The Neighbour

Gemma Rogers

Description

Love thy neighbour or fear thy neighbour?

For myself and Lauren, my 10-year-old daughter No3 Beech Close was to be our refuge after two years of hell nursing my sick mother.
In need of a fresh start and wanting to distance ourselves from the bad memories of my mother’s house we moved to Beech Close, a small cul-de-sac of six houses situated around a picture-perfect green.
It seemed perfect but I had underestimated the secrets that this tightknit community shared.
Within hours of moving in my next-door neighbour Valerie made it abundantly clear we were not welcome.
I soon discovered that Valerie hadn’t welcomed the previous occupant either and she’d since disappeared without a trace.
Had I put myself and my daughter in danger moving to Beech Close?
Which neighbours, if any could I trust?
And how far would they go to keep their secret?
Perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty, Shari Lapena and Lisa Jewell

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Thrillers
• Women
• Suspenso
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• General officer
• Woman
• Psychology
• The Women
• General
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 05 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800487000
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE NEIGHBOUR


GEMMA ROGERS
For Bethany
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Epilogue


Acknowledgments

More from Gemma Rogers

About the Author

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
1

Arthur Chappel pulled down the shutter at the rear of his removal van and wiped his palm on his khaki trousers before offering it to shake.
‘All done now, miss, the beds have been put back together and all the boxes are in the right rooms.’ His forehead glimmered, beads of sweat nestling in deep crevices caused by years of hard graft.
It was an unusually warm April day, with Easter less than a week away, and I was thrilled I hadn’t had to move house in the rain.
I shook Arthur’s clammy calloused hand and smiled at him. ‘Please, call me Shelly – and thanks, you’ve both been great.’ I watched as his young helper climbed into the passenger seat, rolling down the window, ready to get going. ‘I appreciate you fitting me in at such short notice.’
‘Ah, you didn’t have a lot to move, only needed the one van, and me and Bobby knew we could do it in a couple of hours. We’ll invoice you for payment later on this week.’
I’d only brought a few pieces of furniture with me – a TV, a sofa, and two beds plus Lauren’s chair, desk and bookcase from her bedroom. Enough to manage until I could replace them for new. Most of Mum’s stuff had gone to charity. I knew bringing it with me would mean bringing the memories too and those I was happy to leave behind. There was never any question that I would stay in that cottage.
I rummaged in the pocket of my dungarees and Arthur raised one eyebrow when I slipped a twenty-pound note into his hand.
‘Thanks again and please have a drink on me,’ I said, turning back to the house before he could protest, and gazing at what was now mine. For the next six months at least. Behind me, I heard the van door slam and the engine rumble to life before fading into the distance as Arthur and Bobby drove out of the close.
The house had been a real gem of a find, a three-bedroom rental property in the catchment area for a place at Briarwood High School where I wanted to send my ten-year-old daughter, Lauren, next year. It was the best school in the vicinity of Crawley in West Sussex, but rental properties were hard to come by, being so close to the airport, and I couldn’t buy anything until money from the sale of Mum’s house came through. Even so, I doubted I’d be able to afford the half-a-million price tag the last one sold for. Thankfully, there had been enough in Mum’s account to pay six months’ rent up front and I was positive it had been what swayed the owner to pick me out of a dozen other applicants.
We’d deserved a bit of good fortune after what had been a couple of years from hell. Lauren and I had been Mum’s carers until she’d passed away a month ago. Officially, it was a head injury incurred from a fall that had killed her, but she was in the later stages of dementia. It hadn’t been easy, juggling work, parenting, and looking after Mum. My dad had left when I was a baby, and there had been little in the way of help, it had all been down to me, so today felt like a new chapter. I wanted somewhere I could finally relax, somewhere I wouldn’t hear the summoning tinkle of Mum’s bell every five minutes. A sound so deeply ingrained, I heard it still.
I sighed, slowly turning in a circle to admire the view of the close, sure I saw a curtain twitch from across the green. The sun was in my eyes, and I couldn’t be certain I hadn’t imagined it, although it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for the other residents to want to find out who their new neighbours were, especially with so few houses in the close.
‘Right, what’s next,’ I said to myself, turning back to the house. The driveway looked like it needed a sweep, but I’d get to it later. I only had two hours before I’d have to pick up Lauren from school and I wanted to get as much of her room unpacked as I could. It was the last day of the spring term and we’d have two weeks’ holiday to get ourselves settled in before she had to go back to school.
I made to move, but the warmth of the sun on my back was so good. I soaked up the freedom for a moment, admiring the property, which was a million miles away from the dark 1890s cottage we’d been living in, despite it only being a short drive away. Our new home was a modern red-brick-built detached property with no leaking sash windows or icy slate tiles to be seen. The close, Beech Close – so called, I assumed, because of the single beautiful beech tree which stood proudly in the middle of a circular patch of green – was small, with only six houses dotted around the luscious grass centrepiece. It had the feel of a gated community, a private road for the privileged.
Each house was identical in size and design, even down to the pillar-box red uPVC doors and garages. All had white double-glazed windows and small driveways with a snippet of a lawn. When I had first viewed the property, I was concerned it was a little too perfect, and my old VW Golf sitting on the driveway would devalue the street. The estate agent had laughed off my comment and by the end of the tour I was smitten and offered a deposit, only to be told there were other interested parties, and the owner was going to make the final selection. I offered six months’ rent up front and luckily we were chosen.
Lauren hadn’t been inside yet, although we’d driven around the close a couple of times. It had all moved so quickly, we hadn’t had time for a second viewing. She’d been excited before school this morning at the idea of coming home to a new house. Mum’s cottage, where we’d spent the last couple of years, was full of cobwebs and dark corners, and Lauren said she was looking forward to not being cold all the time. She had a point. The cottage was old and needed lots of work, but it was a listed building and sold within days for a higher price than I expected. There was a bidding war between two couples, the estate agent had informed us.
Lauren couldn’t wait to leave, and I didn’t blame her. It had been tough, her childhood marred and put on hold while Mum was ill. I’d discovered she was planning a housewarming party for all her friends as soon as she could get me to agree. Warranted for all of the times she’d missed out having anyone come to play over the past two years she’d watched her nan deteriorate. I was looking forward to seeing her be a kid again, she’d had too much on her young shoulders recently.
The dog barking nudged me from my thoughts.
‘Coming, Teddy,’ I called out, striding towards the house to let him out of the kitchen. I’d shut our four-year-old border terrier out of the way of the removal men and the poor thing was likely desperate to go to the toilet.
Rushing inside, I forgot to close the front door so when I opened the kitchen door, Teddy bolted straight for freedom. The pull of new sounds and smells too much for him to resist.
‘Teddy!’ I shouted, dashing after him. The close was a quiet cul-de-sac, with barely any traffic, but the thought of him being squashed by a neighbour reversing off their driveway made my legs pump faster.
He was quick for a dog with little legs, and I caught sight of him turning left out of the driveway.
‘Teddy!’ I scowled, hurrying after him.
As I rounded the hedge, I saw him squatting on the neighbour’s lawn to release his bowels.
‘Oh God, Teddy,’ I hissed, looking up at the house and cringing. It was a great way to introduce myself to the neighbours, by my dog crapping on their perfectly mown lawn. I didn’t have a bag on me either, although I reached into my pockets to try to find one, despite knowing they’d be empty. ‘Come on, let’s go get a bag and clear this up,’ I said loudly, reaching down to hold Teddy by the collar and walk him back towards the house.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ came a shrill voice behind me once we were almost at the door. Still clutching Teddy’s collar, hunched over, I twisted around to see who was there.
Taking the opportunity to escape from my grasp, Teddy sprinted at the woman standing at the end of my driveway, whose eyes widened in horror as if a monster was hurtling towards her and not a border terrier. He was hoping for a cuddle, but by the look on her face it was more likely she’d kick him to the kerb. Lurching after the dog in an attempt to get to him before he reached her, I stumbled, unable to catch up, her shrieks echoing around Beech Close like a siren announcing my arrival.
2

Teddy launched at her, scrambling on his hind legs, mouth gaping and tongue out. His bronze tail wagged at the prospect of a stroke from a stranger as the woman tried to bat him away, palms outstretched.
‘Get off, get off, you vicious creature,’ she squawked, and I ran forward to pick Teddy up, who wriggled in protest.
‘Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you,’ I said, mildly amused at the image of our soppy Teddy being some rabid beast. Cujo he was not.
The woman brushed herself down, the tassels of her violet pashmina catching in the breeze. She looked immaculate in a knee-length skirt and block heels, her strikingly silver hair pulled into a tight chigno