The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller

by Valerie Keogh

  She heard its chime echoing inside and took a step backward, stumbling as she stepped off the doorstep onto the path behind. Several minutes passed. She was just about to give up and leave when she heard a noise from behind the door. The distinct sound of a safety chain being undone was followed by a rattle as the doorknob was turned and the door swung open.

  Diane let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Sixteen

  The frail, elderly lady’s hesitant smile dimmed and her hand, joints swollen with arthritis, clutched the door frame tightly. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, in an accent that spoke of private schools and old money.

  With difficulty, Diane conjured up a smile and tried to marshal her thoughts. This twin-set and pearled woman, looking like she’d stepped straight from an Agatha Christie novel, was definitely not the woman she was looking for. The Land Registry gave the name of the owner of the house, but no details of who lived there. Maybe she had a daughter?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling for the right thing to say. ‘You must be Sophie Redmond,’ she said. When the woman inclined her head, she continued. ‘I was looking for your…daughter.’

  A slight frown appeared on the woman’s face. ‘Suky?’

  Diane went with it. ‘Yes, is she home? I wanted to have a word. It’s important,’ she added, seeing the woman’s face harden. Had the circumstances been different she would have admired the way she lifted her chin and seemed to straighten her backbone. Women of her era, despite their gentle exterior, were tough as old boots. She kept her lips curved in a smile and waited for the answer.

  The woman’s free hand moved to her pearls, fingers moving over them as if for reassurance. Her lips moved silently before she dropped the beads and looked straight at Diane. ‘Suky died in a car accident, eight years ago.’

  Diane cringed under the weight of her look and the unfathomable pain in her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, reaching out to touch the hand that still clutched the door, an automatic gesture of sympathy she immediately regretted when Sophie Redmond pulled away. ‘I assumed the woman was your daughter, my apologies. Perhaps she’s just a friend?’

  The older woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘I was following a woman. She came in here. I need to speak to her.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, I live alone.’ As if she suddenly realised that this wasn’t the sort of information you gave to a total stranger on your doorstep, a flash of fear crossed the woman’s face. She started to close the door, sheltering behind its solidness. ‘Please leave now,’ she said, with a quaver in her voice.

  It was all falling apart. ‘She was here,’ Diane said, putting a hand on the door, feeling the pressure as it was pushed closed. With a hint of desperation in her voice, she added, ‘Please, I need to speak to her.’ Before the door shut, she tried one last time. ‘I’ll come back later, maybe she’ll be back then? I don’t mean any harm, honestly. I just need to speak to her.’

  The door shut with a loud click followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock and the safety chain being attached. Pushing open the letterbox flap, she bent down, put her mouth close and said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I just need to talk to the woman who visits you.’

  Did she really expect an answer? She moved away from the door, over to the square bay window and peered in. All she could see was the back of closed shutters. She stepped back and looked up at the upstairs windows. If the woman was looking down on her, she couldn’t see.

  Finally, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she crossed the small garden, and stepped out onto the footpath, closing the gate after her.

  For several moments, she stood looking at the house. The charity shop woman had definitely gone inside, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she? Anxiety twisted her gut and a wave of nausea swept over her. She reached out to hold on to the railing, praying she wasn’t going to faint. Slow, deep breaths in, slower out. She knew the mantra.

  After a few minutes, she let go and straightened slowly, relieved when the nausea faded. She looked at the house again. Had she imagined it all? Seeing her, following her? She swallowed the lump in her throat and began the walk back to her car.

  She was halfway along the road when a police car pulled up just ahead. She didn’t pay it much attention, although they were now an increasing rarity on the streets. When two policemen got out and stood on the path looking down the street toward her, she still didn’t give them much thought.

  It was only when she was almost upon them and they made no attempt to move out of her way that the truth dawned. They were there for her. She almost laughed, would have done, perhaps, if either of the two men had shown the slightest trace of amusement. But their faces were set and grim.

  Shoving her hands into the pockets of her navy jacket she tried for casual with a breezy ‘Hi!’

  Both officers stared at her, their sharp eyes taking in every detail. Obviously deciding she wasn’t a dangerous villain, their stance relaxed a little. One took a small step towards her. ‘We’ve had a complaint that you’ve been harassing a resident,’ he said.

  Harassing? ‘I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding,’ she started, taking her hands from her pockets and holding them out palms up. ‘I was looking for someone. A friend I’d lost contact with.’ The lie came easily. ‘I thought she lived there.’

  The policeman weighed up what she’d said. She could almost see the cogs going around behind his steely grey eyes.

  ‘Mrs Redmond said you asked to speak to her daughter, Suky, who’s been dead for several years.’

  Dammit! She tried an understanding smile. ‘I think she got a bit mixed up,’ she said, with what she hoped would be seen as an understanding shake of her head. ‘It was she who mentioned her daughter’s name.’ Well, that much was true. ‘My friend’s name is Suri. I suppose they do sound alike.’ She was babbling. Giving an indulgent laugh, she stopped.

  ‘Can we have your name, please?’ the officer said, taking out a notebook and pen.

  Diane tried another laugh. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘We have had a complaint,’ he said, nodding back to the house at the end of the street.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, trying to show there was no hard feelings, that she was a law-abiding, upstanding citizen eager to assist the police in the performance of their duties. ‘It’s Julia,’ she said, the lie out before she could wonder why she was lying, and then because she couldn’t think of another surname that went with it, she added, ‘Roberts.’

  ‘Julia Roberts.’ He wrote it down and then looked up at her. ‘Seriously?’ he said, echoing her. ‘Can I see some ID, please?’

  She clutched her handbag. ‘Is this absolutely necessary?’ she asked. ‘I have explained the misunderstanding.’

  The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is there a problem with providing some ID?’ he asked.

  There wouldn’t have been, if she hadn’t lied. And just why had she done that? With the eyes of the two men on her, she opened her bag and took out her purse. She pulled out her credit card and handed it to him.

  He took it, gave it a quick glance and then flicked it with his thumbnail. ‘So, either you’re Diane Andrews and you lied to us about your name, or you’re Julia Roberts and you’ve stolen this bag. Which is it?’

  Feeling about five years old, Diane hung her head. ‘I’m Diane Andrews,’ she said. Remembering she had her driver’s licence in her bag, she rummaged inside and found it. ‘See,’ she said, handing over the photographic evidence. ‘Me.’ She shrugged one shoulder. ‘I really don’t know why I lied, there was no reason.’

  ‘It happens more often than you’d believe,’ the officer said, jotting down the details and handing her back the licence and credit card. ‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ he said, ‘and to be honest, I don’t really care. But Mrs Redmond is a vulnerable old lady. She’s recently spent a long time in hospital and she doesn’t need
people causing her aggro, okay?’

  She nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do.

  ‘You can go,’ he said, ‘but don’t let us see you around here again.’

  They parted to let her pass, standing so intimidatingly close she could feel the warmth of their bodies and smell the mix of their cologne. She walked as quickly as she could, feeling their eyes on her with every step. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, feeling awkward and stiff-legged, she reached the end of the street, resisting the temptation to run to get around the corner out of their line of vision.

  She made it around, legs weak and trembling, and collapsed on the first wall she came to, dropping her head into cupped hands.

  ‘Hello, are you okay?’ The voice was concerned.

  Diane lifted her head and looked at the young man who stood in front of her, his head tilted in concern. ‘What…what time is it?’ she asked quietly.

  He checked the time on his mobile. ‘Twelve thirty,’ he said.

  Twelve thirty! She must have been sitting there for at least an hour. She’d blacked out.

  ‘You want me to call someone for you?’ he said, waving the phone.

  She shook her head and stood. ‘Thank you, no, I’ll be fine.’

  With a shrug, he left, sauntering down the street with an easy self-confidence she envied. It was going to take her longer than thirty minutes to get to the nursery. She was going to be late. Picking up pace, she made it to the car. If she hurried, she thought, she’d only be a few minutes late. Indicating, she pulled into the heavy traffic.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t know the roads, took a wrong turn, and looked around realising she didn’t know where she was. She pulled in to the side of the road. The satnav would get her to the school but, first, she’d ring the nursery and let them know. Picking up her bag, she searched for her phone, a sick feeling in her stomach when she realised she didn’t have it.

  There was nothing she could do except try and get there as quickly as possible. She switched on the satnav, her clumsy, damp fingers keying in the wrong postcode twice. Finally, she got it right and pressed GO before pulling out into traffic.

  The arrival time in the corner of the small screen told her the bad news: twenty minutes late. She remembered reading that they were strict about late collection and groaned. Of course, the arrival time depended on traffic behaving and it didn’t; coming to a halt when she was still ten minutes away. She watched the arrival time move from one twenty to one twenty-two, then one twenty-five. It was one thirty before the traffic cleared and she finally pulled into the deserted car park and switched off the engine. Staff, she knew, parked in a small area at the back of the building. The main door was shut tight. With an unsteady finger, she pressed the doorbell and waited, biting her lower lip, moving restlessly from foot to foot.

  She heard movement on the other side of the door as it was unlocked slowly, as if the person on the other side was making a point. Diane hadn’t met the manager, Susan Power, since the first morning. She remembered her as a pleasant, approachable woman with a genial manner. Something had changed, or she was very annoyed.

  ‘It’s twenty-five to two, Mrs Andrews,’ she said without any preliminary greeting. ‘We have, as you are aware, strict rules about being late.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Diane said, ready to plead. She’d tried to think of an excuse that would be acceptable on the way and offered it now. ‘I’m never late, honestly, but this morning it was one thing after another and then my car got blocked in by two other cars and I couldn’t get out.’ She reached a hand towards the manager. ‘I forgot my phone, so I couldn’t ring you to let you know. I really am so sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  The sound of a car pulling into the car park distracted both women. Diane saw a look of satisfaction on Susan’s face. Turning, she saw why. The car that was parking beside hers was Paul’s.

  Her face fell and she scrambled for an excuse that he would swallow. She couldn’t think of any and the truth was out of the question. He’d probably been worried sick too. After all, she was never late. But any concern for her was quickly replaced by annoyance when he saw she was all right. ‘Mrs Power,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘I’m so very sorry we’ve caused this upset.’ Without looking at her, he said, ‘Go home, Diane. I’ll bring Emma.’

  Humiliated, unable to think of a word in her defence, she looked down. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before she nodded and returned to her car. Starting the engine, she looked out the window. Whatever Paul was saying, Susan Power was nodding along, her face grim. As she continued to watch, she saw the manager’s face turn to look at her, her expression unreadable.

  She drove home and let herself in. Needing something to do, she put the kettle on. She’d make a pot of tea, it would be ready by the time Paul and Emma were home.

  Less than five minutes later, the front door opened and she heard Emma’s cheerful voice with relief. She brought the teapot, mugs and milk to the table and waited for them to come through. Emma, as usual, dashed through first. Diane looked at her face closely, looking for signs that her enforced detention had upset her. But all she saw was the child’s usual sunny smile.

  It showed how serious Paul was taking the situation that he immediately switched on the TV, flicking stations until he found something suitable. ‘Sit and watch this,’ he told Emma, giving her hair an affectionate tousle, ‘I’ll get you a glass of milk and something to eat.’

  Ignoring Diane, he moved to the kitchen, poured a glass of milk, peeled and chopped an apple and put it into a bowl before bringing both over to her. ‘There you go,’ he said.

  Diane poured tea into two mugs, added milk to both and pushed one across the table to Paul as he pulled out a chair and sat opposite her.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he said quietly, picking up the mug and cradling it between his hands. ‘You’re never late, Diane.’

  She’d expected him to be angry, so was caught unprepared for the weariness in his voice. For the briefest of moments, she thought about telling him the truth, but it had gone past that stage. Anyway, she was no longer sure what the truth was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her tea down and reaching a hand across to lay it gently on his arm. He didn’t brush it away. Taking this as a good sign, she continued, ‘I should have listened to you this morning and taken the day off. My headache never really went away completely so I came home early from the charity shop, took a couple of painkillers and lay down for a nap. I didn’t expect to fall into a sound sleep and when I woke, I was horrified to see what time it was.’

  So many lies, she was becoming quite adept.

  Or maybe not.

  Paul brushed her hand away. ‘You told Mrs Power that your car was blocked in and it took ages before you could get it out. So, which is it?’

  She tried a laugh, but even to her ears it sounded false. ‘I didn’t like to tell her I’d fallen asleep,’ she said. ‘I thought saying I was blocked in was better.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have come up with something better?’ he said, with a heavy sigh. ‘Who, for goodness sake, gets their car blocked in?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  He lifted a hand to stop her. ‘It’s not me you need to apologise to. Mrs Power was very annoyed. They are very strict about time-keeping, Diane.’ Draining his tea, he put the mug down and stood. ‘Right, I’d better get back to work. They weren’t impressed that I had to leave so suddenly.’

  Since he was virtually his own boss, this didn’t ring true, but she wasn’t really in a position to complain. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said again, wondering how often she’d have to say it before the stern look on his face faded. More than she had so far, she guessed.

  Sighing, she watched him go before throwing the remainder of her tea down the sink and putting both mugs into the dishwasher. Emma was still glued to the television, so she sat down on the sofa beside her, pulled her into the crook of her arm and
let her head flop back. She let her thoughts wander where they would. And that was all over the place. She tried to get them in order. Her stalker. Not Sophie Redmond, that was definite. But she had seen her go into that house. Hadn’t she? She slapped the doubt away.

  Everything was confusing and unsettling and her failure to achieve anything that day was a staggering blow to her hope to get at the truth. Colour flooded her cheeks when she relived the humiliating scene at the nursery. And then she remembered the look Susan Power had given her. Just what had Paul told her to make her look at her so strangely?

  The cry made her eyes snap open. It was a piteous sound that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Damn it, she thought, she really didn’t need this now. Despite what Paul said, she knew no cat or kitten made that sound.

  She went to the kitchen, took the bottle of wine out of the fridge, unscrewed the cap and held the bottle to her mouth, gulping mouthfuls clumsily, wine spilling from her mouth, down her chin and dripping onto her shirt. After a few mouthfuls, she stopped and put the bottle away.

  She was seeing things, hearing things; fooling herself that they might be real. She’d tell Paul and go back to see that therapist. She’d even take the damn pills, if he insisted. It was time she faced the truth; she was having a relapse.

  Seventeen

  The wine, drunk on an empty stomach, hit her quickly; it made her woozy, but also, eventually, calmer. She wouldn’t tell Paul yet, after all, there were still things she needed to find out.

  She needed to play normal for a while longer. The smell of spilt alcohol wafted from her shirt. With a glance to make sure Emma was settled, she headed upstairs, had a quick shower, brushed her teeth and changed her clothes.

  Passing the lounge, she felt rising anger and, reaching out, she slammed her hand on the door. The noise was loud and brought Emma running from the sofa.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ she asked, her face serious.

  Annoyed with herself, Diane rushed to gather her into her arms, hiding her face in her curls. ‘Nothing, my little lamb,’ she said, picking her up and cuddling her. ‘I accidently banged into the door. Silly Mummy.’