Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Sunday
EMILY
The cab driver has the radio on. It’s turned down low, but I can still hear a talk-show argument about tenants and landlords. I sit back, drained. I’m not sure it was a good idea to get out of the house. My worries came with me.
I stare out of the window, watching neat hedgerows blur past. I need to speak to Oliver. Ask him to level with me about the texts I know he’s receiving.
It occurs to me that we haven’t heard anything yet from the GP surgery about our first appointment, and it’s probably a good thing until I get this issue ironed out with him. I have to feel secure and confident in my trust of him before we embark on any kind of fertility tests.
The driver clears his throat. ‘Which turning, love? Orchard Lane, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, take the left at the bend.’
We slow, indicator ticking, when a figure steps out into the road, one hand raised. A uniformed police officer.
The driver swears under his breath and rolls his window down. ‘All right, mate? Passenger needs an Orchard Lane drop-off.’
The policeman bends forward slightly, his face pale and serious. ‘Sorry, sir, no access. You’ll need to turn back. There’s been an incident.’
My pulse jolts. I lean forward from the back seat. ‘What kind of incident? What’s happened?’
Past the officer’s shoulder I can now see a blaze of blue lights washing over the neat gardens and immaculate facades.
Sunlight still glints on the upstairs windows, but the strobes cut across it, harsh and unreal.
Figures in high-vis jackets stride back and forth while an ambulance sits further down, its doors flung wide.
The lane that usually looks so immaculate has been swallowed whole by uniforms and tape.
The police officer glances at me, then back to the driver. ‘I’m sorry, but I can only tell you there’s been a serious incident. No vehicles beyond this point.’
The driver shrugs and gives me a what do you want me to do? look.
‘I live here,’ I say quickly, fumbling for the door handle and addressing the officer.
‘Madam—’
But I’m already out on the tarmac. The cab’s rear lights glow red as the driver swings a U-turn, leaving me alone with the officer.
‘I need to get home,’ I manage to say, hearing the wobble in my own voice.
He hesitates. There’s something in his eyes—not pity exactly, but caution. As though he’s weighing how much to tell me. Then he lifts a hand, points further down the lane. ‘See those two officers by the cordon? They’ll assist you.’
Assist. Seems a strange word to use.
I start walking.
The lane looks as if someone has scrubbed out its glossy veneer. Police tape slices the pavement. An ambulance sits with its rear doors flung wide outside the Coach House, no movement inside, a strange hush settled over everything like snow.
My stomach drops.
This is here. This is our street. Our driveway. Our doorstep.
My neighbours are silhouettes in windows, curtains twitching. A couple I recognize from the barbecue stand behind a gate at the far end, whispering into each other’s shoulders. I glance over at Lara and Tim’s place, but there’s no activity there.
I stop walking and force myself to take in some air. I feel weirdly dizzy.
I can see high-vis jackets moving around outside our house, camera flashes close by . . . something very bad has happened. And the one question swelling in my mind is simple and terrifying:
Where is Oliver?
Because if there are police and paramedics outside our house, then Oliver is involved. He has to be. That text message I wasn’t supposed to see . . . You’re a dead man.
I shudder at the thought of what might have happened. What is it all about?
A police officer’s arm lifts, palm out, holding someone back. Someone else ducks under the tape.
Paramedics move with purpose, not panic, which is somehow worse. Like they already know what they’re dealing with.
For a second my brain scrabbles for something ordinary—a burst pipe, a car accident, anything—but the way everyone keeps glancing up towards the Coach House makes the air turn thin in my lungs.
I picture him stumbling out of the house, collapsing, blood on the pavement . . . my hands start to shake before I’ve even moved another step.
I look at my phone. No missed calls. No texts. I hit his name anyway.
It rings. It rings again.
No answer.
A flash of him at the barbecue, the perfect host personified.
I call him again, my thumb clumsy against the screen.
Still nothing.
If something has happened to my husband, if he’s been attacked, injured . . . then why isn’t anyone telling me? Why is nobody banging on the door trying to gain access? Why are they all just hovering, looking past our gate . . . as if the worst of it is happening just out of my line of sight?
And then, as I get closer, through a gap between two officers I see the direction everyone keeps turning towards.
Not towards our front door.
Not towards our drive.
Everyone is staring at the house next door. Vanessa’s house.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ An officer steps towards me. His voice sounds muffled, distant.
‘I need to get to my house,’ I say faintly, and keep walking.
‘I’m sorry, madam, you can’t go up there, there’s been a—’
My voice cracks. ‘I live there! That’s my house! The Coach House, right there—’
‘Please,’ he says quickly, hands lifted in a calming gesture. ‘Just hold fire.’
A white-suited scene of crime officer steps out of Vanessa’s house, his mask tugged down. He shakes his head at a detective in overshoes.
The sight makes my stomach drop clean away.
‘Vanessa,’ I murmur to myself. Something has happened in Vanessa’s house . . . but why is the Coach House implicated, too? And where is Oliver?
My attention swings back to our home. Oliver’s car is there, but there’s no sign of him. I think again of that message I saw on his phone.
You know it’s only a matter of time before I find you. And when I do, you’re a dead man.
I yank my phone from my bag and stab Oliver’s number. It rings once, twice. No answer. ‘I need to know if my husband is OK.’
The two officers talk to each other, then one speaks low into his radio. The other watches me carefully.
My ears are ringing.
The taller officer steps forward. He’s young, late twenties, but he squares his shoulders.
‘Mrs Sharpe, I need you to listen to me. The property you’ve indicated—your house—is currently within a cordoned area.
A crime scene. For your own safety, you can’t enter until senior officers give clearance. ’
‘What do you mean, clearance? It’s my home.’ My voice emerges too high and too loud. ‘I need to know if something has happened to my husband!’
The officer shakes his head slightly. ‘Madam, you cannot enter the house at this moment in time.’
‘Mrs Sharpe.’ The older officer speaks now. His tone is firmer, less amenable. ‘I’m afraid I can confirm that there has been a death at the property next door to your own, the Stables. We are currently treating the area including your house as a major crime scene, so we can’t allow you access yet.’
The full weight of what he’s just said doesn’t hit me for a second or two.
You’re a dead man.
‘No,’ I hear myself wail. ‘No, no, no.’
I falter, unsteady on my feet, and the young officer catches my elbow. I want to shake him off, push by him and run up to the house, but my legs don’t feel strong enough.
‘Who is it? Tell me . . . is it Vanessa? Is it Oliver? Please. Please just tell me . . .’
The older officer’s expression softens a little. He looks away, back towards the knot of activity around the Stables, the cluster of white-suited figures gliding around like ghosts.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t disclose further details at this stage,’ he says, measured, like each syllable has been practised.
‘You’ll be updated as soon as it’s possible. For now, we need to ensure your safety and preserve the integrity of the investigation.’
Investigation. Death. The words circle like vultures.
I stare at Oliver’s car, willing him to step out and wave, to tell me this is all a colossal misunderstanding. My phone is still in my hand. I jab at his number again, but it goes to voicemail instantly.
‘Oliver, it’s me. I’m outside.’ My whisper breaks. I end the call, redial, end it again.
I’m clutching my phone, about to call Lara, when the younger officer appears at my side. ‘Mrs Sharpe, can you come with me now, please? We have somewhere you can wait, and a detective will speak to you shortly.’
I stuff my phone back in my bag. My feet move as if they’re detached from me but, step by step, they guide me closer to the tape. Closer to the hub of lights and muttering radios and dreaded figures in white.
The garden of the Stables is dissected by tape, the front door yawning wide. A scene of crime officer lifts something into a bag held by a colleague. They move deliberately, carefully. Someone is taking photos inside the property. I can see the flash strobing in the hallway.
I take a step, but the older officer’s hand presses gently across my path. ‘Not yet, Mrs Sharpe. Please. The DI can speak to you directly now.’
I turn my face up to the sky. It’s turned into a perfect summer afternoon, the air soft and warm, and the sort of day that should be spent outside, in the garden. Yet the whole lane is ripped open and exposed with this, the kind of scene people will remember and talk about for years.
Together, the officers escort me away from the house, and each step feels weighted with dread, with the inevitability that my life is about to change in ways I’d never imagined.
My husband. My neighbour. Someone . . . is dead.
When we came to Orchard Lane, I knew life here would change us in some way. I knew our lives would irrevocably change one way or another.
But I didn’t expect this. Never this.