Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist

by Sophie Draper

  The start of the village is marked by a handful of red brick buildings. It’s more of a hamlet really, a cluster of houses, with one defunct farm and the old Hall. The trees lean close where the perimeter walls of the Hall undulate beside the lane, and a plethora of chimneys boast of the size of the building and the wealth of the family who built it. I stop the car at the entrance. The gates are locked. The brickwork of the wall shines an extra level of red. Here, I think. On the gate itself. It’s as good a place as any.

  I switch the engine off, resting my arm on the open window. Arthur’s wet nose nudges me from behind and I hear his tail thumping against the back seat. My eyes are drawn to the reservoir, visible between the trees. Before Joe was born, long before we came to live here, Duncan and I would drive here often. It was our secret place. Duncan had an old Renault Clio then and we’d park it on a verge of the main road, clamber through the fencing and walk paths that were long overgrown and hidden. In summer, we’d bring a picnic and a blanket. We’d walk, then find a spot sheltered from the wind, have sex and eat, then have sex again. The air over the bowl of the valley would heat up and the paths would turn to dust that clung to our trousers and arms and mixed with the sweat on our bodies.

  The tree beside me flutters with grey. The branches shake and I see pigeons, at least three of them. They’re excited, flying up and down in turn as if jostling for position. They must be feasting on something in the tree. Berries maybe, but not yet, not at this time of year; insects then, do pigeons eat insects? Probably.

  The sound of their wings and the stir of wind on the young leaves holds my gaze a little longer. A cool breeze flows across my cheeks. I close my eyes and listen. To the voices in my head. Duncan shouting in the house. The sound of feet running down the stairs, the slam of car doors outside and the revving of an engine. My own voice rising above the weather. I open my eyes and shake my head. I reach for the car door and get out.

  I tie my poster to the gate and turn to go back. But I’m curious about the houses – they’re so pretty, so full of character, yet empty. I can’t understand why they are empty, why they haven’t been sold off and renovated. Who wouldn’t want to live here? I’ve no real intention to pry, but as none of the houses are occupied, what harm can it do?

  I leave Arthur in the car with the window still open and walk to the first cottage. It’s no bigger than mine. A path leads to the side. There’s a porch with enough space for one person to shelter from the rain and take their boots off. Cobwebs fill the window sills, coating my fingers with grey strands of silk. I push on the door. It doesn’t budge. I try the handle, but that doesn’t work, either. I bend down to peer through the letterbox. There’s a single room with a fireplace at one end and kitchen units on the other. On the opposite wall is another outside door. I head around the back. The grass is overlong and last year’s apples lie rotting on the lawn. That second door opens. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to me not to go in, that it being unlocked means someone might be home.

  The room is empty but for a single frayed armchair. The carpet is a dirty green with lighter patches where bigger furniture once stood. A soggy puddle of water shimmers under the bay window and the glass is broken where the rain has come in. The wooden cabinets of the kitchen stand with their doors hanging open like the wings of the pigeons on the tree by my car. A space has been left with exposed pipes for a gas cooker, as if such a thing had even existed when the house was last inhabited. I stand uncertainly, contemplating whether or not to take a look upstairs. I think I’ve heard a car. And was that Arthur barking?

  I spin on my heels to look through the window, but there’s nothing. The wind has dropped, the sun has gone and the road winds up and out of sight, empty.

  I hear the creak of a floorboard. Is there someone upstairs?

  ‘Hello?’ My voice reverberates against the bare walls.

  Trespasser – the word hisses in my head. An apology is already forming on my tongue. There’s no reply.

  The late afternoon sun has broken through again and a faint square of amber light reaches across the carpet. It trembles as it gathers strength, forming a new pattern at my feet, light and shadow from the leaves of a moving branch. I stride across the room. The back door is open, exactly as I left it. A half-dead bluebottle struggles on the floor, its wings rattling in the draught from outside, its tiny legs scrabbling to find purchase. I listen but there’s nothing else to hear. I feel the guilt of my presence thudding in my chest.

  I duck through the back door, glad to be outside again. I pull it shut behind me quietly as if there’s someone to listen. My pulse is racing and I feel foolish. What excuse would I have come up with if someone had arrived to challenge me?

  I fling my head up and he’s standing right in front of me on the garden path. A man.

  My heart hammers. My feet take a stumbling step backwards.

  He’s wearing a tweed jacket, double-pocketed and closely fitted around the chest. It’s like some kind of old-fashioned riding jacket. His legs are encased in black boots and pale breeches, and his hair curls under a Derbyshire cloth cap. He can’t be much older than me but he has that distant, detached look of someone from the aristocratic hunting fraternity. For a second, our eyes meet. I drop my gaze and his mouth pulls into an amused sneer.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I say. I feel my hackles rise, but I’m the one in the wrong here. ‘I was looking for my son. I thought the house was empty, that maybe he’d bunked down in here for the night.’

  I feel myself blushing.

  ‘The house isn’t empty, as you can see.’

  He should be annoyed, but the man’s voice is level and quiet. Too quiet. I glance over my shoulder, through the window. The room is empty but for its armchair. My eyes slide back to him as if to say: Really?

  ‘You’ll be the new tenant,’ he says. ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  I search his face. He might be the man who tried to visit me the other day.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everyone is welcoming.’

  Who’s he on about? I wonder. He’s the first person I’ve seen. He smiles then, all white, even teeth like something from a 1980s soap opera. I think Dallas or Jilly Cooper or … I’m embarrassed by the turn of my own thoughts.

  ‘Everyone? I don’t understand. No one lives here, at least … the village is abandoned, isn’t it?’

  ‘Whatever makes you think that?’ he says, smiling still.

  ‘Well, I thought it was.’

  ‘Some of the houses are empty, but not all. People come and go.’

  He doesn’t elaborate. Holiday cottages, I think. Of course – that makes sense. I look doubtfully back through the window. Perhaps it’s a work in progress. Or he just wants me to think this place is occupied.

  ‘My son is missing, like I said.’ I pull out the last poster. ‘Can I give you this?’

  Joe’s face stares blankly from the paper, pixelated in black and white. The man takes the poster from my hand and makes a show of examining the photo.

  ‘Your son?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, he’s eighteen. He’s been gone too long.’

  I bite my lip. I sound like a foolish mother again, unable to let go. But I’m hardly going to tell this stranger the whole story. He looks up. His eyes are surprisingly probing.

  ‘You must love him very much.’

  That seems an odd thing to say. Of course I love my son.

  ‘Sure,’ he says next. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for him. Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mrs Henderson.’

  He folds the poster into one neatly gloved fist. Like a magician with a playing card.

  I gasp, shocked that he knows my name. Knew my name, all along. Then it dawns on me, he called me ‘the new tenant’ – is he part of the family who own the estate? Up from London, perhaps, playing at country living. Is he my landlord, or someone from the family’s representatives? He hasn’t introduced himself.

  ‘Y
ou drive carefully, now,’ he says. ‘And take it easy.’

  I walk back to my car and he to his, a functional-looking Range Rover parked neatly on the verge. It’s not a city car. As I look around the village again, I wonder how many other people are hidden in these run-down but beautiful houses. It seems different now, more welcoming. I should put my posters through all of their doors, except I gave that man my last one. I’ll have to make some more.

  Then I notice the trees. There’s a smattering of wild ash. They sprout up everywhere in this valley, up and down the lane and all around my cottage. I’d spent an afternoon the other day pulling out ash tree seedlings from the front garden. If you don’t get them when they’re young, they root in and they’re the devil to get out. Last year’s keys hang in dry, brittle clusters, silhouetted against the still-bare branches over the man’s head. They rustle in the wind. It makes me think of severed hands, some 1960s block colour horror movie where the blood drips beneath their fingers and old bones rattle above like Spanish castanets. I almost smile at the idea, but as the man ducks beneath them to reach out and open his car door, there’s an expression of real annoyance on his face. He must be cross with me after all. I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that pagans believe the ash has special protective properties.

  When I reach my own car, there’s a patch of water on the front seat. The wind has blown it through the open window from the trees above. I frown and look up. The man is inside his car now and I’m unsure whether he meant he lives in that cottage or not. I should have asked him. I can see my poster in his hand. He’s unfolded it and is lifting it to the light. He grasps it between finger and thumb as if in distaste.

  Then he scrunches it up and throws it onto the back seat.

  CHAPTER 22

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  Duncan crouched forwards on his chair. His elbows rested on his knees and he stared at the screen. An x-ray of a dog’s chest cavity shimmered in front of him. He searched the ghostly greys of the rib bones and the butterfly white of each segment of spine, toggling between the two images on the screen. He tucked himself closer under the desk and with his fingers on the mouse switched between each photograph again and again as if there was some logic to the comparison, even though there was not.

  Then he let the mouse go. He checked the door was closed, picked up his mobile phone and swung round to the window. He dialled a number and held the phone to his ear, one hand resting behind his head. He tilted his chair back.

  ‘Hi,’ he spoke into the phone. ‘Are you free for a run tonight?’ There was a pause. ‘Seven o’clock by the canal? Perfect. I’ll look forward to it.’ He let his voice soften with his next words. ‘Oh, and why don’t you bring a change of clothing?’ he added.

  When he turned to place the phone back on his desk, the door was open and Frances was standing in the doorway.

  Shit, he thought.

  At closing time, she followed him into the car park. Duncan held out his key fob to unlock the car, the hazard lights beeping and flashing on and off once as she let the stockroom door bounce open and shut behind her.

  ‘It hasn’t taken you very long!’ she said.

  He frowned. ‘I’m only going for a run, Frances.’

  He had his tracksuit on and a holdall thumped to the ground as he let it drop from his fingers. Frances cast her head across her shoulder, making certain that the other staff had all gone, that it was only them in the car park.

  ‘You promised me this would stop. I’m not an idiot, Duncan. Did you think I hadn’t realised?’

  ‘Realised what, exactly?’ he said.

  ‘Who is it this time, hmm?’ she said, ignoring his question. ‘What is it with you, Duncan. Are you so heartless?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He was being deliberately obtuse. But they both knew what she was referring to. Duncan reached out to open the car door. He retrieved his bag and tossed it on the back seat. Frances took a visibly deep breath, holding her hand to her chest as if she could barely contain her anger. Her voice was precise and calm when she spoke.

  ‘Why do you play these games? Even now. I won’t stand by and watch you do this again, Duncan. And we had a deal: I would keep quiet if you stopped. For her sake, not yours, I might add!’

  Duncan steeled himself. He turned his head away so she couldn’t see his face. She was the only one who walked into his consulting room like that without waiting to knock. He should have been far more careful. He’d not been himself – this wouldn’t have happened seven weeks ago. Shit, shit, shit.

  He decided to brazen it out.

  ‘We’ve known each other for a long time, Frances. I respect your knowledge and experience and value your … friendship. But I’m only going for a run. God knows I need it right now. And who or what I do in my spare time is none of your damn business.’

  ‘Yes, it is my damn business. I’m making it my business. I won’t stand by and watch you hurt her. Everyone at this office respects and admires you. Are you going to wreck that, too?’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ said Duncan, again ignoring the bits he didn’t like.

  ‘Don’t you get smart with me, Duncan Henderson. I didn’t want Claire to be hurt. I never said anything then because I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. But she found out anyway, didn’t she? What did you do? And now she’s gone! Claire is gone. What does it take to make you stop? Are you going to carry on like nothing’s happened? It’s not normal!’

  ‘I’m a free man. I’m entitled to do whatever I choose. Things were over with Claire a long time ago, we both knew that. And life carries on. I’ve never made any promises.’

  ‘So, this whole “let’s go for a run” thing is you starting another affair? Really? Who is it this time? And how do you think she’s going to feel when she finds out?’

  Affair – such an old-fashioned word, it sounded like something bored businessmen did at three-star conference hotels near the M1. It was a word loaded with deceit and vanity and intransigence. That wasn’t him, was it?

  Frances turned on her heel to leave, but Duncan sprang forwards and caught up. He flung out a hand to catch her arm.

  ‘Jealous, Frances?’ he asked cruelly. Attack, it was the best form of defence.

  She stared at him.

  ‘She’s a grown woman, Frances,’ he said. ‘And it takes two, as I recall.’

  ‘No, it takes one,’ she said. ‘In your case, it’s just one!’

  She jerked her arm free but didn’t move.

  ‘What if I tell them, Duncan?’ Her voice lowered to an angry drawl. ‘What if I tell the whole practice the truth? What do you think they’d all think of you then?’

  She scanned his face.

  ‘And what if I tell Martin?’

  Martin, his old schoolfriend. The policeman. His best mate. Duncan tightened his fist then let his hand fall loose by his side. He wasn’t going to bite. He wasn’t going to let on that any of it mattered or that he had any feelings at all. The best way to deal with a threat was to call her bluff.

  ‘You go ahead, Frances – I’m a free agent,’ he said. ‘I can do what I want. I’ve made no promises and I make none now. It’s your choice what happens next.’

  Frances lifted her chin and held his gaze. Looking at her, it seemed to Duncan that she’d made a decision. And that perhaps he’d made a mistake.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not this time. It’s her choice what happens next.’

  CHAPTER 23

  CLAIRE – BEFORE

  Last night Joe went out again. I knew he would – after finding that coin he was bound to want to get out there and look for more. A few hours after our talk, he was back downstairs with his illicit battery pack. He made no attempt to lie, to pretend he was doing something else. He didn’t say a word. I saw him walking across the hall and ten minutes later, when I went into the kitchen, his gear and Arthur were gone.

  At least he’s taken Arthur – I feel so much better when I know he
has his phone and Arthur.

  Joe and lies never did mix. I don’t mean only the straight lies, but those little things we all say and do to tactfully misdirect from the truth – white lies, omissions, even the polite expressions like ‘How are you?’ that we say, never expecting an actual reply. Try that on Joe and you’ll get an honest response. ‘I feel crap,’ he’ll say, if he’s feeling bad, even if it’s to a shop assistant or the driver on the school bus. Never did go down well in school.

  It’s part of who he is. He’s as bright as a button in so many respects, he remembers way more than I do, but when it comes to emotional intelligence – understanding people, reading people, knowing what not to say or how to lie – it just isn’t him. Joe never could fathom what’s going on in other people’s heads. It wouldn’t even occur to him that what you say isn’t necessarily what you mean and the concept of tact or discretion is quite alien. It’s one of the reasons why he and Duncan clash so badly. Duncan always expects his son to concede in any argument, and Joe can’t back down and apologise unless he really means it.

  For Joe, everything is black and white. Principles count. You have to admire that.

  This morning, I stand at the kitchen sink, wiping a pan again and again, watching through the small window in front of me as the leaves swirl across the grass. I’m playing my plans over and over in my head to be sure I get it right. It’s making me jittery; I hate having to orchestrate leaving Duncan like this without him or Becky knowing until I’ve gone. Let alone managing things so that Joe comes with me and doesn’t get upset.

  ‘Where is he?’

  I jump. It’s Duncan, standing in the doorway with an angry expression on his face. He clocks the empty dog basket and strides across the kitchen to glare at me. I lean back.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ he shouts, even though we’re in the same room.