by Emmy Ellis
Shaun’s boss arriving on her doorstep hadn’t been expected, and Marla had itched to tell her she suspected Julie of killing him. There wasn’t any other explanation, was there, considering Julie had killed before. Two men meeting identical fates when in the vicinity of the same woman was a stretch of the imagination. But she’d kept her opinions to herself, glad that copper had come here afterwards to return her notebooks, saying Shaun had clearly gone off to live a new life and she shouldn’t concern herself further.
Rubbish.
Time had gone by. She’d watched Julie go to work just before seven in her new beige mac and pretty scarf hours ago, and it was coming up to midnight now. Most lights were off in the houses opposite, the flats standing in darkness apart from the bare bulb in the foyer and a faint glow struggling to penetrate the curtains in Julie’s living room. Marla had found a lock-picking set on Amazon, bought it, practised, and was competent enough to use it now. Confident enough.
Bobble hat and gloves on, and carrier bags tied over her shoes, a small satchel with the strap going across her body, she left the house and checked the road for people. No one. She had to get a shift on in case Julie came home early.
At the main door of the flat, her hand trembling, nerves kicking in, she used the pick. It didn’t work first time, and she cursed, conscious of how she observed the street from behind the voiles so someone could be doing the same to her. A deep breath, and she tried again, relieved at the clunk of the lock.
She was in.
She went upstairs to Shaun’s floor, excited part of her plan was playing out right in front of her. She was doing this, bloody hell, she was, and she had to take another long inhale to calm down.
Marla gained entry easily, sliding the pick into her pocket afterwards. Careful not to touch the walls, she walked down the hallway, the carrier bags rustling on her feet, and glanced into the kitchen on the left. A jumble of dirty crockery sat in the sink, a china Eiffel Tower, washing-up brush to the side as if he’d thought to clean up but abandoned the idea in favour of something less tiresome. She longed to do it for him, in his memory—he was dead, she knew it—but if the police returned, they’d know someone had been in. And…fingerprints.
But they’d know someone had been in anyway after she did what she had in mind—providing they returned here, as she hoped.
She checked the bedroom at the end. An unmade double bed had her fighting not to straighten the covers, fluff the pillows, so she retreated in case she tossed aside all caution and gave in. The living room next, and she spied exactly what would do the trick. She picked it up and placed it in the satchel, then left her little gift behind on the seat of an armchair.
She exited the flat, closing the front door quietly.
On the ground floor, she entered Julie’s. Now this would be interesting.
She snooped everywhere, even the bathroom, staring at the recently purchased bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the edge of the tub. Small beads of water covered the bath, Julie most likely having a shower before work, and a towel had been draped over the radiator. The scent of Bold wafted up from it—Julie had always smelt of Bold.
She’d whiffed of it in Home Bargains, too.
Marla ended up in the living room with its lamp on in the corner, and oh, she must have been putting the hair dye on when Julie changed the curtains. They were nice, Marla would give her that. She might even go and buy some herself, seeing as Julie had copied her with the mac and scarf.
She stood the item from Shaun’s flat on the coffee table facing the sofa and ferreted in the satchel for the other thing she’d brought with her. She’d been so careful with that, there was no way any of her DNA could be on it, but Julie wouldn’t be telling the police about this, would she, so there was nothing to worry about, no forensic testing or whatever.
Marla set it down just right, admired the placement and how it would look to Julie when she clapped eyes on it and, for an extra dose of the scare factor, she walked over and clicked the lamp off. At first, Julie would assume the bulb had gone, maybe mutter to herself about replacing it, but once she spotted what was on that coffee table, she’d know. It wasn’t a blown bulb. It wasn’t anything remotely normal.
It was vengeance coming to get her.
Chapter Twenty
Rosie’s night at work so far had been the same as all the others since she’d killed the neighbour, her mind elsewhere, thoughts of getting caught plaguing her. Weird, because this time around, she was safer than before. She had The Brothers and Rod Clarke to hide her sin.
So why was she out of sorts?
Three a.m., she got into the taxi and sighed, leaning her head back, looking forward to going to sleep so she could block it all out—if she got to sleep. The driver was the usual one, and he took her down the road and around the corner. It was hardly any distance, but Debbie insisted none of the girls walked home, not after Shirley had been dragged into the cemetery that time, having been followed by a punter who’d gone on to kill the poor cow.
They arrived outside the flats, and Rosie got out of the cab and walked up the steps to the door, shivering at the thought of the author watching. She twisted the key and turned to wave at the driver, who always waited to ensure she went inside—one of the rules. She stepped in, closed the door, and peered at him through the glass. He drove away, hand lifted.
In her flat, she shucked off the thoughts of not feeling safe in there anymore and instead concentrated on the washing she needed to get done and, as this was technically her evening, she busied herself stuffing a load into the machine. Next she cleaned the bathroom, then the kitchen, bleaching everything he might have touched, despite someone else in The Brothers’ pay already doing it for her.
The mind liked to play tricks: What if they missed a bit?
A frozen lasagne in the oven, some peas in a small pan on the hob, ready to cook later, and she was in desperate need of a coffee. It reminded her of the one she hadn’t finished in Costa, her rushing out like someone demented, and all because she’d seen the same woman three times. She’d told Debbie about it at work, and they’d laughed softly at how sometimes your mind ran away with itself, making up stories to frighten you like some perverse, unseen passenger inside you. Rosie hadn’t said she was still unnerved by it, that something niggled at her, that it wasn’t a coincidence. But with no proof, what could she do except put it behind her?
Cup in hand, she crossed the hallway to the living room. The lamp wasn’t on anymore, and she frowned, returning to the kitchen to fetch another bulb from the cupboard. She popped her coffee on the mantel then checked the lamp switch. Light burst through the cream shade, and she frowned harder, her heart thudding too hard.
“Pack it in,” she muttered. “You probably didn’t even leave it on in the first place, you daft mare.” That wasn’t surprising, given her state of mind at the moment.
She left the bulb beside the lamp base and turned to pick up her cup. On the sofa, she sat back, legs curled beneath her, and—
What the fuck was that?
The coffee spilt on her leg with her jolt, burning, and she shook all over, skin going cold. Cup on the floor out of the way, she stuck her feet beside it and leant forward, her mouth drying out.
A photo frame, silver, bevelled.
The image, him and that woman who’d come round earlier.
It wasn’t a lovey-dovey photo but one taken at some function or other, the pair of them side by side in power suits as if posing for a news article. Well, she was his boss, she’d said so, but why did he have the picture? Were they seeing each other? And what the hell was it doing on her coffee table?
Who had put it there?
She caught sight of a piece of paper, the red words on it blurring, her tears giving each swoop and curve of the letters fuzzy edges, but she’d known what it said before her eyes had misted, and she fought not to be sick.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
Oh God, it was the same note that had been left in her flat o
ver the laundrette, those words, that handwriting. Who the hell knew her from back then around here? She’d been so careful in not speaking to the neighbours, except for the noisy Heather to ask her to stop clomping around, and the people in the houses, she didn’t have a clue who they were.
Yet someone knew her.
She shot off the sofa and searched for her phone—shit, where had she put it when she’d come in? Her bag, it was beside her bed, so she dashed in there and yanked the zip across, digging inside. She flumped onto the edge of the mattress and, hand trembling, found ‘G’ for The Brothers in her contact list. She pressed the screen, the white image of a phone handset springing up inside a green circle, and waited for one of them to answer, unsure what they could do about the invasion of her privacy but needing to tell them regardless.
“What’s happened?” George asked, not bothering with a hello.
He must have known another call in the middle of the night meant trouble. Would they help her again? Hadn’t one of them mentioned something about not bailing her out of shit too often? George, wasn’t it?
“Someone’s been in my flat,” she whispered, the need to cry getting stronger by the second. “They left a photo of him and a note on my table. They know what I’ve done. Fucking hell, it’s the same as before, happening again.”
“Calm down. Who the fuck would know?” he asked.
“I can’t think. I left the old place without telling anyone where I was going. Didn’t keep in contact with the old neighbours or people I worked with.” She thought of how she’d abandoned Gail, and tears fell. “And don’t tell me this is a coincidence, because I won’t believe it.”
“What do you mean, it’s happening again?”
“The note. Someone put the same thing in my old flat.”
“Fucking Nora, Rosie, talk about not covering your tracks. Someone knows where you live, they know Shaun’s ‘missing’, and they think it’s you.”
“I’m sorry.” She remembered the redhead. “And I’m sure a woman followed me today. In town.”
“What?”
She explained what had happened. “And I get that it sounds like I’m mental, but I just know she took pictures of me.”
George cleared his throat. “Give me a second to think about this.”
It was more than a second, but she could hardly complain, could she. Instead, she clutched the phone tighter and looked around her room, worried someone was going to jump out and attack her.
“Right, that picture they left,” he said. “It had to come from somewhere. Sit tight. We’re on our way round.”
Chapter Twenty-One
That’s interesting.
Marla watched those two big men get out of their BMW and approach the flats. She’d stayed up specifically to see Julie arrive home and imagine what played out behind those new flowery curtains. She’d even opened her window to detect any screams, but sadly, there were none. What a letdown. Julie must be a pro at this now, keeping her fear quiet.
To have The Brothers there again meant they were possibly clearing up some mess Julie had made. Obviously, the murder of that poor Shaun.
Marla settled in her lovely blue chair, notebook on her lap, and prepared herself for a bit of a wait.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Julie had worked for Lime throughout the following spring and summer, and autumn brought its fair share of differences while she stood on the corner. It was cold for one, and she had to put on a coat, a flimsy sort that did nothing to keep off the chill. Punters were less inclined to come out on dreary nights, so earnings were down. And she was exhausted, working two jobs. Gail had commented on the bags beneath Julie’s eyes, the shadows, how she was distracted at the vet’s, and Julie had been tempted to tell her everything.
Gail would know what to do, too, but the threat to Julie’s life still hung heavy, Lime repeating it every time she dropped money off at The Flag. Plus her need to kill Aaron wouldn’t leave her alone.
Bizarrely, he still insisted they acted as a couple and had Sunday lunch at his parents’, and she endured the usual trek into town with the weird Marla, who seemed to be getting far too attached. They always ended up in Costa, Marla giving the baristas extra work by having chocolate sauce, marshmallows, and sprinkles on her gingerbread drink, while Julie had a regular latte, no cake.
“I love you,” Marla said, cream from her drink giving her a moustache.
Julie smiled. She couldn’t lie and say she loved her back. She found Marla creepy and most definitely not someone she wanted in her life.
“Why don’t you wear your other clothes anymore? The ones you told me you used to put on?” Marla asked. “Remember? When we were in Primark, you picked a short skirt up then put it back.”
I do wear them, just not in front of you. I wear them on the fucking corner your warped brother put me on. “Because Aaron doesn’t like them. He thinks they’re tarty.”
“How come you’re so moody now?” Marla bit into her slice of cake, crumbs settling in the corners of her mouth.
Because my life is shit. “I don’t know.”
“It’s just that you’re grumpy, and I want the old Julie back.”
The old Julie doesn’t exist anymore. “So do I.”
“Then find her.”
Things were always so black and white for Marla. Aaron had implied she was slow, unable to be left alone, and Julie was given the same instructions every Sunday morning: “Don’t let her out of your sight.” There was no chance of that. Marla was a limpet, stuck to Julie’s side, their arms always touching. Even now, in bloody Costa, she sat right beside her, elbows in contact.
Julie felt stifled.
So yes, Marla saw things so simply, her outlook on life without any jagged edges. To her, getting the old Julie back was as easy as just making it so.
“Aaron doesn’t usually stay with his girlfriends,” Marla said. “They never last long.”
No, because they weren’t his girlfriends, just women he groomed. So why had he stuck with Julie? Maybe because he sensed she wasn’t under his spell as much as he needed her to be. Maybe because she had murder on her mind and wouldn’t rest until she’d committed it, and he had to make sure she didn’t succeed.
“I think he’ll marry you,” Marla went on.
Julie wanted her to shut up. Aaron wouldn’t be marrying anyone if she had anything to do with it, and the need to tell his sister what he was really like, what he really did other than being a brickie—if he even was one—had to be pushed down inside her. It wasn’t Marla’s fault her brother was a monster. It wasn’t her fault her brother made out he went to the gym until late when really he was picking up girls and getting them ready for the corner—yes, he was doing this while Julie worked until the small hours.
“I doubt it,” Julie said. “Aaron isn’t the marrying kind.”
And then a piece of information she’d missed snaked through Julie’s mind. Aaron had supposedly built a brick wall for Marla—yet Marla lived at home with her parents. What had he really been doing that day? Forcing another woman to endure a session over that table with Lime and Reynolds?
He hadn’t built any wall nor damaged his hand doing it; he’d lied to her.
Why did that hurt? Probably because she felt stupid at being duped.
“Come on,” Julie said. “Time to go back.”
They rode the bus to Hornchurch Street, and it took all Julie’s strength not to stay on there and have it take her away from this. But she dutifully guided Marla down the road, the woman beside her chatting away, ten to the dozen, grating on Julie’s last nerve.
She couldn’t stand this for much longer.
Maybe she ought to get on with things tonight. Her plan was as solid as she could make it, months and months of thinking about it, and she’d stitched it into her brain so no evidence of it was on paper. Yes, she’d do that. Today would be the last meal with the strange family, and she could move on, forget any of it had happened.
Marla used a k
ey to get inside, and Julie took off her boots and placed them by the skirting board, as fucking usual, her coat over the top, her bag beside them. Marla tugged her through the kitchen and into the dining room, where Aaron sat talking to his father, his mother fussing with making napkins into swans that would only get broken up the minute they were flapped out and placed on their laps—or in his father’s case, one corner tucked behind the collar of his starched shirt.
The meal passed, as always, with Marla chattering between mouthfuls, her voice eclipsing Aaron’s every time he started a sentence. It was as if she couldn’t bear for him to get any attention, the spotlight had to shine on her at all times, and it confirmed the fact that Julie didn’t much like her. At all.
They left the house around seven p.m., and Aaron declared it was her night off, except she’d still be working to service him. It would also be the last time for that, too, and she’d get through it knowing the reward would come at around two a.m., or maybe three, the early hours the time most burglars broke in—Google was her friend, but she’d used the library internet to find that out.
The rest of the evening passed in tense silence, punctuated by Aaron using her then going off for a shower. She had one afterwards and curled up on her side of the bed, her back to him, the covers drawn up to her chin.
His breathing soon lengthened, and she turned over to check he was really asleep. She waited for the hours to pass by then got out of bed, removed her pyjamas, leaving them on the floor by her bedside cabinet, and went to the sideboard in the living room, taking out a pair of rubber gloves she’d hidden there. She put them on and picked up a heavy candlestick she’d bought for this purpose, an expensive one someone would want to steal, a magpie-burglar’s dream, something sparkly to attract the attention. Back at the bedroom doorway, she watched him for a while, his chest rising and falling. Thought about the time he’d stolen her key and got a new one cut. Him entering her flat whenever he wanted, his beer-and-kebab breath blowing over her face.
