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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
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  32. 27
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  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The doorbell rang, a discordant buzz that made him jump, but he didn’t move, his hands smoothing out the tracing paper and the neat lines of his technical drawings, working out how long the building would take and how soon they could feasibly sell.

The bell rang again. Why didn’t Olivia answer it, for Christ’s sake? He waited a beat, then huffed to the door.

A woman waited on the doorstep. No part of her was beautiful on its own, and she looked tired, weighted down, but there was something about the way she held herself, and the pure lines of her cheekbones and the sweep of her hair across her face.

He vaguely registered a man standing behind her, but if he’d been pushed, he could not have described him.

She did not wait for him to speak.

“Detective Sergeant Wildeve Stanton—and this is Detective Constable Bernie French.”

“Come in, come in,” he said, cringing at himself, sounding like an overenthusiastic uncle. He held open the door. “What can I do for you?”

The police officers stepped into the hallway.

“You’ll be aware there’s been another murder, Mr. . . . ?”

“Lockwood.” He’d wanted to make a joke, adopt a faux Scottish accent, but was worried he’d sound disrespectful. And lame. For some reason, although he didn’t know her, he found he cared what the police officer thought of him. “Yes. We saw the police cars. We only moved in yesterday.”

“The victim was a police officer working on an ongoing case,” said DC French. DS Stanton gazed forward, back straight, mouth set in a line. “One of your neighbors saw him yesterday morning. Did he knock on your door? Did you see him? Speak to him?”

He shook his head. “We didn’t arrive until the afternoon.”

“If you remember anything, you’ll let us know?” DS Stanton pressed a card into his hand. Their fingers brushed and her skin was cool against his too-hot hand. “You can reach me on this number if you need to.”

Before she had finished walking down the footpath, Garrick already knew that he would.

32

32

Monday 30th July 2018, 8:45 P.M.

27 The Avenue

Audrina Clifton was whipping up a welcome for the new neighbors. Resting her hands on her comfortable hips, she surveyed the bags of flour and cocoa powder, the jars of sugar and candied peel, nuts and desiccated coconut. Sticky glacé cherries and plump raisins.

Her baking was legendary. She was the undisputed queen of her local Women’s Institute cake-making competitions. First prize for her Dundee cake at the produce show in a nearby Essex village for six years in a row. She had a knack for it. A gift, some said.

And success tasted sweet.