Louise Candlish
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THE INTRUDER AT NUMBER 40
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The Intruder at Number 40
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On a pleasingly sharp blue day in May, Ryan Steer let himself into a vacant house on Vale Road in Lime Park. He was happy to see among the scattered post on the doormat the package he’d taken the liberty of ordering in the owner’s name.
Not to mention without the owner’s knowledge.
Of course, as precautions went, it was hardly worth the padded envelope it was written on: a child could trace the order back to Mr R. Steer, negotiator at Lime Park Estates, sole agency for the sale of the property in which Ryan now stood. But, still, it seemed necessary to make a token effort to cover his tracks. To commit a crime in plain sight was disrespectful to all concerned.
He stored the unopened packet in his work bag, piled the rest of the post on the hall radiator cover and took a quick look about the place before leaving. He agreed with his manager Deborah’s appraisal that it wasn’t going to get anywhere near the full asking price in this half-furnished state. People couldn’t visualize, which was why the owner needed to bite the bullet and pay to have it staged. The Frasers’ interior-designer totty – Hetty was her name – could probably organize that, and it would be Ryan’s pleasure to supply her details.
Vale Road was on the outer reaches of Lime Park near St Luke’s Primary (another mark against it) and it was a good twenty-minute amble to the north-eastern edge of the park, where he found a free bench and settled to open his package. He was careful to keep the item screened from the passing school-run mums and dog walkers – not that they’d have any reason to doubt that it was anything other than what it appeared to be, but he didn’t want anyone noticing even that much.
What it appeared to be was a regular household smoke alarm, mains-operated (that was important: he wouldn’t be in a position to recharge batteries). What it in fact was was a concealed camera, with no smoke detection capability whatsoever. It was one of the more expensive versions on the market, not MI5 level – no doubt the spooks had their own suppliers at prices to make your hair curl – but costly enough to have put back his personal flat hunt a couple of months. His girlfriend, Julie, had really been the one to suffer: she’d wanted a Tiffany charm bracelet for her birthday and had got a market knock-off, which probably explained why they hadn’t had sex since.
She was petty, Julie, and he didn’t like pettiness in a woman.
From where he sat he had a clear view of the rear aspect of Lime Park Road, each pair of villas a solid brick square, the sashes satisfyingly uniform thanks to the street’s conservation restrictions. His gaze kept straying to the top floor of the building he knew to be number 40, where a light at the window suggested that the new owners continued to base themselves in the upper rooms of the house while their builders invaded below.
Tucking his purchase safely in his jacket pocket, Ryan tore the envelope and delivery note into small pieces and disposed of them in a nearby bin. The portion with the address on it he screwed up and swallowed.
Since he was in the park, he couldn’t resist a detour through the south gates and down Lime Park Road and, as always, he scanned the passing faces for the one he longed to see. But someone like her wouldn’t be up and about this early. She wasn’t one of those stout, strident-voiced mothers who stomped around from the early morning, thinking they owned the place. (Actually, they did own the place, most of it anyway. Ninety per cent of properties were being bought by families, even the flats.)
It was getting on for 8.50 a.m. now and the builders were making their usual racket at number 40. With an abruptness that was almost violent, the occupant of the upstairs flat at number 38 lowered his blind – as if that would help.
Ryan doubled back to the park and then through the main gates to the high street where, in the café opposite his office, the mothers were gathering after drop-off. They threw themselves into their seats as if they’d just climbed Kilimanjaro, eagerly colluding to make a mountain out of a molehill. Er, walking a few streets to deliver a small child to a school gate? Try selling houses at the back end of a recession, he thought.
He was aware that he was developing a serious squeamishness regarding mothers and that it was somehow related to the ambiguity he was experiencing in his own relationship. So Julie wanted a baby, all right? (She was not so petty on this score – she was pretty fucking intense, in fact.) His protestations that they needed a flat first would buy him only so much time.
In the Lime Park Estates’ shop window, one set of details caught his eye, just as it always did: SOLD! Stunning family home in sought-after Lime Park Road …
Number 40. All the more sought after now she was there.
Fingering the alarm in his pocket, he entered the office with a sense of calling, a sense of his true life just beginning.
‘Ryan, you still looking for a two-bed?’ His colleague Cheryl summoned him over to her desk. ‘I’m doing a valuation this morning at 10 Station Road. Want to come with?’
One of the benefits of selling property: when you were buying, you went straight to the top of the list of candidates.
‘Actually, I’ve hit the pause button on that,’ he said.
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Gonna save a bigger deposit, I think.’
‘You’re not splitting with Julie?’
Now she said it, he saw the inevitability of it. He disappointed Julie and that was only going to continue, possibly even intensify into anger. Her tenacity would not survive what was to come. ‘You know something I don’t?’ he said, straight faced.
Sensing his lack of conviction (estate agents were attuned to the subtlest of false notes and experienced in ignoring them), Cheryl raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, make your mind up. The market’s going to pick up soon.’
They’d been trotting out that line throughout the recession and sooner or later it would prove true. Twenty-twelve it was now, year of the Olympics, year of London, year of little old Lime Park! Even so, better not to buy a flat locally in case he lost his job or was issued with a restraining order. And you couldn’t pay your mortgage from jail, could you?
He returned the Vale Road keys to their cubbyhole and fired up his PC. Six years he had worked at Lime Park Estates as a negotiator. Two minutes it had taken him to decide to risk everything by installing a hidden camera device in Amber Fraser’s bedroom.
Pure luck had found him at his desk and at a loose end when she’d walked in one Saturday morning in January. His nine-thirty had failed to show and he’d returned to the office early.
He knew at once what she was, even though her silhouette was obscured by a thick wool coat and the kind of oversized sheepskin boots an Inuit might choose: goddess, muse, supreme being. Hair shiny as copper and bright as a house fire. Broad, generous smile. Green-gold eyes with a complicated history in their depths and rare kindness softening the surface.
(Julie’s eyes he would probably describe as, what, ‘brown’?)
She’d been with her husband, of course: goddesses didn’t roam the place unattended, that would be too easy. What Ryan saw every other man saw too and this one had done the sensible thing and put a ring on her finger. He was predictably well spoken and charming – what was the word? Avuncular (which made Ryan think of tarantula) – and plainly wealthy. Pleased with himself didn’t begin to describe his attitude as he placed a protective palm on the small of the goddess’s back and steered her towards the seats at Ryan’s desk. At least he knew the value of what he had, he wasn’t one of those trophy hunters: when he looked at her it was with profound devotion.
Jeremy and Amber Fraser they were called, and they’d j
ust started looking for a family home in Lime Park.
‘Your children aren’t with you today?’ Ryan asked.
‘We haven’t got any yet,’ she said with a shocked giggle, as if he’d said something risqué.
Better get on with it, Ryan thought. Sugar daddy had to be fifty if he was a day. But this was excellent news. Being revealed to have given birth wouldn’t necessarily have stripped Mrs Fraser of her godliness, but it would have been an issue he’d have needed to consciously overlook thanks to that aforementioned distaste.
‘Is there anything you can show us this morning?’ she asked. Her voice was gentle, playful, neutral of accent. The husband was the one with the breeding, evidently; she was a blank canvas, as beautifully staged as a high-end apartment in Manhattan. ‘Seems a shame to troop back up to Battersea without taking a little peek somewhere.’
‘Let me make a couple of calls,’ Ryan told her.
Adrenaline oiling his silver tongue, he talked two clients into impromptu viewings. There would be no time to clean the place up, said the Crowboroughs on Trinity Avenue, but they would be happy to take the dogs out so at least the source of the stink was removed, even if the stink itself remained. Similarly, the Lockes on Lime Park Road promised to clear the breakfast table and get the kids out to the park (he hoped they would make the beds and flush the loos, too). Ryan imagined the two householders striking up a conversation in the street, wondering which, if either, would get lucky with the morning’s buyers.
He drove the Frasers to the two properties in the company Fiat 500. Considering how he felt – starstruck, moonstruck, one of the two or both – he handled himself pretty well, careful not to focus too obviously on her. Even so, he didn’t miss the chance to ogle her skinny-jeaned legs as they unfolded from the car and, likewise, he made sure the couple took all stairs first so he could bring up the rear as closely as was decent. She liked touching things, he noticed; touch was her primary sense: she’d peer at a family photo and then put her fingertips on the glass, tenderly, as if the faces she touched were real; or she’d trail the back of her hand along a scuffed banister. In the Trinity Avenue house there was a cat sleeping on a mohair throw and she stooped to stroke both the animal and its bed. ‘Hello, button,’ she told it. ‘Aren’t you a cutie?’
‘I think this one’s a possibility,’ Jeremy Fraser said, as they departed Lime Park Road. ‘If you look past the clutter, it’s actually pretty sizeable.’
‘I like the secret gate to the park,’ Amber said.
‘It needs work, but you won’t find a better location,’ Ryan agreed. ‘It won’t hang around long.’ He gave the couple his mobile number, made it sound as if that was the better way to arrange a second viewing than using the office landline that Deborah preferred her negotiators to issue.
As Amber used her index and middle fingers to key in the digits he dictated, he imagined them stepping instead over the bare skin of his chest, heading downwards, a probe identifying a place of interest.
She rang on the Monday. ‘Is this Ryan? I don’t know if you remember me… ?’
Was she insane? She must know any man would remember her. The better question was whether he had managed to sleep at night knowing she was in the same city and not sharing his bed. He’d Googled her over the weekend and learned little more than that her last, and possibly current, job was in media – no surprise there. She was not, as he’d hoped, one of those women who constantly posted selfies on social media as if their cleavage didn’t exist unless someone was liking it.
‘I’d really like to see the Lime Park Road house again,’ she purred. ‘I’m going to bring my designer Hetty, if that’s OK. She’s free any time Wednesday.’
‘Of course, let me look at the diary and see who’s around that day.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘To be honest, Ryan, I was hoping you might be available again.’
She trusted him, was the implication. So she worked in the old-school way of relationships, voice-to-voice, face-to-face – that made sense (and explained the lack of digital footprint: she recognized herself that she was an experience best had IRL).
He would have cancelled his own wedding to make the viewing.
It was only a shame the temperature continued to hover at zero and she again arrived wrapped up from head to toe.
‘I love your shearling coat, Amber,’ Hetty the designer said. ‘Is it new?’ She was no dud herself, with a great cloud of dark hair and make-up that stopped just short of theatrical, but she was a little brittle and entitled in her manner for Ryan’s tastes. She knew her own value, that was for sure, like a Premier League footballer’s wife (a cricketer’s wife, maybe? No, a polo player’s). Or one of those high-end escorts you read about who cost ten grand for the weekend but let you do whatever you liked.
Amber Fraser was not for sale. She was sincere and, what’s more, had a capacity for humility he was not used to seeing in his wealthier house hunters. She made no distinction between Ryan, Hetty and the cleaner busy at the Lockes’ house as they toured, but spoke equally respectfully to all.
‘Christmas prezzie from Jeremy,’ she told her companion regarding the coat, and she shrugged, causing its shoulders to slip slightly and reveal a perfect creamy collarbone.
Now he clocked the details, he found her outfit to be more pleasing than he’d first thought thanks to some killer accessories. Her gloves were close-fitting black leather, with a little covered button at her narrow wrist, and the boots were a huge improvement on the eskimo ones: also black leather, with a full-length zip up the inside of the calf and high spiky heels. Any other house and he’d have been worried she’d damage the flooring, but the Lockes’ place was already so wrecked, it wasn’t an issue. The kids were savages, no two ways about it. (Pity the poor cleaner who waded through the heaps of junk to find a piece of carpet to vacuum.)
‘Do you still like the place?’ Ryan asked Amber as they paused in the kitchen before leaving.
‘I love it,’ she said, and she drew close, conspiratorial. Her hair smelled of cake spices: nutmeg and cinnamon and ginger. ‘But I haven’t forgotten you work for the seller, not the buyer, so don’t try to trap me, Ryan. And don’t you dare tell them how keen I am. Jeremy wants to get some money off.’
‘Tell them it needs a ton of work,’ Hetty told him sternly. ‘Because that’s the truth.’
‘They’ve just put in a new worktop,’ Ryan protested.
Hetty dismissed this. ‘That’s just a spritz of cheap perfume on a body that hasn’t been washed for a week.’
‘What a charming image,’ Amber said. ‘But if we’re going to get anatomical, guys, the bones are great, aren’t they?’
‘They are,’ Hetty agreed. ‘But we’ll have to rip everything out, Amber, rebuild from scratch. The state of those kids’ bedrooms: it’s like they’ve been playing football up there or, I don’t know, running a steeplechase.’
‘I know, it’s totally wrecked. How many kids are there in this family? There are so many beds.’ Leather fingers brushed Ryan’s forearm, thrilling him. ‘Tell us they’ve stopped reproducing, Ryan, please.’
Ryan couldn’t help the corners of his mouth twitching, but said nothing. Rachel Locke was often in the café across the road and, recently, in the branch, too, checking on progress. She was flustered and sweaty and smelled so bodily. When she communicated with her kids, her voice rose to a foghorn, making Ryan cringe. If every Mrs Locke in Lime Park could be replaced by a Mrs Fraser, well, he gave his word that no further work-related complaint would pass his lips as long as he lived.
‘Did you notice the man’s shirt on the floor in the spare bedroom?’ Hetty said. ‘And a pair of socks.’
Amber’s gloved fingers flew to her mouth. ‘What are you saying? That that’s where the husband sleeps?’
‘Well, he’s not a looker,’ Hetty said. ‘Did you see the holiday photo in the sitting room? No wonder she’s kicked him out of bed.’
‘You girls are wicked,’ Ryan said,
and he enjoyed the wink the comment elicited.
His favourite line of the encounter: If we’re going to get anatomical, guys …
The offer was made and confirmed in writing and Ryan guided the Lockes towards accepting it. They might get more, he conceded, but the market was still more sluggish than they hoped. (It was all very well telling buyers that after the Olympics houses like this would go to sealed bids. They just didn’t believe you.)
There was a second visit with Hetty, along with an architect, at which measurements were taken and technical specifications discussed. The weather was milder by then and Amber wore a thin jersey dress with those very sheer champagne-coloured tights that were fashionable. Ryan could tell the bra she wore was wafer-thin and lacy.
They exchanged contracts and completed the sale in April. To Ryan’s dismay, on the Friday of completion it was Jeremy Fraser who came to pick up the keys. He’d hoped it would be Amber and that she might be moved by the occasion to embrace him. (Still, the commission would be welcome.)
Recovering, on the Monday he delivered a gift basket to the house, strolling over at lunchtime when he expected Jeremy to be safely at work.
The builders had already started tearing the place apart and Amber arrived at the door like the miracle survivor of an explosion. ‘Ryan, what a lovely gesture! Come upstairs away from all the noise and dust.’
The master bedroom was in use as a storage room, Ryan noticed, en route to the top of the house where Amber installed him in the makeshift living room and made him a coffee from a gleaming new Nespresso machine. There were several other welcome gifts, he saw, including a variety of indoor plants and three quarters of a homemade chocolate cake sitting in a glass dome.
‘You’re the first person to come into our private chamber,’ she said. She was wearing workout clothes a size too small, a gift to outrank any offering the neighbours might have made. ‘Would you like some cake? The woman next door made it and Jeremy says it’s delicious. I don’t allow myself cake, but I like watching other people eat it. I hope you don’t mind if I stare?’
The Intruder at Number 40 Page 1
