The Silent Sister, Page 2

  Finally, halfway down the street, I arrive at The Crown, a Cotswold-stone-fronted seventeenth-century pub where Joe and I sometimes meet for lunch. I push open the wooden door to the lounge bar. Thankfully, it’s cooler in here. Joe is already sitting in our favourite spot by the window, his blond waves catching the light, making him look like a saint from a religious painting. He waves me over and I’m happy to see that my lunch has already arrived. He stands and we kiss.

  ‘Got you a sandwich and a Sprite,’ he says gruffly.

  ‘Thanks.’ I sit opposite him and stretch out my legs under the table.

  ‘What was that message you left about a letter?’ he asks through a mouthful of steak and ale pie.

  I start filling him in on the details, telling him about the letter addressed to me with today’s date on it.

  Joe shakes his head slowly and lays his knife and fork down. ‘Wow, Lizzy. That’s weird. Are you okay?’

  I nod, but his concern makes me wobbly. ‘Someone must have been inside our house last night,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know about that. How would they have got in without us hearing something? Did you check for signs of a break-in?’

  ‘I didn’t notice any broken windows. And both doors were locked.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘Did you notice anything weird in the kitchen this morning, before you left? Was Frank in there scratching at the floor?’

  ‘You know what I’m like first thing. I just get up, get dressed and leave the house. Don’t even have a cup of tea till I get to work.’

  ‘So you definitely didn’t go in the kitchen?’

  ‘Nope. I was straight down the stairs and out the door, like always.’

  I sigh. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. So the letter could just as easily have been put there sometime last night.’

  ‘You really think someone broke in and put it there?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s odd. And the envelope… it looks really old. Here, see for yourself.’ I reach for my handbag, pull out the envelope and pass it across the table.

  Joe takes it from me in his oil-stained fingers and frowns at my name written on the thick envelope. He pulls out the sheet of paper, his frown deepening. ‘This is today’s date, right?’

  ‘Yeah, the twenty-sixth. So what do you think I should do?’

  Joe turns the envelope over in his hands once more, staring at it. ‘I’ll change the locks when I get home, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I think that would be good.’

  With a disconcerting lack of concern, he takes another mouthful of pie.

  ‘Joe, someone’s broken into our house. I thought you’d be more worried about it.’

  ‘I am worried, Lizzy. I’m just getting my head round it, that’s all. Don’t stress, it’ll be okay.’ His expression softens. ‘Like I said, I’ll change the locks.’ He hands me back the letter and the envelope.

  ‘Maybe we should tell the police?’ I suggest.

  ‘I dunno, Lizzy. It’s just… after all that business last year, I’d rather not get the police involved if we don’t have to.’

  With a suspended sentence for the Leon Whittaker debacle, Joe has to be as good as gold for almost a year or he could find himself serving actual prison time. And while this letter thing is obviously nothing to do with Joe, the thought of the police being involved is naturally making him jittery.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Yeah, of course, we’ll leave the police out of it.’

  ‘Thanks, Lizzy.’ Joe reaches across and puts his hand over mine.

  ‘I did have another thought…’

  Joe raises his eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘What about…’ I begin hesitantly. ‘What about Emma?’

  Joe scowls and takes a deep breath in through his nose.

  I plough on. ‘Think about it. My sister’s the only person I’ve ever truly fallen out with—’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to her for years.’ Joe takes a swig of his drink. ‘Why would she do something like that now?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m just throwing out ideas.’

  ‘It’s more likely to be George,’ Joe says. I can tell he’s changing the subject. I guess I can’t blame him – Emma’s not exactly his favourite topic of conversation.

  ‘Pippa said the same thing. But come on, you can’t seriously think George would do something like that?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem the type, but then again he’s the only other person with a key. Maybe I should have a word with him.’ Joe rubs his chin, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘No. Joe. No. You won’t, will you?’ I’m scared he’ll wade in with his fists again and regret it later. ‘George is my boss. I can’t have you accusing him of all sorts.’

  ‘Just because he’s your boss doesn’t give him the right to harass you.’

  ‘He’s not harassing me! We don’t even know if it’s him. It’s not him. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to lose my job. I love my job.’

  ‘Calm down. I won’t speak to him if you don’t want me to. But once we’ve changed the locks we’re not going to tell him what we’ve done, okay?’

  ‘It’s George’s house. We’ve got to let him know. I don’t think we’re allowed to just change the locks and…’

  ‘The whole point is not to tell George. Completely defies the object if we tell him what we’re doing. Anyway, if I catch him or anyone else sneaking into our place, I’ll beat the crap out of them.’

  ‘No you won’t. You’ll call the police.’

  ‘I’ll beat the crap out of them, then I’ll call the police.’ He grins to let me know he’s joking. But I know what he can be like. He acts first and pays the consequences later.

  ‘Well then, it will be you going to jail, not them,’ I say, glaring at him. ‘You don’t really think George wrote that note, do you?’

  Joe shakes his head. ‘Dunno, Lizzy. But like you said, it’s weird.’

  I nod, realising I haven’t touched my sandwich. But I’m no longer hungry; the strangeness of the morning is finally catching up with me as I wonder what on earth is going on. Has someone actually been in our house? And if so, will they try it again?

  Four

  After a relatively quiet afternoon at work, I begin cashing up. Pippa’s friends’ spending spree this morning means we’ve already reached our monthly target, and there’s still almost a week to go until the end of the month. Normally I’d call George with the good news, but I’m reluctant to speak to him today. The more I think about it, the more I see that, logically, he’s the only other person with access to our cottage. But it doesn’t fit. Yes, he can be a bit touchy-feely, but not in a creepy way. He’s never made a pass at me and he’s always talking about how wonderful his wife Sophia is. I’m sure the letter has nothing to do with George, so why am I scared to call him?

  ‘Hello, Lizzy.’

  I look up from the till receipts to see Pippa’s brother Seb hovering over me like a stooped giant, his checked shirt tucked half-in, half-out of his shorts.

  ‘Hi, Seb. Pippa’s just getting her coat. She’ll be out in a mo.’

  ‘Uh, okay. I’m, uh—’

  ‘Coming, Sebbie!’ Pippa calls from the stockroom.

  He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Hope she’s quick. Had to leave the Land Rover parked on double yellows out there.’

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, yes, thanks. You?’

  For a moment I think about mentioning the letter, but I hardly know Seb. I only ever see him when he comes to pick Pippa up, and he’s always quiet around me. The polar opposite of his sister. ‘It’s been busy,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s good, right?’

  ‘It is.’ I smile.

  Pippa finally emerges from the stockroom in a cloud of perfume.

  ‘Is that the new jasmine tester?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ Pippa admits. ‘I had a quick spray. Hope you don’t mind. Divine, isn’t it?’ She takes her brother’s arm. ‘Sebbie, can you drop me at Whittaker’s? I’m mee
ting Fenella for drinks.’

  ‘Pip, Mum’s expecting you. We’ve got the—’

  ‘Pleeease?’

  ‘Fine.’ Seb stuffs his hands in his pockets and gazes down at his shoes before letting his sister lead him out of the shop.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Pippa,’ I call after her, sliding today’s receipts and cash into an envelope for George. He’ll stop by the shop to pick it up later.

  ‘Bye, sweetie!’ Pippa calls back.

  The door closes with a rattle and I walk across the shop floor to lock it behind them. It’s a beautiful evening and there are still quite a few people out and about. If Georgio’s were my shop, I’d stay open to make the most of the foot traffic, but it’s not mine and my wages aren’t enough to warrant the free overtime. Still, the thought of going home is making me uneasy. I switch off the shop lights one by one and retrieve my bag from the stockroom. As I slide the strap over my shoulder, I think of the offending letter in the side pocket. Is it something I should be seriously worried about? Hopefully it’s simply an odd, one-off incident that I’ll have forgotten about in a few weeks’ time.

  I set the alarm and leave work via the side door, the smell of car engines and hot tarmac hitting my nostrils in a not altogether unpleasant way. Turning right out of the shop, I head up the High Street, my mind straying towards thoughts of what to have for dinner tonight. I should probably turn back towards the supermarket, but I’m suddenly tired and just want to get home. I’m sure I can cobble something together from whatever’s in the fridge, and if I can’t, I’ll ask Joe to pick something up later.

  I cross over the road and pass by the familiar grey limestone of the Market Cross, its elaborate arches and pillars casting complicated shadows across the paving slabs. Seated inside, on its circular bench, a man is on his mobile phone, swearing at someone about something they did last night. I hurry on by, up the curvy lane with its too-narrow pavement, past the rows of pretty stone houses towards the Abbey. Even on the shaded side of the street, it’s warm. The air thick with a sticky heat that clings to my skin and pulses at my temples.

  Leaving the busy High Street behind, the sound of my clicking heels grows louder, echoing in the newly minted stillness. I’ve walked this route hundreds of times, but this evening the silence is suddenly oppressive and a little threatening. Rounding the bend, I turn into the Abbey grounds, giving a little start as something brushes my bare arm. But it’s just a stray leaf from a horse chestnut tree, its branches dipping low over the gate.

  The Abbey graveyard is empty and quiet, too early for a service, too early even for birdsong. Just the steady click of my heels and the sound of my own breathing. This is silly. I’ve nothing to worry about. A scuff of gravel behind me makes me whip my head round, but there’s no one there. No one that I can see, anyway. I pick up my pace and wonder about doubling back, going home the long way round rather than cutting through the Abbey gardens. But this way only takes five minutes; the road way takes twenty-five. I’ll be fine.

  I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. This is the route I always take and I’m not going to let that stupid letter put the fear of God into me. Nevertheless, as I walk, I reach into my handbag and take out the big bunch of shop keys, holding them so that they spill through the gaps in my fist like a weapon. If anyone is following me and tries anything on, I’ll ram the keys into their face and make a run for it.

  And now I hear them – definite footsteps behind me. But this is a public footpath, people walk this way all the time. Footsteps don’t necessarily mean anything sinister. So why are my heartbeats reverberating through my body? Why has sweat begun to prickle at my pores? I lengthen my strides, too scared to turn around and look. Instead, I just keep walking, the thrum of blood in my ears drowning out the sound of footsteps – theirs and mine. Here, the path veers away from the graveyard and narrows with high hedgerows on either side, a couple of Abbey buildings looming ahead. Is someone coming up behind me? I break into a hobbling run, almost sobbing now.

  Laughter. I hear laughter up ahead. Wiping away a frightened tear, I see a group of teenagers heading my way. Young lads, laughing, shouting, clutching four-packs of cheap beer. I exhale, thankful for their appearance. They pay me no attention as I walk by, and I risk a fleeting look over my shoulder, but apart from the teens, there is no one else there. The pathway behind me is empty. It must have been my imagination. This letter business must have unsettled me more than I thought.

  As I speed-walk down the rest of the lane, my breathing is still shallow, my pulse is still racing. I cross the small stone bridge, which spans a narrow section of the River Avon, until I finally emerge out onto the public highway once more, the distant sound of sparse early-evening traffic filling me with relief. I’m such an idiot, letting myself get spooked like that. I walk through the out-of-town public car park and then, two minutes later, I finally turn into Richmond Gardens. It’s a grander sounding road than it really is. In reality, it’s a dead-end lane, home to a pretty row of Cotswold stone cottages. Ours sits in the middle of a terrace of three. And I’ve never been so relieved to reach home.

  Joe’s nine-year-old BMW is parked out front next to my Polo. The shop keys in my fist have dug into my palm leaving painful red marks. I drop them back into my handbag and take out my house keys instead, but there’s no need because as I go to put the key in the lock, Joe opens the front door, a scowl on his face. He’s already changed out of his work clothes and his hair is damp from the shower.

  I smile, but his scowl remains and I’m confused by his hostile expression. ‘Hi,’ I say tentatively.

  Instead of replying and leaning in for a kiss, he steps back to let me into the cramped hallway, a waft of shower gel and deodorant following me through to the kitchen, where Frank miaows and winds himself around my legs. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, trying to work out what’s got Joe so moody.

  ‘How was your afternoon?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay,’ he grunts, coming into the kitchen and standing there like a spare part.

  ‘Something the matter?’ I set my bag and keys on the counter before picking Frank up and burying my nose in his fur, taking comfort in his purring warmth.

  Joe doesn’t reply.

  ‘It’s hot in here.’ I walk over to the sink and turn on the tap and let it run. After a brief moment, I wash my hands and splash my face, the cool liquid a balm on my hot skin. I pour myself a glass of water and turn around.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that letter,’ Joe says, leaning against the counter top.

  ‘What about it?’ I drain half the glass and start to feel more normal, cooler and less panicky.

  ‘It’s obviously like… a love letter or something.’

  I stare at Joe, trying to work out just what it is he’s getting at. ‘A love letter? I wouldn’t have said that. For starters, it’s creepier than a love letter.’ I set my glass on the draining board and unlock the back door, opening it wide in the hope of letting a breeze into the house. But the air is still. Warm as ever.

  ‘It’s just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just, if you weren’t so flirty with everyone, this type of thing, well… it probably wouldn’t happen.’

  I set Frank down on the floor and turn back to my boyfriend, whose face is now flaming red in what I’d like to hope is shame for insinuating what I think he’s insinuating.

  ‘This type of thing?’ I repeat. ‘What type of thing is that, Joe?’ Joe has always been quite an insecure and jealous boyfriend, and I often find myself having to reassure him that he has nothing to worry about in terms of my fidelity. His last girlfriend cheated on him and I still think he can’t quite bring himself to trust me completely. But we’ve been together for years, and I’ve never once given him cause to doubt me. So this accusation is a low blow and is completely unfounded.

  ‘Sorry.’ He rubs the back of his head.

  ‘No, what type of thing, Joe?’ I can feel my blood pressure rising. I can’t
quite believe that my boyfriend is trying to blame some creepy stalker’s note on my own innocent behaviour.

  ‘I didn’t want to bring it up,’ he says. ‘It’s just, well, I was telling the lads at work about the letter, and Brycie mentioned that you’re always really friendly with everyone. And the thing is, Lizzy, if you’re too friendly with your customers, well, it might have given some lad with a crush the wrong idea.’

  I realise my mouth is wide open so I snap it shut. My heart is beating out of my chest, not from fear any more, but from anger that is gradually morphing into a white-hot rage. ‘Oh, well, if Brycie and the lads at the garage said that, then it must be true. I mean, how dare I actually be friendly towards people. Maybe I should walk around glaring at everyone. Would that be better?’

  Joe’s shoulders drop. ‘You know what I mean, Lizzy.’

  ‘Do I? Do I, though? Maybe you should show me the exact expression I need to wear on my face to ensure that I don’t attract a stalker. Can you do that for me? Can you show me now?’ I shake my head and resist the urge to lob my glass at his head.

  ‘All right, Lizzy, I’m only trying to help!’

  ‘Ah, but you see, you’re not trying to help. You’re picking a fight. You’ve been gossiping with the lads at work about me and they’ve decided that it’s all my fault. That I’m too smiley or some such shite. Honestly, Joe, I can’t believe you’re taking advice from Terry knobhead Bryce. He’s an idiot. And so are you for listening to him.’ I barge past Joe, out into the hall and up the stairs, tears of anger pricking behind my eyes.

  ‘Lizzy!’ he calls after me. ‘Lizzy, I’m sorry!’

  I march into the bedroom and try to slam the door, but my dressing gown – hanging from a hook on the back of the door – swings into the gap and prevents the door from closing properly, so I’m denied even that small satisfaction.

  How dare Joe accuse me of bringing this on myself? I thought I’d be able to come home to a bit of support, and instead I’m faced with ridiculous sexist paranoid accusations.