I was still living at the house when Davina moved in across the road. It was me who approached her first, though. I always like to welcome new villagers; it’s only polite. It didn’t take long for me to ascertain she was a busybody. I was sitting on her brand-new, cream leather sofa, while she watched me with an almost unblinking focus as I sipped from the thick, heavy china mug – I’ve always preferred high-quality bone china myself. I remember my sense of unease. She was afraid I was going to spill my drink on her sofa, I could tell. Or onto the impossibly spotless cream carpet. Only people with no children in their family had such décor.

I remember being confused with the mixture of cheap tacki–ness with the more luxurious items and wondering if maybe her and her husband’s tastes were polar opposite. She asked a lot of questions, most of which I gave vague answers to. I got the distinct impression she didn’t like me and had only invited me in so she could grill me on the village and its inhabitants. I hadn’t stayed long, not long enough to even set eyes on her husband, Wayne, although she spoke as though he was there.

When she saw me several days later, she was keen to cross the road and chat with me. It was only a matter of weeks before I was due to move into my bungalow at the sheltered accommodation and I knew Nick, Amber and Finley were preparing to move in. I didn’t tell Davina any of this. As it turned out, she wasn’t interested in anything I had to say anyway; she was more concerned with what she’d found out about the couple at number 46. Of course, I already knew they’d been having issues. I was fully aware he’d been accused of having sexual relations with a minor. Nick had let it slip. It seemed I’d missed the arrest, though. Davina said she’d seen it all. Had practically invited herself into my house so she could inform me of the details.

It’d been the first and last time I’d let her in.

She was a nosy busybody. And a dangerous one.

I didn’t trust her then, and I don’t now.

Chapter Fifteen

Amber

The back of my throat dries in an instant and my body weakens. I reach to the arm of the sofa and slump down on it.

‘What man upstairs?’ I ask, fearful of the answer.

‘The one you were talking about with Richard,’ Leo says, his shoulders hunched.

I didn’t specifically mention a man, I don’t think, and nothing about someone being upstairs as far as I’m aware – but I’m relieved for the time being. He’s overheard my conversation and exaggerated it; he hasn’t actually seen a man upstairs.