The Open House

by Sam Carrington

  Davina? All of this time she has been the one person to believe me. She’s offered friendship and support. Why would she be behind this? I must remember the fact I’d spent years trying to avoid her and her meddling ways. Her nosy nature had been too much to bear; I’d never got a good vibe from her. It’s only since the strange goings-on that I’ve let her into my life. Is that coincidental timing? Could she be getting inside the house and trying to frighten me – orchestrating problems so I turn to her? She’s been so keen to be friends with me for so long; now she’s got what she wanted. Friendship. She’s needed by someone. But if this carries on, it’ll drive me away, which is surely the opposite of her intention.

  Barb? The most obvious person behind the sabotaging of the house sale. But I can’t figure out why she’d be our night-time visitor – it doesn’t fit with her desperately wanting us to stay. Finley mentioned he thought she might be watching over them, but it’s not as though I’m preventing her from seeing them any other time. Why would she want to sneak around in the dead of night? The strange things going missing, though – might she be behind that? Finley could be right about her taking the picture from my bedroom. I had caught her in there staring at it the other day.

  Tim? Until Finley mentioned Nick’s brother, I wouldn’t have given him a thought. But what if he has come back and is the missing thirteenth viewer? Maybe he was in serious trouble and that’s why he’d stayed away for all these years – because he had to. But something has brought him back home. And he needs to remain hidden, his presence here a secret. Has he somehow found out about Nick’s cold case and the links he’s making? Or is he trying to frighten me into selling more quickly – to the developers – because he wants this house empty so he can come and go more freely?

  Or, worse still, is it a total stranger – the person who sent the bracelet for Nick?

  The murderer.

  Resentment swells inside me. Nick is happy to let his family stay in this house, yet there’s a possibility an abductor, killer even, is gaining access. We are at risk, and he’s doing nothing.

  Or is he?

  I sit up. Nick appeared very calm about the sender of the parcel knowing our address. Too calm. Like he knows more than he’s letting on. Even if I’m not important to him anymore, his boys mean everything. He wouldn’t knowingly put them at risk. Which means he’s confident they’re not. Anger accelerates my heartbeat.

  As far as I’m concerned, the only way he can be so confident is because he knows who my intruder is. And he doesn’t want me to worry because it’s making me edgy enough to consider selling to the developers, which he’s adamant I shouldn’t do. Is it him? Has he been keeping an eye on me and the boys? Maybe he’s jealous of Richard and wants to know exactly what’s going on. He was confident there was no sign of a trespasser when I asked him to look – perhaps it’s because it’s him who’s watching us and he didn’t want me to find the spyware. Allaying my fears, even making me feel I’m just being paranoid. And recently he’s been talking about how he’s messed up, how he misses chatting to me about his day once he’s finished work; misses his boys. He’d seemed amicable about the split; happy I’m moving on with a new man. But it could easily be a lie. It’s possible he and Barb are in this together. Mother and son. Trying to save their family any way they can.

  I mentally add Nick to my list of suspects.

  Chapter Seventy

  Amber

  Getting back out of bed at 1 a.m. to position my mobile had unsettled me; nerves prevented sleep. Exhaustion took over eventually – but not until gone four. The alarm going off at seven came far too soon. I’m not expecting to see anything now as I take the phone from the landing windowsill and check it’s still recording.

  It is.

  Blood pounds in my ears; a light-headedness catches me off-guard. I stumble backwards, away from the top of the stairs. The last thing we need now is for me to take a tumble. Finley rushes out of his room, squinting at the light; sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Well?’ he says, rubbing them.

  ‘I’ve not looked yet.’

  ‘But it recorded okay?’

  I need to hedge my bets here. If there’s something on the recording, I want to be the first to know, and then decide whether it’s wise to share it with Finley.

  ‘I don’t know that yet either. I’m still half-asleep. I’ll make breakfast, then check. You start getting ready for school, please.’

  He looks as though he’s about to put up an argument, but then turns and goes back into his room. I heave a sigh of relief. I wake Leo, who at least seems to have been oblivious to our activity last night, and go downstairs to the kitchen.

  I don’t get far.

  Something is preventing me opening the lounge door. I push hard against it, and feel it give a little; a small crack of light filters through. I pause for a moment. A heavy weight is clearly against it on the other side.

  A person?

  My breathing shallows. I put my ear to the crack. There’s no noise.

  A dead weight the other side?

  My mind is creating all sorts of possibilities now. Hopefully they’re all wrong. It can’t be a body. That’s a ludicrous notion.

  I put all my weight behind the door, but my feet slip, so I turn and push my back against it instead. Slowly, the door opens enough for me to squeeze through.

  For a split second, I’m relieved. It’s just the coffee table. But then the realisation someone moved it there and blocked the door with it, sinks in. And to do it, they must’ve been on this side – in the lounge or kitchen. Which means they only had three options for getting out again: the lounge window, through the kitchen window or out the back door. I rush to each in turn. There’s no evidence of forced entry – or exit – and the windows are firmly closed. No one could’ve closed them from outside. The key is still in place in the back door. I always lock it and leave the key in; it’s an old habit. But did I forget to actually lock up last night?

  Tentatively, I pull the handle down. It is locked. How could someone have moved the table up against the door and then have got out again? My tired brain can’t figure it out.

  I ignore the voice screaming inside my head saying: They’re still in here. There’s nowhere for them to hide, so they can’t be. Just as I’m about to walk back into the lounge, I hear a clang. I turn to see the back-door key lying on the floor. I draw a rapid breath. It was only loosely in the lock, as if it had been placed in there carefully, so that someone on the outside could still use a key to lock the door.

  Whoever’s coming in and out of my home must have their own set of keys. To the back door and possibly the front too. Who has had access to it to be able to get a duplicate? Me. Nick. Barb. Carl. Davina? The thirteenth viewer? I’m back to the original list of suspects. All of them may have had an opportunity to get a back-door key cut. My focus had been so intent on the front door, I hadn’t been worried enough about ensuring the back-door key was secure as well. I curse my stupidity.

  I go into the lounge and heave the table back to the centre of the room before the boys get down. It’s not easy – I’m out of puff doing it. Which makes me think Barb would never have been able to manoeuvre it. Perhaps, then, I can take her back off the list?

  Unless there’s more than one person involved.

  Sitting rigidly on the sofa I take my mobile, opening the recording. I have to know.

  Swallowing hard, bracing myself for what I might see, I hit the play button.

  ‘Come on, then. Who are you and what do you want with my family?’

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Barb

  I’m rereading the letter from her again before I destroy it. I intended to burn it along with the picture, but somehow in the confusion and stress, I forgot, stuffing it into the back of the photo album instead. It was only after seeing Patrick that I remembered. Silly mistake. I’d gone to such great lengths to retrieve it from Leo’s school bag before he could hand it over to A
mber – how could I then have left it somewhere where someone might have found it. Not that anyone comes here, of course. Not even Nick seems to visit these days.

  But Patrick might well come sniffing around again. I can’t have it falling into the wrong hands.

  The second I set eyes on it, when Nick passed it to Leo in the car, I recognised Geraldine’s scrawly, looped writing. I can’t believe she had the gall to write those words, let alone send them to Amber. How dare she? And how did she find out Nick’s new address? Someone must’ve given it to her. She would’ve been wary of sending it to Amber’s house, knowing it had once been mine. Awful, nosy woman – no doubt she was afraid I’d see it, intercept it before Amber could read it. She underestimated me. As everyone else does. But she was obviously too scared to address her letter to Nick. She’d know he wouldn’t believe this utter drivel.

  Conniving old hag.

  She must know about the separation. That’s why she decided to write to Amber – more likely the lies she’s spilling in these pages would penetrate. Bad-mouth the ex-mother-in-law – yes, that’s the way to go. And Amber would believe it. Or at least, it’d give her pause; she’d consider the lies to be truths. She’d tell Nick. Geraldine Harvey would get what she wanted.

  And I can’t have that.

  This ball that’s started rolling, it’s gathering speed. I doubt I’ll to be able to control it. I’m trying my best, but the more I have to do to safeguard my family, the deeper I’m getting into dangerous territory. Just as I feel confident I’ve stopped one thread from fraying, another strand pops up. So many threads and strands. So many factors. How can one event have such far-reaching implications?

  I may have sidestepped this threat for now, but there will be others. Maybe even from her again. Unless I reply, of course. I could buy time by responding as if I were Amber; put her off the scent. I’ll have to type it, though – I can’t disguise my writing enough to make it authentic. I’ve only got a typewriter, but it’s not too old; it should produce a clean type. Although not the clarity today’s printers produce, and anyone of Amber’s age would use a laptop and print a letter off if they were to write one in the first place: these days everyone texts and emails. Letter-writing is a dying art. It’ll have to do, though – it’s the best I’ve got.

  But, I didn’t bring the typewriter with me when I moved here. It’s in the loft.

  Amber’s loft.

  How on earth am I going to be able to get it from there?

  Ahh. Yes, of course.

  I know who can help with that.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Amber

  ‘Did you catch him, Mum?’ Finley’s voice is hushed as he creeps in and sits beside me on the sofa.

  I’ve no need to shield him from the phone recording. There’s nothing to see.

  ‘No, love. The camera didn’t show anything – it was too dark.’

  ‘Didn’t you leave the light on?’ He says, his eyes widening.

  ‘I thought I had, but apparently not.’

  ‘Let me see,’ he says, reaching for my phone. I don’t let him take it; instead I turn it towards him and let him look at the inky-black, grainy picture. The timer on the recording reads 03.15. ‘Is that the time?’ he asks.

  ‘No, it’s how long the recording has been running.’

  He sighs. ‘So, you haven’t watched it all, then. You’ve been skipping it.’

  This is true, I have only watched for a few seconds then skipped it forwards. But the fact is, it’s all too dark. ‘I haven’t had time to watch every second, and won’t before I get you to school. But it’s all the same: dark, almost-blank footage throughout. I messed up, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Never mind. I guess you can try tonight. And put a light on this time, Mum. Duh,’ he says, laughing. I’m pleased he’s making light of it at least.

  ‘Okay, monkey.’ I smile. ‘I’ll get it right tonight.’

  He gets up and leaves. I stop the recording, then go back to the start.

  I had left the light on. I didn’t want to mention it to Finley, but at one hour thirty minutes into the recording, the screen goes black. The light goes off.

  But the light switch was in full view of the phone camera the whole time and no one went near it.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Amber

  I can’t believe it’s Friday and I don’t feel I’ve done anything worthwhile or constructive with my time off work. Three days before I’m back at the optician’s and I’m no closer to making decisions. I pile the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and shout up to the boys. Once I’ve dropped them at school, I’ll call Jo for a catch-up. Maybe she and Keeley have made progress with their fact-finding mission and will have something solid for me to work on.

  The walk to school is slow and laboured – each of us appear subdued; lost in our own thoughts.

  ‘When is Miss Emery coming back? I miss her,’ Leo pipes up as we reach the gate.

  ‘I don’t know, Leo. There’s been no mention of it in the newsletters.’ With everything else going on, I’d pushed the question of why Miss Emery left so suddenly aside. ‘Has Mr Welland talked about it to the class?’

  ‘Nope.’ He scuffs his shoes along the tarmacked path. ‘It’s been ages since she was here. I liked her.’

  ‘Hmmm … yes.’ It was a week ago when she took me to one side to discuss Leo’s nightmares and when she asked about Carl. It might be she’ll be back on Monday – following a week’s holiday or sick leave. If not, then it’s time further questions were asked.

  I don’t go back home; I walk to Jo and Keeley’s instead. Jo often takes Friday off, so I might be in luck.

  ‘Hey, you. Come on in,’ Jo says as she swings the door open for me to enter. ‘Bit early for wine, mind …’

  ‘Hah! Is it?’

  ‘Oh. That bad?’ She closes the door and follows me into her kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know, Jo. Yes. No. Not sure.’

  ‘Great. Glad we’ve cleared that up.’

  Jo pops the kettle on, and I position myself on my usual stool at the breakfast bar. ‘I was hoping for an update,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s perfect timing, then.’

  ‘Really?’ I perk up; finally, some good news? ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Perhaps don’t get too excited. But we’ve made some headway.’ She finishes making the coffee and sits down in front of me, a serious expression now on her face. I brace myself.

  ‘Right, well I’ll start with the developers, Whitmore & Co, as that was my task,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t easy to trace the origins, strangely – or, perhaps I should say worryingly. It’s as though they’re trying to stay below the radar themselves – I believe the main guys are hiding behind a front.’

  ‘As in, the ones with the money and clout aren’t the ones whose names appear in the applications? How can that be?’

  ‘I assume those who are named on the official documents do obviously work for the company – are major shareholders or something – but they aren’t the ones making the actual plans and decisions about the Stockwood development. From what I’ve managed to dig up, the developers have a link with locals. Or, specific local people, I should say.’

  ‘How could a local person be involved in this after all the fuss the villagers made about the proposed development?’ The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. ‘Who? Who are the ones in on this?’

  ‘I haven’t reached that conclusion – there’s far too much to sift through. They’re obviously not making it easy for people to find out.’

  My optimism wanes. I was hoping for something firm – not another tenuous link. ‘So, we’re not really any further on with this …’

  ‘Hang on, don’t despair,’ Jo says. ‘I’ve other relevant stuff, give me chance.’

  ‘Sorry – it’s been a long few weeks. I’m a bit short on patience.’ I take a sip of coffee; attempt to calm down.

  ‘I asked around and some people recollected stories about the sam
e developers paying people off so they could gain land and houses. Utilising more “threatening” behaviour to get what they want. It made me think there’s a strong possibility they could be behind the strange goings-on in your house; they’re trying to frighten you into selling to them quickly.’

  ‘That’s terrible. How can they get away with doing that?’

  ‘It’s all small talk, hearsay, whatever you want to call it. No one has ever come forward with proof. Probably too afraid to.’

  ‘This is so stressful.’ I rub my hands over my face.

  ‘But this is where the other interesting fact I found out comes into play.’ Jo is giving a smug smile. Like the cat who got the cream.

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘Carl,’ Jo states, then sits back.

  ‘What about him? Surely he’s not in on it with the developers, is he?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got nothing new about any of his supposed affairs, but, I did find out that his wife is the stepdaughter of a Mr Whitmore …’

  ‘No! That can’t be a coincidence. Okay, that changes things.’ I sit forward, banging my elbows onto the granite breakfast bar. ‘What a creep – is that why he’s not even trying to sell my house? So he can force me to sell to his wife’s stepdad?’

  ‘Look, it might just be coincidence. But, he could really bank in on the deal if you think about it. He gets the residents of Apple Grove to sell to the developers, and in time, he gets to be the estate agent who sells the places they build on the purchased ground. A tidy commission for him, I imagine. And probably far more than he’d get from a standard house sale. Especially if they’ve promised him big money if he can secure the Apple Grove sales without getting his hands dirty.

  ‘Shit. That’s unbelievable.’ My mind whirls as I attempt to take in this information. ‘Carl has brought up, on numerous occasions, how it would be quicker and easier for me to sell to the developers due to lack of interest.’