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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
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  60. 55
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  62. 57
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  73. 68
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  75. 70
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  77. 72
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  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
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  93. 88
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  102. 97
  103. 98
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  106. 101
  107. 102
  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“I don’t know,” said her brother as Aster disappeared up the stairs to bed. But the question triggered something inside him, and all of a sudden, he burned to know what was inside that buried crate with its smear of blood on the edge where his mother had hit it when she’d fallen.

Aster was already beneath the covers, lids heavy with sleep when Evan ran down the garden, the grass still shiny from the rain. In his haste, he slipped over, muddying his knees, but then he was up and off again, through the gate in their fence and skidding down into the dip of the ditch.

The crate was in exactly the same place. Not on either of their properties, but roughly halfway between 25 and 27 The Avenue, and in the copse that lay beyond the fences at the bottom of their gardens.

It was about the size of the box that his parents’ wine was delivered in at Christmas, twelve bottles all at once. But it had a lid, and there were nails in the wood, and one corner protruded from the ditch. Evan did not know this, but the hot weather had pushed it up through the shrinking, dried-out earth.

Evan tugged at it, but it was lodged in the dirt and it wouldn’t shift. He was staring at it, hands on his hips, when a shadow-shape in front of him said, “Let me help you with that.”

Cooper Clifton, the man from next door, was standing by the section of ditch that ran behind his own garden fence. He shut his gate before Evan had a chance to protest.

In one hand he carried a spade, and its steel edge gleamed hard and sharp.

87

87

Wednesday 1st August 2018, 3:45 A.M.

4 Hillside Crescent

Wildeve shook her head as she pulled up in front of the Rayleigh police station.

* * *

Of all the phone calls she might have expected to receive at almost half past two in the morning, that had not been one of them.

“Hello?”

“Wildeve, it’s Roger Sampson.”

The Detective Chief Inspector had sounded wary, as though he was uncertain of his reception.

“It’s very late.”

“Or early, depending on your point of view.” He had grunted and she guessed he’d been dragged from his own bed, which meant something significant had happened.

She had stifled a yawn. “What can I do for you, guv?”

“It’s Lovell. He wants to talk.”

Wildeve bit back her natural instinct toward sarcasm. “That’s great.” But that didn’t explain why Sampson was calling her at this unsociable hour. “I’m not sure what that’s got to do with me.”

“He wants to talk to you.”

Wildeve had leaned back against the pillows of her bed, the photo album forgotten, electrified by his change of heart.

“Why me?”

“Because of Adam.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Any chance it can wait until morning?”

“ ’Fraid not. He says he knows who the killer is.”

88

88

Now