The Neighbour

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,