4 Riverside Close
Diana Wilkinson
Copyright © 2020 Diana Wilkinson
The right of Diana Wilkinson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in
accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be
reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in
writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the
terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913419-43-1
Contents
Prologue
House For Sale
1. Caroline
2. Susan
3. Caroline
4. Alexis
5. Alexis
6. Olive
7. Alexis
8. Susan
9. Caroline
10. Caroline
11. Susan
12. Susan
13. Susan
14. Alexis
15. Alexis
16. Susan
17. Susan
18. Alexis
19. Alexis
20. Alexis
21. Caroline
22. Alexis
23. Alexis
24. Alexis
25. Caroline
26. Susan
27. Caroline
28. Caroline
29. Susan
30. Alexis
31. Alexis
32. Caroline
33. Alexis
34. Susan
35. Alexis
36. Olive
37. Alexis
38. Susan
39. Caroline
40. Susan
41. Alexis
42. Susan
43. Caroline
44. Alexis
45. Susan
46. Alexis
47. Alexis
48. Alexis
49. Susan
50. Alexis
51. Alexis
52. Susan
53. Alexis
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A note from the publisher
Love crime, thriller and mystery books?
You will also enjoy:
House For Sale
I open the front door and let him in, smiling all the while to put my guest at ease but making sure to tuck myself tightly behind the door. The neighbours might be watching.
‘Join me.’ I laugh light-heartedly. He flinches at the words but he is too slick, too cool to look unsettled. Such demeanour wouldn’t sit easy on his arrogant shoulders. Bastard. But I remind myself he’s far from perfect. It’s all been an act. I let out a short contemptuous laugh, enjoying my private thoughts. Paying to meet women smacks of desperation.
‘A drink?’ I offer, smiling as I lead the way to the kitchen. Perhaps he thinks I am like the sales agent, a slick purveyor of words and underhand tactics linked to obscene commissions. He stands and stares at me, as if I am mad. Beads of perspiration have settled on my brow and I have to wipe the drips away with my gloved hand. He glances round at the front door but will be remembering that I locked it securely behind us.
I knock back a whiskey from a half-drunk bottle and hand my guest a glass before wandering towards the patio doors. ‘Cheers,’ I say while I stand and look out across the bijou virgin square of grass. It’s empty and soulless, like my prey. I turn round to face him, the wait finally over.
‘Sit down. We need to talk.’ I indicate a chair into which he relaxes while watching me lift a bottle of wine from a display rack under the cupboards. Of course he likes fine wines. Maybe he thinks we’re going to share some intimate secrets. Instead of popping the cork, I walk slowly round behind him, raise the bottle high in the air and before he has time to flinch, I smash it down hard on the back of his head. His body jerks weirdly. His right foot twitches and then tries to push up away from the chair and I think of a headless chicken trying to escape. I lift my own foot in response and stamp down violently on top of his and hear the satisfying crunch of decimated bones.
Then I move round to the front of his chair, amazed by how easy it’s been. His head is slumped awkwardly to one side and for a brief second I fear he might already be dead. I delicately run a jagged shard of green glass, taken from the smashed bottle, across his perfect cheeks and poke the end through the skin. As I circle his eyes, jabbing ever more persistently with the tip, he finally opens them. I let out a deep breath, relieved he is still conscious. I deftly tie his legs and arms to the chair, securing them with strong cord to prevent him from slithering to the ground.
‘I’m glad you could come,’ I say, staring into his eyes. My voice is high-pitched, edged with hysteria. His lips are moving as he tries to speak but I can’t hear anything. I mimic his efforts, excited by his fear and by my control. I give mock encouragement. ‘Speak up. What’s that?’ I push my ear close to his mouth.
I wait until he once again slips out of consciousness and I extract the small paring knife from my pocket. I need to complete my task. I put my left hand over his lower face which I pull firmly to the left, the tension exposing the right side of the neck. With the edge of the knife facing forward, I stab the neck slightly behind the ear, before jamming it in to the hilt. Then as I sharply pull the knife back out, I project it forward ripping through the arteries and opening a hole in the neck. As the blood gushes forth, I know my task is done.
A phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump, disturbing the silence and bringing me back to reality. I need to leave, back out the way I came in through the patio doors. I assess the scene. There is not much to tidy up. There is no hint of my blood; I am certain of my efficiency. Once I’ve showered and changed, I’ll head off and burn my clothes. Epping Forest will inter the evidence. The police won’t come looking as I’ll be last on their suspect list. Once I have washed the whiskey glass, scrubbing away rogue traces of DNA, I move towards my exit.
I close the door gently behind me and smile over my shoulder one last time at the sight of the blood-spattered kitchen. The wet red floor is like the River Styx, flowing seamlessly through the gates of hell. My savagery will lie in wait as a warning against immoral filth and as a lesson to the unfaithful.
I am hit by a chilling ghoulish silence outside and cautiously hover for a moment to make sure there is no one about. I hold my breath, waiting, listening. Finally, when I am certain I am alone, I begin to move forward.
There is a small river running along behind the close. It trickles merrily and eventually disappears under a bridge before it enters a shady copse on the edge of the motorway. I tread gently across the grass and squeeze through the unlocked gate at the bottom of the garden, grateful that the river made such back garden portals desirable. No one in the close bothers to keep them locked. The arseholes think it is such a safe neighbourhood.
An owl hoots from somewhere nearby and the noise makes me falter. The full moon is brightly accusing as it stubbornly lights my path which is being muddied by more continual pellets of rain. I pull my collar up and glance heavenwards thanking the gods for the downpour which is already wiping away any hint of my presence.
A rustle behind urges me on with greater speed. It will be a fox, sneaking through the damp grass, scavenging for scraps. Perhaps I should look back. I don’t.
This is my biggest mistake.
Caroline
My laptop is open at the Join Me homepage. I brace myself, preparing to scroll through the profiles. It’s the first thing I do every morning when I get out of bed. I sit at the small desk in our bedroom and start to browse. Soon I’m staring at the head and shoulders snapshot of a new member.
‘She doesn’t look too bad.’ I jump backwards as Jason’s hands suddenly alight on my shoulders. The words ‘too bad’ make me wince. I don’t want his opinions.
‘Too pale, and I thought you didn’t like redheads.’
‘Expensive-looking jewellery though.’ He’s good at spotting the luxuries, the wealth. I’ll give him that. The gold chain seems to be pulling her down and the heavy earrings are elongating her freckled lobes.
‘What’s she into?’
‘Usual. Gourmet dining, fine wines and…’ I hesitate. My casual tone tries to stifle the nausea. I don’t really want to say it. ‘London Zoo.’ This is the marker, the red flag. Bored housewives like Susan Harper aren’t into zoos. Jason’s profile sucks them in with his showcased photographs and fanciful desire to visit the lions at Regent’s Park. This is our dangled carrot.
‘Looks like a good choice. What do you think?’
I don’t want to say what I really think. The words ‘tart’ and ‘whore’ perch precariously on the tip of my tongue. I have to remind myself that Join Me is my creation, my master plan. It’s meant to keep Jason close and keep me in control. I can only share him because he belongs to me but it’s tough. Every day it’s getting tougher.
He walks away, perhaps sensing the tightening in my shoulders and clenching of my jaw, and pauses as he reaches the bathroom door. ‘Join Me?’
It’s our interminable joke but I can no longer share the amusement. It’s only recently that I’ve sensed wry sarcasm every time he asks the question. The levity in his tone contrasts starkly with my own misgivings. I don’t reply, furrowing my brow in feigned concentration. He takes my silence as a negative and I soon hear the shower crank up as he slips away from view.
I close my eyes, trying to calm my fears. The anxiety has made my palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans and remind myself that Jason’s not perfect.
He has a small dark shape, etched deeply above his coccyx, slightly off-centre. The raised ugly red outline, with its ragged serrated edge had at first startled me but soon threw my obsessive insecurities a lifeline; a smattering of crumbs.
‘Ouch!’ I screamed when it had appeared that first time out of nowhere, affronting me with its blackness. I had recoiled, loosening my wet relentless grip from his body. I remember falling back hard against the pillows. ‘Cramp,’ I lied. I winced, rubbing my left calf furiously while keeping my eyes averted.
‘Oh that’s my map of Brazil,’ he announced proudly; a cartographer at home with his work. ‘Look, it’s broad across the top, thinning all the way down to Sao Paulo. It’s a tattoo,’ he lied. I remember how he had run his finger along the coastline. But it isn’t a tattoo. It’s a simmering festering dormant birthmark; grotesque and branding.
My gaze is automatically drawn towards the frosted pane and I torture myself watching the soap suds lather his perfectly tanned silhouette. I try to visualise the South American landmass, willing it to give me some respite from my obsession. Jason. He is my god and I am in his thrall.
I determinedly click the screen back to life and scroll down to payments. There are three more enrolments. Harry 888 says he’s twenty-five but with his black horn-rimmed glasses and balding pate he would be lucky to pass for fifty. The Tower of London and Buckingham Palace are on his wish list. Roly 676 is an accountant, an avid reader with a steady job and a penchant for heady cocktails. He wants to tour the wine bars of London. I guess he’s married. I’m skilled at reading between the lines. Katie 145 is single, plain and mousy. She won’t have any money, school teachers don’t, but she fancies a trip down the Thames. Wild abandoned sex will be her fantasy but Jason has ignored her repeated invitations.
‘Christ. Will you stop sneaking up on me?’ I stiffen. Jason has crept across the carpet, stealthy as a panther. Dangerous. He’s hovering behind me.
‘Sorry, couldn’t resist it.’ He will be grinning, all perfect dazzling teeth. His aftershave makes me cough. He’s been preparing for his date. ‘Don’t forget I’m meeting Jocelyn tonight.’
I swallow an acid retort.
‘How could I forget?’ I grit my teeth, knowing I can’t forget. Until he’s safely back home again, I’ll picture the scene, rewinding and replaying the masochistic images. I’ll see them in my mind’s eye, laughing, drinking and more; so much more. Jos 040 is drowning in lust for my husband. Her desperation is lining our pockets.
‘She’s promised to bring me two grand. Remember?’ It slips off his tongue, effortless, unemotional, with a hint of pride ringing through; pride at his unrivalled success. It’s for us, after all.
Jocelyn has fallen for Jason’s lies of lucrative investment opportunities. Her Join Me profile highlights that she’s into champagne haunts and Italian cuisine. She has joked privately with Jason that she has no interest in sightseeing. She’s a trophy wife from Essex; easy pickings.
‘Why are you in jogging clothes? You’ve just showered.’
‘I need some fresh air and I’ll pick up the paper while I’m out. Do you need anything?’ He is standing in front of the long mirror running fingers through his lustrous wavy hair, checking his appearance. Photo-shoot perfection is how he likes it.
‘No, you’re okay. Don’t be long.’
After he closes the door, I listen to him jog lightly down the stairs. A thunderstorm has built up outside and I move to the window and greedily stare down at my husband. He’s pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up before slowly bending down to retie his laces.
The skies open and for a moment I hold my breath, hoping he will turn round and come back indoors. He doesn’t but instead sets off, slowly at first, then building up pace as he heads ever more rapidly down the street. It might be a trick of my imagination but he seems to be running crazily, with intent, away from where he’s come.
He’s trying to put as much distance as he can between us.
2
Susan
The rain splashes against the window, large opaque globules slither down the pane; wet and woeful, like February. Everything is so dull. Outside in the close there isn’t a soul about. Random cars dot the driveways, teasing with hope of post-apocalyptic life. The circular bulb of the cul-de-sac seems like the end of the world, preventing the dullness from escaping.
I stifle a yawn, reaching at last for the teasing glass of Sauvignon. I double-check the time, having promised myself I wouldn’t succumb until five o’clock. One minute past. I close my eyes and let the cold nectar glide down my throat, relishing the almost-instant relief from the boredom. Tucking my legs under the swivel chair, I sit up straighter and pull myself closer in towards the computer. I finger the flyer sitting beside me on the desk and enter the web address. Join Me. The ladies at the gym have been chatting casually about the appeal of the website’s intriguing invitation to have fun around London with strangers but no one has enrolled yet. Or so they say.
The screen finally springs to life.
JOIN ME
Enrol and Enjoy London’s Sights Together
Heritage, Cultural, Dining/Fine Wines, London Fun
Tate Modern, British Museum, Royal Opera House, National Portrait Gallery…
The homepage is bright and sunny, blue and yellow, with an orange rainbow effect running through the text. A sudden clap of thunder outside makes me jump, a violent accompaniment to the images of joy and happiness. The wine is helping to veil the tackiness and is teasing me to browse further.
The profile synopses, however, are what taunt my imagination more than the bright and breezy sightseeing blurb. It’s shared fun that appeals rather than the bricks and mortar of the Tower of London. Unless I sign up I can only romanticise about the characters
whose faces peer out from the screen. I jiggle Roger’s Newton’s Cradle in front of me, jangling the balls from side to side, jabbing a forefinger at each end to coax the heavy metal shapes backwards and forwards. Click, click, click.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO?
Enrol, create a profile and list your interests
Join a Members’ tour or organise your own
Invite Members along to share culture and fun
A sudden ring at the front door startles me. Carefully secreting the wine glass behind the curtain, I sit tight. Perhaps they’ll go away.
‘Do you want me to get it, Mrs Harper?’ Natalie, our childminder, yells down from upstairs. She’s in the make-believe world of Lego building and Disney movies, under strict instructions not to disturb me until six o’clock.
‘It’s okay, Natalie. I’ve got it.’ This seems preferable to having Tilly and Noah back under my feet too early.
At the front door, I peer through the spyhole and manage to make out the distorted images of two strangers. Praying it’s not Jehovah’s Witnesses, I open the door.
4 Riverside Close Page 1
