have a positive ID and I didn’t even need to try to take a picture.
‘Who?’ Sophie says loudly, craning her neck to peer in.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Alex hisses at me. ‘Are you OK? Should I call—?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ I start to pull the door closed. ‘I’ll explain later, OK? But I have to go now.’
‘But—’ Alex starts.
I shut the door, drop the hamper on the stairs, then hurry after Steve, who’s disappearing into the kitchen.
‘He saw you,’ I say. ‘On Sunday. And you saw him too, didn’t you?’
Steve looks over my shoulder. ‘That was your neighbour?’
I nod.
‘I didn’t think there was anyone in here. And the door was open, so …’
‘None of that justifies trespassing.’
‘I know.’ He exhales. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘How many times have you been here?’
Steve hesitates.
‘Look, I know you were here since,’ I say. ‘You saw the guards.’
Steve meets my eye with the same intense glare I felt burning my skin at the meeting.
‘And when were you last here?’ he asks pointedly.
Despite the heat of his attention, I feel a chill travel down my spine.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask with a mouth full of desert sand.
‘We’re all set,’ Bob says from right behind me.
‘Something definitely happened in there,’ Richard says from right behind him. ‘You can feel it.’
‘Let’s test the stain,’ Steve says. ‘If you’re sure you want us to.’