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

by Lesley Sanderson

  ‘What is she doing out there?’ he asks.

  ‘She’s working on the garden.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Redesigning it. She’s developing her business as a landscape gardener. She’s good.’

  ‘How long exactly is she staying for?’

  ‘A few months, not sure really.’

  Chris slams his hand down on the table and the tea wobbles in our cups. ‘What are you playing at? You shouldn’t have invited her to stay. I want you out of here. And leave the garden alone. It’s a major project. It will take months to sort it out.’ I hate the way he always flares up.

  ‘So what? What harm can it do to make a start? I’m sick of not having a decent garden. Anything would be better than that jungle. You never got round to it, no matter how often I asked, and now you’ve walked out I’m finally getting all those things done. So don’t tell me what to do. Besides, I told you about the damp in Nancy’s – I mean, Alice’s room. Mr Whiteley inspected the roof and the tiles need repairing. He’s not free for a couple of weeks, but you’ll need to help me with the cost of the repairs. I can’t manage it all on my own.’ I’m gripping the table by the end of my speech.

  He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. ‘I don’t want to undertake any repairs at the moment, which is what I’ve come to talk to you about. I want to put the house on the market.’

  His words wind me. ‘No, Chris. After all we went through to remortgage? You can’t afford it on your own – have you forgotten how I stepped in to help you buy it? With the inheritance tax you would never have been able to afford it. I did it because I loved you.’ My voice wobbles. ‘Imagine what Nancy would think. She was so happy I helped you out – she told me so, more than once. You know she always hoped your sister would come back, so at least you would be here if she did.’

  I remember Nancy sat in her rocking chair, a knitted shawl around her frail shoulders. Her cheekbones were increasingly visible, yet she still maintained her sparrow’s appetite, despite my efforts to get her to eat. I was standing at the window looking down at the garden. The weeds were knee-high at that time.

  ‘It used to be full of flowers, you know, when we first lived here,’ she said. ‘I spent hours out there, tending it. I loved the explosion of colour when I opened the back door, sunflowers smiling into the kitchen at me when I washed up.’

  ‘I’ve offered to help restore it, you know, but Chris won’t let me,’ I replied. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Don’t bother him with it, he’s a busy man.’ Her eyes glazed over and she went somewhere far away in her head. That was happening more and more. ‘Not the garden.’ She reached for my hand, her cold fingers clasping mine, exerting pressure to make me listen. ‘Promise me something, Ella. Never let Chris sell this house. It has to stay in the family.’ Her thumbnail dug into my palm and the muscles flexed in her spindly arms. ‘I’ve been getting my affairs in order.’ It was my turn to squeeze her hand, scrunching my eyes tight at the same time, not wanting to face the inevitable. ‘I’ve instructed my solicitor to look for my daughter. I had to try. If he fails to locate her then the house will go to Chris, and to you, of course, now that you’re married. I see how you love it here. This house needs some love.’

  ‘Did Mum really believe she would come back? That will never happen.’ Chris drags me away from the memory.

  ‘I wish you’d tell me why she left. Nancy wouldn’t talk about it either.’

  ‘Because there’s nothing to tell. She was a selfish teenager, that’s all. Will you at least think about selling?’ Chris is looking at his tea as if he’s just noticed it. He takes a quick drink and I watch his fingers as he drums them on the table. I stiffen; he’s removed his wedding ring, and any notion I have of feeling sorry for him evaporates. Underneath the table I slide my ring off and put it in my pocket. I won’t be wearing it again. My chair screeches as I get up and he looks surprised.

  ‘I’d like you to leave now.’

  ‘Will you think about what I’ve said? It makes sense for us to sell, especially with the roof problem. You don’t need the hassle.’

  Too right I don’t.

  He gets to his feet. ‘Shame I didn’t get to meet your room-mate,’ he says, making us sound like students playing at house. ‘She won’t stay long, what with the damp and everything.’

  ‘She isn’t going anywhere.’

  Alice doesn’t appear and I’m relieved when Chris gets up, taking the pile of post I’ve been keeping for him: letters, circulars and junk mail, encircled by an elastic band. Let him deal with the rubbish; it’s the least he can do.

  At the front door he shoves the pile into his suit pocket and I notice a stain on his sleeve, his crumpled shirt, the crinkled lines around his eyes. I’m glad he’s suffering, too. I fold my arms and wait, pushing away the seed of an idea that has me in its grip: could I really lose this house? I expect him to go to his car, but I don’t see it anywhere. It must be parked nearby as the road is pretty full. I watch until he disappears from sight before I close the door. I put my gardening shoes on and head outside to join Alice; my legs are wobbly as I walk to the shed. My hand fiddles with the ring in my pocket; it feels cold between my fingers. The garden fork is laid across the wheelbarrow, but there’s no sign of her. Lady lands on the shed roof, making me jump.

  ‘Where is she?’ I ask the cat. Lady stares, unblinking, before springing to her feet and following me back to the house. I notice that the lid on the rubbish bin has fallen off. Must be the dustmen, I think, remembering how Alice said the mouse had been taken away. But the bin is full. That’s odd. The memory of the bloody mouse makes me shiver and in that moment a wave of loneliness engulfs me. I’m confused as to where Alice has gone and I can’t help feeling let down. What if Chris had turned nasty? Maybe I can’t depend on her after all.

  Maybe I really am all alone.

  Twenty-One

  ALICE

  The husband came round yesterday. It was a close call. Ella wanted me to meet him, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s best if I keep myself nice and separate. That way, he can’t associate me with her and accuse me of interfering. If only he knew.

  Ella was stressed after his visit, so I made her a gin and tonic with a slice of lime. I stuck to tonic, my glass piled high with chunks of ice. Evenings are getting chillier as winter approaches, but I felt closer to her outside.

  ‘He wants to sell the house.’

  I rattled the ice around in my glass. I wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘He said we should both have a fresh start.’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ I said, and she looked surprised. ‘It’s a trick. Think about it. Gorgeous house, worth, what, at least a million and a half, in one of the most desirable areas in London. He’s having an affair. You’ve changed the locks and it’s unsettled him. He didn’t expect a fight from you, did he?’

  ‘Probably not. He implied I’m falling apart, imagining things.’

  ‘My point exactly. He wants you out and her in.’

  Her pale grey eyes widened and her bottom lip wobbled. She was sat with her back to the garden and her white jumper glowed as the light faded and the plants and bushes around us morphed into indistinct shapes. Moonlight danced on her fine blonde hair, which hung to her shoulders. It has grown since I first met her and it suits her heart-shaped face. ‘He’ll deny it, but I bet that’s his game.’

  Ella drank eagerly, as if she wanted the ice-cold liquid to freeze out the problems piling up around her. I refreshed her drink twice more over the evening, and it was sweet the way she loosened up, got giggly; I’d never seen her like that before. Her face was beautiful when she smiled and it stirred up feelings inside me but I forced myself to focus on my real purpose. Ella is an unexpected diversion I can do without.

  I spread my plan for the garden out on the table and talked her through my ideas: flower beds, a small vegetable patch, a lawn and a decking area. Wind raced through the garden and
all the vegetation moved in a blurred mass. Ella’s movements were jerky and she made enthusiastic noises. I went along with her pretence that she was taking it all in, ignoring the fact that she was obviously drunk.

  ‘I just want lots of flowers, like Nancy used to have,’ she said. ‘There must be some photographs somewhere. Hidden in this house. So much is hidden in this house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lots of flowers, that’s what I mean.’ Her voice was loud and the cat twitched awake and stretched before deciding it was safe to go back to sleep.

  ‘Look at you,’ Ella said. She clasped her glass between both hands and stared at me with those grey eyes framed by dark eyelashes. The intensity of her gaze made me look away.

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. Have you always been like that?’

  I crunched on an ice cube. ‘A gap year travelling did the trick. I had a place lined up at university to study architecture, but once I’d had a taste of other countries and cultures, eternal sunshine, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I liked the independence, learned how to look after myself. Rely on yourself, that’s what you need to do. Stand up to Chris. I’ve got your back.’

  ‘I’m so glad we’re friends.’ Her words sounded slurred and soppy. ‘Chris never wanted to sit out here, I can’t understand why.’ A gust of wind rushes through the greenery behind her and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  Ella finished her drink. ‘I’ve got to pull myself together. I’ve spent ages looking at property law online, but it’s so complicated. Jamie said I have rights, but I can’t help feeling guilty. Chris grew up here.’

  ‘Yes, but how will you feel when he’s moved her in? Will you care about his hurt feelings then?’

  ‘No.’ She stood up quickly and the cat scarpered into the bushes.

  ‘I won’t let that happen.’

  * * *

  After Ella had gone upstairs I sat out in the dark and wondered whether I was right about the husband’s game. Everybody has a game. Even Ella, but she doesn’t see it that way yet. She will. Her game is to get the house. And my game is – I can’t put it into words, not even to myself.

  * * *

  I took action the following morning. The cellar key hadn’t been used in a while and it was a struggle to get in, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. A scrabbling sound made goose pimples pop all over my body and fear rose into my mouth. What if I’d got it all wrong? The dark was impenetrable. Several steeps stairs stretched into the unknown and I steadied myself against the narrow walls as I descended, dread mounting. At the bottom my fingers crept over the cold brick, feeling around for a light switch, finding only cobwebs, dirt sticking to my fingertips. I took a few steps forward, the dark clearing a little as my eyes adjusted. I felt further along the wall and landed on a switch. A pop of yellow light illuminated the room: one light bulb hung from the ceiling. An old-fashioned desk in a corner was surrounded by cardboard boxes. A poke at one of them with my foot revealed a pile of books. Several old suitcases littered the floor, along with a couple of crates of wine. Dust coated most of the items and the musty smell tickled my throat, making me cough. This would take me far longer than I had anticipated. The scratching noise started up again, but it wasn’t the creatures that I couldn’t stand any longer. I picked up the box closest to me. It was heavier than I expected, but no match for my fitness. I groped for the light switch, shutting the room off from my sight, and went back up the stairs as fast as possible.

  Once the box was safely stored in the now orderly shed I went up to my room and dug out the pack of cigarettes I kept for emergencies. I made a strong coffee and took it out into the garden. Smoking helped me control my breath. The darkness of the cellar had taken me by surprise and my mind had run away from me. Convincing myself it was due to lack of sleep, I thought about the best way to tackle the room. Because if there was the teeniest chance what I was looking for was in there, then I was going to make sure I found it.

  * * *

  The next day I went and had a nose around her shop. The colleague is only a boy, a pretty boy at that – Jamie. It’s funny how he didn’t have a clue who I was, considering he’s heard so much about me – and it’s thanks to him I got the room. He was too busy chatting on the phone, what was obviously a personal call. The store is a gorgeous boutique gift shop, and I love the way it’s kitted out with retro signs and furniture. Ella said Jamie was responsible for all the branding – maybe he could give me a hand with my own business when the time comes. But then I remember: that won’t be possible once all this is finished.

  For someone who runs her own business, Ella isn’t very good at the practicalities; she’s relied on her husband to sort that side of things for her. So different to me. I like to be the one in control. Financial issues baffle her, like the mortgage. I’ve offered to go through the mortgage documents because I’m wondering why a man who runs a successful business is defaulting on payments. There has to be a reason for it. Either it’s a ploy to get his wife out so he can move the mistress in, or he’s in financial trouble. She’d told me how he built up Rutherford Carpentry single-handedly, the likeable boy done good, with his London accent and twinkling eyes. But I’m far more interested in her. And I can tell she is interested in me. She lapped up the tale I spun her yesterday, about my gap year and my abandoned university place. But lying in bed reading last night, the words on the page of my book lost focus, and not because they were in Spanish, but because I was seeing Ella’s face imprinted like a hologram hovering over the page. I rubbed my finger over the page, as if to erase her. That was the point at which I threw the book on the floor, rolled over and looked into Olivia’s eyes. It was happening again.

  Twenty-Two

  ELLA

  Alice is out this evening and I wonder where she is and who she is with. She hasn’t mentioned any friends in London by name, but I guess she’s friendly with the guys at the garden centre. I sort out the relevant documents for her to look through and leave them out for her. The door to her room is open and I stand on the threshold, my eyes drawn to the photo of the woman she keeps by her bedside. ‘A cousin’, she said. Why is she so special to you? I wondered. I want to be special to Alice, too.

  Standing at Alice’s window looking down towards the heath, I picture where we sat last night, recalling how my mind swam with alcohol, my thoughts becoming hazy. Alice’s features appeared softer in the twilight, making me aware of her plump mouth, her deep brown eyes, so different to mine.

  I choose one of the Spanish films she has left downstairs and spend the evening watching it, but reading the subtitles makes my eyelids droop and I allow myself to close my eyes for a moment.

  The screensaver is jumping about on the screen when I wake. The house is quiet and Alice isn’t home yet, even though it’s almost midnight. I go round each room switching everything off, noticing Lady’s untouched bowl of food, her full dish of water. I haven’t seen her all evening. In fact I haven’t seen her for hours. Reluctantly I open the back door and step outside.

  ‘Lady,’ I call, feeling conspicuous, even though everything is dark. The night is still and a dog barks in the distance. ‘Lady, where are you?’

  Silence. A bird calls out, a long, wailing cry, and I hug my arms around myself because of the cold. Where is she? After a few more seconds I give up and go inside, making sure the back door is firmly closed before going to bed.

  Something wakes me in the night, and when I look at my phone it’s four o’clock. Alice must have got home long ago. My bladder is full and I go to the bathroom before checking in on Alice. Her door is closed, so she’s back. Darkness presses against the window, but a light catches my attention. Someone is in the garden moving around; the light snakes along the path, drawing circles. Who is out there? The light is moving along the path now, towards the house. I lean my face as close to the glass as I dare and I make out the murky shadow of a person moving slowly. Fear ripples through me. I grab my phone from my room. My fingers hover
over the phone keyboard: should I call the police? Should I wake Alice? She won’t thank me after getting home so late. As I stare the light goes off. I peer into the darkness, but no shapes crystallise in my vision. Going downstairs, I’m careful to step over the creaky stair, breathing as softly as possible. I stand for ages in the kitchen, my bare feet icy on the stone-cold floor; I watch the blackness outside, but the light doesn’t reappear. A chill runs down my spine. Did I imagine it?

  I make myself a tea and sit in the kitchen until my pulse has stilled and I’m sure there is nobody in the garden. I head back to bed, not expecting to sleep, but miraculously I do. When I wake light streams in through the window but the happenings in the night are foremost in my mind. Outside, the garden looks normal; nothing is knocked over or out of place. I tell myself my mind was playing tricks on me; I’ve been so tired lately, my emotions have been all over the place. But the fear persists, my hands shaky, spilling tea over the bed. Get a grip, Ella.

  While I’m standing at the window Alice emerges in a pair of ripped denim jeans and a cashmere jumper, carrying a mug. She sits at the garden table and leafs through some papers, running her hand through her hair in a familiar gesture. I pull some clothes on and go down to join her. In the kitchen Lady’s food remains untouched.

  ‘Hey.’ I slide into the green iron chair next to her, making her jump. The large silver ring she wears on her thumb glints in the morning sun. It’s a beautiful, crisp autumn day. ‘Have you seen Lady? She didn’t sleep in my room last night.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s unlike her.’

  ‘She’s a cat. Cats like to do their own thing.’