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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
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. 80
  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
  89. 84
  90. 85
  91. 86
  92. 87
  93. 88
  94. 89
  95. 90
  96. 91
  97. 92
  98. 93
  99. 94
  100. 95
  101. 96
  102. 97
  103. 98
  104. 99
  105. 100
  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

Children like to be scared, don’t they? I was counting on it. They enjoy the frisson, pressed up against fear, knowing that the safety net of an adult is never far away. At least, that’s what I had thought. I had not been able to find what I was looking for and so I had made it by hand. Sewing and gluing. And it had seemed like such a clever idea.

The crow had been lying on the lawn. Perhaps a fox had claimed it, tail feathers between its incisors, claws pressing on its breast, but when I stumbled across it, the body was intact. Its head, though, had been detached, and its collar was bloodied and torn. Its beak and eyes were open. By my calculations, it would take three or four months to decompose. Enough time for my purposes.

A puppet with a bird’s head and human hair stuck to its feathers and black scraps of lace fabric from an old Victorian dress I’d found amongst the costumes in “Birdie’s” old shop.

A version of a mourning doll, my own private joke.

34

34

Monday 30th July 2018, 9:04 P.M.

The Avenue

The postman unwrapped his sandwiches. Ham and mustard. He balled up the aluminum foil and flicked it into the footwell where it joined an empty lemonade can and a crisp packet. He took a bite. A poppy seed caught between his teeth and he worried it free with his tongue.

His Royal Mail van was parked at the top of The Avenue. He hadn’t wanted to draw attention to himself, but this spot tucked away near the shops gave him a decent vantage point without attracting suspicion. As soon as it got dark, he’d drive farther down the road, but for now, he was content to wait.

An opera was beginning on BBC Radio 3 and he switched it off. He used to love its extravagance, the opulence of the language and vocal tone, but he couldn’t bear to listen to that kind of music anymore. Così fan tutte had been playing when she died, and in every note, he heard the wet sound of her skin yielding to the blade. He put down his sandwich, appetite gone.

The door to number twenty-seven opened, a tunnel of light on the path. Two police officers were talking to Mrs. Clifton, and when she went in, they stood on the pavement, their heads bent together. He slid farther into his seat.

His gaze flicked to the entrance of Blatches Woods, to the length of police tape strung between the bushes, and his heart was a hammer against his ribs.

The woman was standing there, duct tape binding her wrists and her ankles, a thin trail of blood snaking down her chin.

With her eyes, she pleaded for her life.

35

35

Monday 30th July 2018, 9:06 P.M.

The Avenue

“What do you think?”