The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Lesley Sanderson

  ‘How did you get hold of this?’

  ‘Tanya brought it into work. What are you playing at, Ella? Me and Tanya, really? She’s twenty-three. Do you realise what you’ve done? Tanya’s boyfriend had no idea who this was from, and now he’s convinced she’s seeing someone else. They had a massive row about it. Pleased with yourself, are you?’ He pauses to gather his breath as his words burst out in quick succession like carefully aimed bullets.

  I swallow hard. ‘Younger model, midlife crisis, isn’t that what this is?’

  ‘What?’ Chris’s eyes flitter about as he concentrates, then he lets out a sigh. ‘I’ve had work drinks with Tanya, along with the other staff. That’s the only time I’ve been out with her.’ He runs his hands through his hair, and I notice with satisfaction that his nails are bitten to the quick. Let him suffer. But in that moment he looks lost, vulnerable, and despite everything I feel a pang of sorrow; even now I hate to see him hurting.

  His voice is quieter when he next speaks. ‘Honestly, El,’ Chris’s use of the familiar abbreviation makes me melt inside, so rarely do I get close enough to anyone to ever merit that kind of endearment, ‘this has to stop. Snooping, spying on her, it’s not like you.’

  ‘I just want to know who she is. I still can’t believe this is happening to us.’

  Chris sighs and his shoulders slump. ‘Look, I am sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me, not you.’ He laughs without humour. ‘That old cliché. But it’s true. Since Mum died we’ve grown apart and I’ve changed. The sooner you can accept that, the better. I’m not going to change my mind and you need to think about moving. You’ll thank me in the end.’

  Heat fills my chest and sweat pricks my skin. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  * * *

  A card has been pushed through the letter box when I get home that evening; there’s a parcel to collect from next door. I go straight round without bothering to take my coat off. I’ve never been inside the house next door. The hanging basket swings as the door opens and I get a glimpse of a dark blue carpet; the hall is lit by a dim yellow light. The neighbour opens the door wearing a stiff white shirt and braces and the scent of lamb chops wafts through from the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, lovey. You’ll be wanting this.’ He stoops down and picks up a medium-sized cardboard box. ‘I’m Mr Mortimer, by the way. We’ve not been introduced. I know your husband, of course.’

  ‘Thanks for taking it in. I’m Ella.’ I wonder what it is, as I’m not expecting anything.

  ‘Chris called round earlier,’ he says, and I almost drop the box. I grip it to my chest, knuckles white. ‘He made quite a commotion. I was having a bite to eat with the telly on and I heard him calling your name. I went out to have a look to see who it was.’

  He must have come straight round here after calling at the shop and found out about the locks. Why did I taunt him?

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. He isn’t living here at the moment. We’ve been going through a bad patch—’

  ‘Look, it’s none of my business. I wondered if he’d left, as I haven’t seen him around. I used to hear his car leave bang on seven every morning.’

  ‘He’s moved out. It was very sudden.’ It’s hard to swallow and I focus on the parcel, blinking tears away. The address is handwritten in capitals, no postage labels. Not Chris’s writing.

  ‘Did Chris… my husband leave this?’

  ‘No. I noticed it on the doorstep, thought I’d better take it in. Kids messing about, cycling up and down, you can never be too careful.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m so sorry for all the disturbance. I’ll speak to my husband, make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’m sorry to bother you.’

  ‘It’s not a problem. I can keep an eye out for you, if you like. I might as well, I’m always here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, shame flushing my cheeks.

  * * *

  The writing on the box isn’t Chris’s, but he could have got her to write it. The wrapping suggests a female touch: glossy silver paper with a dark length of red ribbon tied in a bow. I sit on the garden wall to open it, eager fingers making hard work of the ribbon. How can I find out who she is? The Sellotape is wound tightly and I use my teeth to rip the ends instead of bothering to get some scissors. The cardboard springs open and I scream as a putrid smell hits me. A fly buzzes into my face and maggots crawl out from feasting on what looks like was once a pork chop. I manage not to drop the writhing mass as I rush over to the dustbin and hurl it in. My stomach cramps and I throw up over the grass.

  * * *

  Alice is standing in the kitchen, a mug of tea pressed to her chest, staring out at the garden, when I rush in. She doesn’t hear me come in until my shoes clack on the tiled floor and she turns, tea wobbling in her mug.

  ‘Hi.’ She grabs a cloth from the draining board and dabs at the milky drops. ‘Weeds, weeds, weeds. The garden is so wild, it’s hard to see where to begin.’

  My chest heaves in and out. I describe the parcel to her.

  ‘That’s awful, who would send you that? Come here.’ She pulls me into a hug, strong arms around my back, her hair tickling mine, a familiar hint of musky perfume. I’m reluctant to let go.

  ‘It has to be Chris. He came round apparently, couldn’t get in, obviously. He didn’t know about the locks.’ I relay Mr Mortimer’s account to her, omitting the part about my gift to Tanya, too embarrassed to admit what I’ve done to a young woman who is most probably innocent.

  ‘Bastard. I think if I ever saw him I’d want to do him an injury.’

  My phone buzzes in my bag. It’s Chris.

  ‘Don’t answer, let him calm down. It will only upset you further.’

  I take myself up to my bedroom with a mug of chocolate and listen to Chris’s message:

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this – locked me out of my own bloody house. I did you a favour letting you stay there. You’d better start packing because I’m moving back in as soon as I can. If you’re not out in the next two weeks I’m taking legal advice.’

  He calls again repeatedly and I switch my phone off, shuddering every time I think about the maggots, the stench. My skin prickles and it’s impossible to stay still. Surely Chris can’t have sent it to me? I go over and over the possibilities. The only other potential culprit is her. An image of them lying in bed, conspiring with each other brings a further flood of tears. I slump in Nancy’s rocking chair, which I moved into my room after she died, and I rock myself back and forth, gulping down tears. The aching need to talk carves a dark hole inside me. I’m transported back to the children’s home, with nobody to speak to. I scroll through my phone and stop at Kate, but she gave up calling me after I let her down once too often, not wanting to leave Chris and the new home. She wouldn’t want to know now. I’m dreading night-time when no doubt the rancid meat will haunt me in my dreams. I’ve never felt like this before, here. This house has always been my safe space. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and I forget my worry about Alice thinking I’m too needy. I meet her at the top of the stairs, my face crumpling.

  ‘Oh, honey, come and sit in my room. You shouldn’t be alone when you’re feeling like this.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully. Her lamplit room is cosy and the house settles around me. I catch sight of the photograph by her bed. ‘Your cousin looks nice.’

  She looks confused for a moment, sees me looking at the photo and nods.

  ‘She must be special for you to have her photo on display.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess she is. Family, it’s important, isn’t it? Like you and Nancy.’

  Diary

  6 MAY 1996

  EVENING

  Today was a frenzy of cleaning. Over and over I scrubbed the house, as it’s the first thing Edward notices when he’s in a mood. If only the bleach could cleanse my memories, make them go away. I’ve found an elaborate hiding place for this diary. If Edward were to find it I don’t know what h
e’d do.

  Lunch was another cup of tea, my stomach churning. Afterwards I went for a walk on the heath, sat on my favourite bench opposite the house, looking across the pond. Spring is with us, and purple and white crocuses carpet the ground, yellow daffodil faces smile in the gentle breeze. I can’t smile back. I sat for a long time, unable to stop thinking of poor young Jodie dredged up from the thick green pond water, life sucked out of her. Suicide, the verdict found, but her family refused to believe it. Sitting out here on the heath I reflect on Melissa’s words, trying to anticipate what Edward will do. She’s a young girl, what she’s doing is normal, but Edward won’t see it like that.

  I had the fright of my life when I arrived home to see Edward’s van outside. He should have been at work. I couldn’t turn my key in the lock with my trembling hands and twice it dropped to the floor. When I finally got in I smelt smoke; he was standing in the kitchen, cigarette between his lips, still in his paint-splattered dungarees, an open can of beer stood on the counter. When he saw me he picked up the can and squeezed it slowly until it crumpled. Asked me if I knew about Melissa’s boyfriend. He didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t, said it didn’t matter because he was going to find out who he was, where he lived and he was going to ‘sort him out’. He ordered me to meet Melissa from school and bring her straight back to the house. I did as he said, of course I did, I always do, but waiting outside the school it occurred to me if ever there was a moment to run, that would have been it. Take Melissa far away from him. Somewhere safe. But I couldn’t leave Kit, no matter how he’s behaved towards me lately. He’s still my son.

  Melissa wouldn’t talk to me on the bus, just said she wanted to ‘get it over with’. Edward didn’t shout at her, but spoke in a low, cold voice that made my blood feel like ice. At least he didn’t hit her. That he saved for me, once she’d been sent to her room after promising never to see the boy again.

  But he didn’t notice the determined gleam in her eye. She won’t let her father control her life like I do, and I’m glad. He knocked me to the floor and kicked me in the ribs. I curled up tight and small until he had finished. When he’d gone off to the pub, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled, Melissa came out of her room and helped me upstairs, bathed my face, washed away the blood and put me to bed without saying a word. She’s locked in her head like I am. It’s the only way to survive.

  Seventeen

  ELLA

  A battered old van pulls up outside the house and Mr Whiteley emerges. His shoulder-length grey hair looks as if it needs a good wash. He takes his toolbox from the boot of his car and whistles as he walks down the path.

  ‘Morning,’ he says, pulling his grubby white baseball cap off.

  ‘Hi.’ I move aside to let him in, inhaling a smell of sweat and stale tobacco. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly.’

  He takes a pair of glasses out of his pocket and puts them on.

  ‘You got lucky. I was booked to plumb in a new toilet for a bloke over in Hackney but he broke his leg and had to go to hospital. Which room is the damp in?’

  ‘It’s up in the bedroom, I’ll show you.’

  He wheezes as he climbs the stairs. He looks to be about fifty, and is small and wiry. I’m struck by how cold the room feels and I shiver. I haven’t noticed that before.

  ‘Ah yes.’ He looks up at the ceiling. ‘It doesn’t look too bad.’

  ‘No?’ I let out a long sigh of relief. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Alice has taken all the books off the shelves and piled them up by the bed. The room smells faintly of her musky perfume. My eyes are drawn to the photo of her cousin and I wonder why Alice appears reluctant to talk about her.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Ooh, yes please. Strong as you can with three sugars.’

  I go downstairs, hoping we’ve got some sugar and after rummaging around in the cupboards I find an unopened box of cubes. I daren’t check the sell-by date. While the kettle is boiling I text Chris to tell him Mr Whiteley is checking a problem with the roof, postponing the inevitable call I’ll have to make later. I’m going to confront him about the meat left outside; my stomach heaves at the memory.

  ‘Cheers, duck,’ he says when I take the mug of tea up.

  ‘I’ll leave it on here.’ I put it down on the bedside table. A box of unopened contact lenses sits next to a glass of water. I hadn’t realised Alice wore them. Usually it’s easy to see the tell-tale edges. Her eyes are dark brown, framed with long, dark lashes, the kind I’ve tried to create with mascara since I was a teenager, so I can’t help noticing them every time she looks at me. They’re the kind of eyes you can lose yourself in.

  It’s hard to settle down to anything with a stranger in the house, but I stick the TV news channel on with the sound turned low so that I can hear if Mr Whiteley calls. I make myself a coffee and sit with the back door open, wondering how long it will take for Alice to sort the garden out. I’m sick of it looking like this. I go back inside when I hear my name being called. Mr Whiteley’s placed the ladder on the landing and is looking in the loft. He’s scratching his head, peering into the corner.

  ‘Can you pass my torch, it’s on the shelf in the bedroom. I thought there’d be a light up here. I’ve found something odd.’ I fetch it and hand it to him. ‘Thought I’d check the attic, see the roof area, but when I was feeling around in the dark for a light switch I found a hole in the wall.’ He disappears into the loft with the torch and then I hear a muffled exclamation. Eventually his legs emerge, jeans clinging to his scrawny waist, the red waistband of his underpants visible.

  ‘The roof looks alright up there and the space is empty. But I’ve found something.’ As he descends I see he’s holding a packet. ‘Where I was feeling about, my hand disappeared into a hole. I shone the torch inside and found this.’ He waves something at me, chuckling as he folds the ladder up. ‘You’d be surprised the things I’ve found over the years,’ he says, handing me the package. ‘Looks like it was in a plastic bag but it’s rotted away. Must be pretty old.’ It’s a square packet covered with brown paper, tied with string. ‘I’ll get my stuff and see you downstairs. Let’s hope it’s a wad of banknotes, eh?’

  I turn the package over in my hands; it weighs nothing. Mr Whiteley talks as he follows me downstairs.

  ‘I don’t think it’s damp as such, but a water leak. I’ll need to inspect the roof. I’ll just have a smoke in the van then I’ll get up there, see what’s going on. I’ll knock when I’m ready to come back in so you know it’s me.’

  The small, flat package is intriguing. The string is tied so tight it takes me ages to undo the knot. Opening it, I see it’s a small piece of embroidery in a wooden frame. A pale yellow background with numbers stitched in black in the centre. I turn it up the right way and realise it’s a date: 30 July 1997. The date means nothing to me.

  A tap at the door makes me jump. I go outside, where Mr Whiteley is loading his toolbox into his van.

  ‘There are some loose tiles at the edge,’ he points vaguely, ‘they need replacing.’

  ‘Is that something you can do?’

  ‘I can,’ he scratches his head, ‘but I’m pretty booked up for the next few weeks. The shelves in the bedroom will need to come down once I’ve confirmed what the problem is so I can repair the damage to the wall. That other job, I’ll be starting it tomorrow, the delay has put me back a bit. But if you want to find someone else—’

  ‘No, I’ll wait,’ I say. I’d prefer to use someone I know. The thought of more expense lodges like a stone in my stomach. Chris is going to have to help me out. There’s no avoiding it; I’ll call him as soon as Mr Whiteley has gone.

  ‘What was in the mysterious package?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, just an old piece of embroidery. It’s probably fallen out of an old sewing box. Strange, really.’

  ‘Remember who found it if it turns out to be valuable,’ he says as he gets into his van and laughs wheezily as he drives off. �
�I’ve got your husband’s details on file, shall I send the invoice to him?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Problem?’ A gruff voice makes me jump. I hadn’t noticed Mr Mortimer appear in the garden next door.

  We both look up towards the roof. ‘Do you know anything about the roof?’ I ask. ‘Has it ever been repaired before?’

  ‘Not for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was leaking. Same happened to my house. Cost me a fortune to get it fixed. Had to use half my savings. That put paid to the cruise I was planning, although my wife died and that ended that plan anyway. Didn’t fancy going on my own.’

  He looks forlorn and I pull what I hope is a sympathetic face.

  I’ll make sure Mr Whiteley gets his money, but it won’t hurt to give Chris a scare. I need to confront him about that parcel – it makes me want to vomit every time I think about it. It’s the least I can do. My gut twists as I think of my husband.

  Eighteen

  ELLA

  Once Mr Whiteley has gone, I call Chris. He doesn’t pick up. I try calling repeatedly throughout the afternoon. I pop out to the bank to get some money and I check the account while I’m there and see that Chris still hasn’t made a payment. Irritation propels me home and it grows each time Chris fails to answer his phone.

  No lights or sound welcome me as I step through the front door and I feel a pang of disappointment that Alice is out, remembering her kindness last night. The warm glow I felt in her presence has evaporated and the dull ache that is Chris’s absence is back. I sit down on the chair in the hall and gaze at Nancy’s portrait.

  A breeze blows through the hallway and I hesitate. Surely the back door can’t be open? The kitchen is in darkness but a light glows in the garden. As I move through the room it becomes clear that the light is coming from the shed. It must be Alice, but I’m clutching my mobile as I snap the kitchen lights on, the back of my neck tingling as I go into the garden.