The Woman Next Door: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a stunning twist

by Sue Watson

  ***

  If the evening’s weather forecast predicted rain and cold, that was good news. I could run home, close the door and put the TV on straight after school. No one would be hanging around street corners; even school bullies hated rain. If the weather was warm, they’d all be out, like worms coming up for air. I hated other children – and they hated me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucy

  ‘Have you seen Amber?’ I say to Matt on Monday morning.

  We’re having breakfast… well, I’m popping toast in the toaster and he’s making coffee, both rushing round like headless chickens getting ready for work.

  ‘No… I haven’t seen her. Why?’

  ‘She’s just been a bit funny this weekend. She didn’t want to meet up Saturday afternoon, said she’d let me know about a film and takeaway here, but never called me back. Then yesterday I called her and she said she was busy and didn’t ask to stay over either… I think she’s being a bit funny.’

  ‘What do you mean, “funny”?’ he says, sitting in front of a slice of toast but not eating it.

  ‘Just a bit moody. You know how she is… Was everything okay with her, when you changed her tyre?’ I’ve been thinking about it and Amber and I haven’t actually got together since then, and I don’t want to wind Matt up but I wonder if he offended her in some way. Perhaps he was a bit off, gave her the feeling of being unwanted?

  ‘Of course, she was fine,’ he says absently, pouring us both a coffee.

  ‘Was she chatty? Did you talk?’

  ‘Yeah but was after three by then and we were both really tired, and I think we both just wanted to get some sleep. It took me ages to fix that tyre.’

  ‘I know bloody hell, Matt, you were gone more than three hours – Amber would’ve been better off calling the breakdown people.’

  ‘It would have taken just as long by the time they’d got there,’ he says, sounding slightly offended by my implication that another man might have done a better job. He gets up suddenly, kisses my cheek and heads for the door, and is just about to leave when the landline rings. He’s hanging around by the front door to see if it’s for him as I answer it.

  I cover the phone with my hand. ‘It’s Amber,’ I say, surprised and delighted to hear from her after the AWOL weekend. He rolls his eyes and I turn away to talk to her.

  ‘Hi, sweetie, you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, I don’t know what to do… Something really weird happened.’ Her voice is trembling, like she’s about to cry.

  ‘What… what’s happened? Tell me,’ I say, looking over at Matt. He shoots me a look back, and from the way the blood drains from his face I think it’s finally sinking in with him just how serious Amber’s situation is.

  ‘I was woken up this morning by the sound of water running,’ she says. ‘I thought it was a leak, some burst pipes or something. But then when I went into the main bathroom both taps were full on.’

  ‘Oh… Do you think it’s a plumbing problem?’ I say, relieved we’re back to how we were – no awkwardness, no chill coming from her on the other end of the phone.

  ‘No, because after I’d turned those taps off, I heard a noise downstairs, but I couldn’t see anyone, so I made a cup of tea. It was only 6 a.m. though, so I went back upstairs and when I got up there the taps had been turned on in my en suite too! Lucy.’ I hear the shiver in her voice. ‘He’s been in my bedroom.’

  ‘Oh my God, no!’ I say loudly, making Matt start slightly. He’s looking at me, desperate to leave but intrigued and asking a silent ‘what?’ but I just shake my head at him. I don’t have time to repeat what she’s saying. I’ll tell him once I’m off the phone.

  ‘And that wasn’t all. I turned them off,’ she continues, ‘and I could still hear running water, so I went downstairs again and it was the kitchen taps this time and the downstairs toilet. Full on taps just gushing.’

  ‘Now, are you sure you didn’t leave them on?’ I say in the calmest voice I can muster.

  ‘No, I didn’t leave them on. Definitely not. Lucy, it’s creeping me the fuck OUT.’

  ‘Come over here now,’ I say. ‘He might still be there.’

  ‘No, there’s no one here now, and I’ve turned off all the taps. I’m so scared I can’t move, Lucy.’

  ‘I’m on my way, sit tight,’ I say, and click off the phone, grab my bag and briefly explain the situation to Matt.

  ‘It’s probably something technical,’ he says. ‘If I had time I’d go round and have a look.’ But I’m glad he doesn’t because he wouldn’t be able to help. In all honesty, Matt doesn’t have a clue about plumbing, but like so many men, pretends that he does. ‘Call a plumber out – the water pressure’s probably up… or down,’ he adds before leaving.

  When I get over there, she’s a mess, and looks like she hasn’t slept all night. She’s been crying and she’s shaking and for the first time since the dead bird I see real fear – this has really freaked her out. There’s no one else to look after her and clearly this is going to take a while, so reluctantly I call the school to say I’m going to be late. I’d never been late for work in my life until I met Amber, and now I’ve been late twice in as many weeks, and it doesn’t go down well. But what choice do I have? Amber is like family and you drop everything for family.

  ‘We should get a plumber in,’ I say when I get there. I can’t see anything wrong with the taps, but then I’m no expert. ‘With any luck it might just be a technical problem… not a… not him.’

  ‘But the taps in my en suite were on. He must have…’

  ‘Not necessarily. It could just be your water pressure,’ I suggest lamely, repeating Matt’s theory, which was no doubt plucked from thin air.

  She shakes her head, which is currently in her hands as we sit up at the kitchen counter island. ‘Lucy, I’ve googled it, and can’t see anything about taps just coming on in the night.’

  ‘It could be ghosts,’ I try and joke.

  ‘Thanks. If I wasn’t scared before I am now. It’s a brand new house anyway,’ she says, a glimmer of irritation infusing her words. She isn’t in the mood for jokes, and I don’t blame her. She’s going through some kind of hell. I need to be more sensitive.

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine. We’ll get a plumber out and he’ll put our minds at rest, I’m sure.’

  She sits there, pale and listless, and when she doesn’t move I take it upon myself to search for a plumber.

  Eventually, after many fruitless calls, I find a plumber who can come out today, but he can’t be here until 5 p.m., and as Amber’s on the late shift she’ll have gone to work by then.

  ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I can let him in when I get back from work, stay with him, then lock up after and set the alarm.’

  She looks so relieved, I think she might cry again, so I put my arms around her.

  ‘It will be fine,’ I say into her ear, not totally convinced.

  ‘You’re such a good friend. I don’t deserve you, Lucy,’ she says, and bursts into tears while I hug her and just let her cry it out. After a little while, I find her some tissues, make a cup of green tea and she sips it slowly, which seems to calm her down a little, but her fear is still palpable.

  ‘I’d better get to work now,’ I say reluctantly. ‘I hate to leave you, but I also can’t leave a class of thirty six-year-olds with my teaching assistant – they’ll destroy her.’ I laugh, and Amber summons a faint smile.

  ‘So you’ll be okay to let the plumber in?’ she says, looking up from her mug of steaming tea.

  ‘Yes. I’ve got those keys you gave me for emergencies in the drawer at home, so I can easily let him in and make sure everything’s okay.’

  I hate leaving her, and as she waves from the door, I wind down my window and remind her to double-lock the door when I’ve gone. This has really knocked her. She’s been scared before, but always managed to temper it with a little bravado, but now she isn’t even trying. She seems so fragile, so vulnerable. Give
n all the creepy things that have been happening, it seems this is the final straw. And whatever Amber has said in the past about it being nothing to worry about, and part of the job, if the plumber can’t find the answer, she’s going to have to face the difficult truth. This isn’t some random nutter – someone is stalking her, someone who knows where she lives and who’s been in her house as she sleeps.

  When I arrive at Amber’s later after work, the plumber’s as good as his word, and turns up at five. I tell him what happened and he looks at me like I’m mad when I ask if he’s ever come across taps just turning themselves on throughout the house before.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Would someone actually have to turn them on?’ I ask, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Yes.’ He isn’t going to elaborate. Instead he says, ‘I’ll get the radiators bled first, then look at your water pressure… then I’ll replace the washers in your taps… and if that fails…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Call a priest.’ He laughs and turns away.

  I make Chris, the plumber, a cup of tea with the requested three sugars, and imagine the horror on Amber’s face. She’s always dieting and working out; her body is great for someone in their forties, and she puts it down to low sugar. I don’t point out the gallons of Prosecco she consumes on a regular basis when she tells me sugar is evil.

  So Chris bleeds the radiators, checks the water pressure, then fiddles with the handles of the taps in the kitchen, undoes one of them, looks up it, then screws the top back on and says, ‘Nothing wrong with those. All the washers are new. I reckon you’ve definitely got a poltergeist… or someone’s playing tricks.’ He laughs, but it makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

  I pay him and thank him for his expert plumbing/psychic diagnosis and let him out through the front door, double-locking it when he’s gone. I head back down the hall wondering what it’s like to be Amber Young alone in this big house by herself. I then realise if I’m doing ‘a full Amber’ I need to be barefoot, so I kick off my shoes, not caring where they land. As I walk around the house, you could hear a pin drop. I’m not used to this level of silence. I usually have a radio on, or Matt’s singing or saying lines, but this is the quiet side of the crescent, with no kids playing out front. Amber’s brand new windows and doors must keep the sound out – and in.

  Despite being alone, I’m quite enjoying myself; it makes a nice change being here. Matt’s working late – fresh from his success with the school play, he’s directing the local amateur dramatics tonight. His head will be filled with lines and stage directions, and he won’t even know I’m not home, so with no reason to rush home I sit on one of the big white sofas and leaf through Amber’s glossy magazines. This is the kind of house you see in Hello, and I sit with my feet under me, like Amber does, imagining the magazine photo. I pose like a film star… okay, a soap star… a reality star perhaps?

  I soon forget about the possibilities of stalkers or ghosts and make myself a cup of coffee using Amber’s lovely cafetière. I carefully spoon in the ground beans and pour the scalding water on top, leaving the filter for a few minutes the way she does. I do a couple of twirls while I wait; the underfloor heating reminds me of paddling in warm water as a kid.

  When it’s ready, I drink coffee from her favourite cup and wonder what she thinks about, how she feels when she’s alone in this perfect white space. She probably thinks about Ben, the one that got away… for now. But knowing Amber, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wins him back; she’s one of those people who always gets what she wants. I remember girls like her at school: long, shiny hair, skinny frames, a million suitors. I was never one of those girls. I was never asked to dance, never even asked out until Matt came along.

  But who needs a man when you live somewhere as lovely as this? Every little detail has been thought of, from carousels inside the kitchen cupboards so you don’t have to reach, to blinds on the ceiling windows. As Amber says, ‘you get what you pay for’, and I know this house must have cost her a fortune. It’s the biggest on the estate. Mine and Matt’s is one of the smaller, less luxurious models; we could never afford something like this. Running my fingers along the paintings in the hallway, I study the brushstrokes closely, putting my face right up to the pictures. I’ve never done this while Amber’s around – she’d probably laugh at me, but I have this urge to touch everything, to own it.

  I stop by the sunset painting, and gaze through the shades of sunset, from orange to pink to palest yellow, and a suggestion of snow-dusted mountains, shimmering in a melting amber sun. I can only imagine the bittersweet beauty of Nepal, a land ravaged by poverty, earthquakes and human conflict. I’d love to go there one day. I’ve always wanted to travel the world, see other places, other people, work with children who need education, support, survival. But for now I’ll just enjoy the painting and imagine what it’s like to watch the sun set over the Himalayas, as Amber did all those years ago.

  I move through into the hall, and wonder about the other rooms. Considering we’ve been friends for a year now, Amber’s never shown me the whole house.

  ‘I never tell someone everything about me,’ she said once. ‘That way they can’t hurt you – always keep a little bit back.’ When I asked for ‘the tour’ – cheeky I know – she didn’t take me on, but I think I have earned a little peek now here and there. After all, I’m her friend, I’d never hurt her. And we shouldn’t have secrets.

  First, I investigate the lovely dining room (which looks like no one has ever eaten there), with a solid white table and chairs in the centre, the only colour a splash of pink on one wall. I sit on the chairs, feeling like Goldilocks, trying them for size, picking up the beautiful bowls adorning the sideboard and imagining a dinner party. Me, Amber and Matt all sitting around this huge table enjoying a takeaway and Prosecco, while Amber shares the latest stories from behind the scenes in TV land. It might happen one day.

  Then I leave that room, closing the door carefully, and cross the hall into what Amber always refers to rather grandly as ‘the library’. But I’m stunned – it is just like a library, with wall-to-wall bookcases and one of those ladders that’s on castors and moves around the room so no book is out of reach. I place my palm on the spines, lift them from their shelves and open them, flicking through the pages with my fingers, breathing in the words, the dust and nostalgia. They aren’t in alphabetical order, they’re in clusters of colour – how very Amber. It’s all about how things look; she probably hasn’t read any of them. I smile at my eccentric, outrageous and perhaps a little shallow friend. Then just as I’m about to leave the library, I think I hear something drop; it startles me.

  I wander back out into the huge hallway. It’s probably nothing, but I stop for a few seconds to listen for any more sounds. I can’t hear anything else, so decide to resume my self-guided tour, but double-check the front door is locked before I snoop any further. Then I walk slowly to the sweeping staircase, and I can’t explain it, but I have the feeling I’m not alone and turn round suddenly, holding on to the bannister with both hands in case anyone’s there and I have to make a run for it. I stand very, very still, telling myself it’s just my imagination. I wait and watch for a long time, and nothing. There’s no one here; I’m being silly. I laugh loudly to myself – a kind of fake bravado to make me feel brave, when really I know in my heart I should just go now. But I have this urge to walk slowly up Amber’s sweeping staircase, feeling like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard.

  ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille,’ I mutter under my breath. But as I climb the stairs, my head high, feeling like a film star, I have the horrible feeling I’m not alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucy

  Five hours later, I’ve never been so scared in my life. I’m sitting in a police station trying to explain everything, but I’ve never had to make a witness statement before, and despite seeing it happen on Inspector Morse and Midsomer Murders, this doesn’t feel the same at all.

/>   I’ve told DCI Manyon about the dead bird and the texts and the slashed tyre, but I don’t think he’s convinced. He just keeps looking at me with doubt in his eyes.

  ‘So, tell us exactly what happened tonight, Mrs Metcalf – in your own words,’ he asks now. He is sitting opposite me, a small tablet in front of him, with a notebook and a serious face.

  ‘Okay.’ I clear my throat, but no one offers me a drink of water, so I start, trying to remember what happened. ‘The plumber left. I was in… the library I think… yes… when I heard something.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Yes, like someone had dropped some cutlery… a knife perhaps?’ I offer, but he doesn’t react. ‘Then I remember standing in the hallway. I was looking up at the high square glass ceiling that pushes up through the house. There’s this trendy chandelier that hangs down, very Amber,’ I add as an aside, but he just sits there poker-faced, and I glance at the female detective who’s joined us and is now also sitting opposite me. I hope I might get a little ‘sisterhood’ from her, but she doesn’t flinch, making me feel even more nervous. ‘So I went upstairs…’ I say.

  DC Manyon shuffles in his seat. ‘Upstairs? Why did you need to go upstairs?’ He seems irritated.

  ‘To… check the taps were off.’ Okay, I told a little white lie to the police, but it sounds better than admitting I was snooping around my friend’s house, which sounds very dodgy.

  ‘Oh.’ He writes something down. ‘So you checked the taps and came back downstairs?’