All Fall Down: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist that will take your breath away (8 page)

R
ob didn’t get home till
gone seven. After leaving the office, he’d decided to take a stroll around the town centre to get his thoughts in order. Of course it had never really made sense that Jason would send a dying man into his garden; but having ruled out the involvement of Dennehy or his associates, where did Rob go next in search of an answer?

He had no clue. And his melancholy deepened when he learned that a tabloid journalist had infiltrated the offices of the charity in Winchester, speaking to several of Wendy’s colleagues before her motive was rumbled.

‘She was after information on
me
, that’s the thing. Trying to dig up the dirt.’

‘It’s bloody disgraceful. I don’t know why you’re not furious about it.’

‘Because you’re angry enough for both of us – as usual.’ Wendy gave him a pensive smile. ‘And because I realised that she wasn’t going to get anything juicy. It made me appreciate what a lovely group of people I work with. We should be grateful that our jobs don’t require having to stoop to such levels.’

Rob grunted a sort of agreement. After all, he could hardly claim moral superiority over anyone right now. But he was pleased to hear that she intended to work from home tomorrow afternoon.

‘I have a report to finish in the evening, but it means I can do the big shop on my way home, then pack for the holiday without you under my feet.’

She wanted to know about his day, but of course he couldn’t mention the encounter with Dennehy, or his mad race to clean up and change clothes before going to the office. There was a small bruise to the side of his nose, but he claimed to have bumped it on the car door.

‘The interview was okay. He seemed to know his stuff, but he was just so desperate. I’m the boss of a small plumbing firm, being made to feel like I’m Simon bloody Cowell.’

Wendy dragged out the silence, before saying, in a passable imitation: ‘You’re through.’

‘Don’t joke. I know you see it even more than I do, how tough it is out there. But this guy today gave me a sob story about one of his kids. The implication was: reject me and you’re punishing my children.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Sleep on it – and then probably employ him.’

F
or dinner
, Evan volunteered to cook a chilli; Livvy had already made a key lime pie for dessert. They were talking about food when Georgia stomped into the kitchen, ignoring them all, and helped herself to a Diet Coke from the fridge.

‘Chilli for dinner, courtesy of Evan,’ Rob told her.

‘Not hungry.’

‘But you must be—’

‘Don’t want it.’ She popped the can and turned to leave; still no eye contact with anyone.

‘Georgia, wait. . .’ Wendy began, and Evan darted into his sister’s path, hands raised and bobbing on his feet as if playing basketball.

‘You’re going nowhere, buddy, not after insulting the chef—’

‘Stop it,’ Georgia cried. Evan moved in for an embrace but she wheeled away, slopping Coke on to the floor. ‘Get off me!’

‘C’mon, give your brother a hug.’

He tried again and this time she shoved him hard in the chest. ‘Leave me alone, I’m not a pervert.’

Evan reeled back as Georgia stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

‘You could see she wasn’t in the mood,’ Livvy scolded him. To Rob and Wendy: ‘I think something may have happened in town.’

‘It’s those bloody so-called “friends” of hers,’ Wendy fumed.

‘Teenage girls,’ Livvy said with a mock shudder. ‘I tell you, it’s such a relief to grow up.’

A
fter that
, dinner was just the four of them. Only when he’d cleared his plate did Rob steel himself to ask if anyone had heard from Josh. Prompted by a nudge from Livvy, Evan said, ‘Uh, yeah. This project of his isn’t quite finished, so he’s saying he’ll make his own way up there, Sunday night or Monday.’

‘Oh, well I suppose that’s not—’ Wendy began, but Rob’s temper erupted.

‘It’s bollocks! On Sunday there’ll be another excuse, and by then we’re in Norfolk and it’ll be too late.’ He slammed a hand on the table. ‘Just once, why can’t he do what he bloody well agreed?’

His outburst was met with silence. Livvy was blushing, while Evan looked disgusted.
Nice one, Rob
, he thought to himself.
Alienate your whole family
.

It was left to Wendy to enquire, calmly, of Evan: ‘How would he get there?’

‘He was a bit vague about that. Train and then a bus, maybe.’

‘He won’t. It’s the middle of nowhere.’ Rob knew he was overreacting, and yet still couldn’t stop himself. ‘And how come he rang you? Why won’t he ever speak to me or your mum?’

At this, Livvy let slip a smile. She turned away to hide her reaction, but it was enough to restore some sanity.

Rob snorted a laugh. ‘Okay, no one needs to answer that.’

‘Despite what you might think,’ Evan said, ‘all that stuff about psychic connections between twins doesn’t really exist. I’ve tried to find out what he’s up to, but he basically said I wouldn’t understand. I’m Evan the Thicko, remember?’

Rob shook his head. They’d all had a taste of Josh’s dismissive tone over the years, although he continually insisted that he didn’t mean to cause offence.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re collecting him on Saturday morning, and I don’t care if we have to pick him up and throw him in the boot.’

He was prepared for opposition, but none came. All Evan said was, ‘Shall I tell him?’

‘No, better if we just turn up. Don’t give him a chance to wriggle out of it.’

B
efore bed
, Rob patrolled the house just as he had done the previous night, checking all the doors and windows – even testing the garden gate to ensure it was bolted.

In the bedroom, Wendy had a Robert Goddard novel open on her lap. She’d recently started wearing glasses for reading, and while she was mortified by the need for them, Rob thought they looked great on her.

‘Flaunting yourself, in those specs,’ he said. Wendy chuckled, but didn’t take up the invitation to flirt.

Slipping into bed beside her, Rob stretched out and sighed. ‘What are we going to do about Georgia?’

‘Leave her be. Evan said he’ll try and find out what’s up, once the dust has settled.’

‘Great! So now he’s the go-between for
both
our other kids? What a ringing endorsement of our parenting skills!’ He stared morosely at the ceiling. ‘Makes me think we bit off more than we could chew.’

Wendy inhaled sharply. ‘That’s a dreadful thing to say. She’s no more of a challenge than any other fifteen-year-old.’

‘No, but if we’d known the kind of grief we’d be getting from the twins – or Josh, anyway – I doubt if we’d gone ahead with the adop—
ow
!’ Without warning, she had prodded him in the stomach.

‘That’s unfair. If people knew the stress that teenagers cause, no one would have children at all. And if you remember, we went on trying for more after the twins were born.’

Rob grunted. ‘So?’

‘Well, would you still make a comment like that if Georgia was the daughter we’d
conceived
, rather the daughter we adopted?’

‘Right at this minute? I think I would.’

There must have been enough feeling in his voice that she didn’t berate him, which he expected – and probably deserved. He turned over, assuming it was better to leave it there. Then, to his amazement, Wendy shuffled closer and he felt her breath tickling the back of his neck.

At first his body tensed; from the shock of it, maybe. And because he was still grouchy and fed up. ‘Isn’t that a bit unfair?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ She shifted, as if preparing to break apart.

‘One minute you don’t want me anywhere near you, because you’re gearing up for. . . when it’s all finished. The next minute you’re coming on to me.’

He heard a little intake of breath; then she tutted, sadly, and moved away from him. ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to offer some comfort.’

Stupid, Rob
.

He was searching for an appropriate response when she said, ‘I’m a mess, at the moment. I’m so confused. So worried.’

‘Me too,’ he said quietly.

‘Then tell me that. Talk to me about it.’

‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t. And that’s what it comes down to, the reason I said what I said.’

He waited out another silence, wanting a fuller explanation, while also dreading one.

‘You’re never really here, Rob, and you haven’t been for years. I feel like I’ve only ever got about sixty per cent of your attention – and I can’t live like that any more.’

‘I don’t. . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think that’s very fair.’ It was the only response he could muster, and it sounded lame even to him.

‘Do you know something about this?’

The question made him jump; literally, the bed shook a little. ‘What?’

‘Sunday. The notes. If I hadn’t found the second one, I doubt if you’d have owned up to them. Are you hiding something from me?’

‘No. Of course not.’

Wendy sniffed in a way that seemed to express both satisfaction and regret:
I have my answer – and it’s the opposite of what you’ve just said
.

Y
our next challenge
was on a smaller scale, yet more ambitious. You travelled to London, cruising the streets around Kings Cross and Euston. You drove a dirty, anonymous van, bearing number plates stolen from a similar vehicle. The search was harder than expected, but eventually you found the perfect victim – not in the centre of the city but in Twickenham, on the embankment overlooking Eel Pie Island.

He was a homeless, hopeless, shambolic specimen, so incapacitated that he offered no resistance. He could barely walk. His speech was unintelligible. Later, when he had dried out, you learned that he had once attended a good school – albeit in some godforsaken northern town – and then a polytechnic. He claimed to have had some musical talent, an ambition to play keyboards and sing.

It hadn’t worked out. He’d discovered drink at the age of fourteen, and it had held far more allure than music, more than women or even drugs (the drugs came later). He’d held down a few ordinary jobs, but he’d also worked, finally, in the music business, as a roadie. He claimed to have tales to tell of those days, wild tales, but few of them made sense.

He called himself Baz. We didn’t get his full name: he no longer seemed to know it, having lived on the streets for many years.

He’d had a family once. A wife, and a child, but something had happened: he couldn’t remember what. He had blocked it out, though at night he would often scream for the child, and rage about the doctors that couldn’t save her.

Without the booze he was noisy and disruptive, so he had to be medicated, kept in a stupor until liveliness was required.

He had many tattoos, acquired during his time on the road. From his mumblings it became apparent that the road crew would get wasted in some far-off corner of the world, and compete to have the most obscene image etched on to their bodies. Baz had female genitals at the base of his spine. He had a prominent politician of the eighties fellating his equally prominent opponent. He had a limbless baby with the face of a young woman who presumably meant something to him. Offensive images, which had to be removed.

I required you to engage with him, to form a bond but at the same time have no feelings. That was important, for what was to follow.

It is no easy task to inflict pain, calmly and methodically, on another human being. Because of that, you were led to it gradually. Everything was discussed: the variety of methods, and the devices – the tools – that you might wish to use. And the pace of the torture, the
progression
of it, was crucial to get right.

I recommended frequent pauses, to assess the effect of your work; recovery time was also important, for you as well as him. You were fighting against years of learned behaviour, overcoming the natural resistance to cause harm.

I encouraged you to think yourselves into the part, the way actors do – drawing on real life experiences, channelling the emotions produced by those memories to act without inhibition, to punch and kick, peel and puncture, to stab and slice.

But not kill. I was saving that, because I knew how rapidly the extraordinary becomes ordinary.

Even then, my thoughts were moving beyond this one victim.

For you – my followers, my Brood – mass murder was the ultimate goal.

W
endy spent
a dizzying morning in the office on Thursday, conducting a final debrief with the case workers on her team, then calling round to their partners in social services and the NHS. She wanted to be sure that everyone knew the status of the two dozen clients she was currently supporting.

On the way home she stopped at the supermarket. The aisles were pleasantly cool and quiet, and she had plenty of time to reflect on last night’s painful conversation with Rob. Perhaps it was mean of her to be so blunt, especially at the moment when they were both under pressure. But equally she would struggle to retract the accusations she’d made – because her instincts said that Rob was keeping something from her.

What did she think it was? She knew that the revelation of his former partner’s duplicity had nearly destroyed him. But Iain Kelly had been so charming, so energetic and seemingly committed to the business that neither she nor Rob had ever doubted his loyalty. Wendy despaired of the fact that Rob was working himself into an early grave to restore his reputation, when for some people – especially in a small town like this – there would be no shaking off the idea that he’d been in on it, or had known and done nothing.

It had occurred to her that some of Kelly’s creditors were pretty unsavoury people, particularly those linked to Jason Dennehy, whose friendship with Rob had been compromised by the crisis. Did Rob now fear some kind of reprisal?

She drove the short distance from the supermarket on autopilot, appalled by her own theory. Surely there was nothing in their past that could bring about, even indirectly, the kind of savagery they’d witnessed on Sunday?

The thought that came next stunned her so profoundly that she stalled the car while turning into Russell Drive, and was lucky to avoid a side-on collision. Raising a hand in apology to the driver who’d been forced to make an emergency stop, she spluttered forward and pulled up on the drive, her hand visibly trembling as she took the key from the ignition.

What if this wasn’t linked to Iain Kelly?

What if the connection was to Georgia’s past life?

N
o
, it couldn’t be
. Wendy opened the front door and called out for a hand with the bags. Evan and Livvy had agreed to help Livvy’s parents decorate their dining room, but Georgia was supposed to be home, and Wendy was hoping to find out why she’d reacted so aggressively to Evan’s humour.

Georgia adored her brothers, but for Evan she reserved a particular type of hero-worship, carefully concealed beneath a veneer of sarcasm. Thankfully, the arrival of his first serious girlfriend hadn’t disrupted the relationship: Livvy had treated her as an equal from the beginning, and the two found common cause in mocking Evan’s obsession with sport. Last night’s spat had been quite out of character.

After bringing in a couple of bags, Wendy shouted again, but the house felt empty. A quick search confirmed it. As well as leaving her bedroom in disarray, Georgia had failed to set the burglar alarm or double-lock the door.

Feeling disappointed rather than worried, Wendy sent a text: ‘
Where r u?
’

The house was stuffy, so she opened a few windows, then unlocked the terrace doors and stepped outside. After yesterday’s showers, today was humid and still; Wendy basked in the warmth for a minute, then sorted out the groceries and moved on to the spare bedroom, where she had set out the suitcases and several piles of freshly laundered clothes. When the doorbell rang, her first thought was:
Georgia’s forgotten her key again. . .

There was a frosted glass panel in the door; the shape beyond it was female, but not Georgia. Cop, nosy neighbour – or worse?

The woman on the step was unfamiliar, a pretty, waif-like blonde who bore a vague resemblance to a young Sienna Miller.

‘Hi! You must be Mrs Turner?’ Her accent was English, well-spoken with a hint of a lisp. ‘Can I see Evan?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Oh. Are you sure?’

Wendy started to look over her shoulder, then checked herself. ‘Who are you?’

‘Oh God, sorry! I’m Lara, from college – that’s how I know Evan. We sort of lost touch – I took a gap year, went travelling, met a guy, you know?’ She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes, but Wendy wasn’t quite buying the ditzy routine. ‘Anyway, I saw Ev at Mish’s party last week, oh God that was
such
a great ni—’

‘Mish?’ Wendy cut in.

‘Misha Watson? The party was at her house in Romsey, her parents are
lovely
people, well, I’m sure you know that!’

Wendy gave a weak smile. Even if this wasn’t a journalist, another worrying possibility had occurred to her.

‘He’s out with Livvy,’ she said, adding pointedly: ‘His girlfriend.’

Lara was unfazed. ‘I know Livvy, I’m in one of the group selfies with her – you know where Mish is holding that big inflatable. . .’ Blushing slightly, she mimed a phallus.

Wendy smiled, and couldn’t help but relax. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’ As she spoke, there was a waft of air through the house, and what might have been a quiet clunking sound.

‘It’s
so
weird.’ Lara studied her phone, chewing absently on her bottom lip. ‘I was sure it was today they said to come round. . .’

‘You’d arranged to meet?’

‘Mm, I’ve got a place at Warwick, doing History of Art – I know Liv’s at Manchester, and it’s not exactly the same as her course, but still I was hoping to get an idea of what to expect. . .’

Wendy nodded automatically, but her mind was on that draught. If she hadn’t shut the terrace doors properly, they were likely to swing open, and Rob was always griping about the stress on the hinges. . .

‘I have to—’ she began, but the girl suddenly burst out coughing, doubled over and hacking up her lungs like a sixty-a-day smoker. When she looked up, her face was bright red, eyes streaming.

‘G-God, so sorry. Can I use your bathroom?’

W
endy could hardly refuse
, but she was uneasy. This felt too much like a ruse to gain entry to the house – exactly the kind of subterfuge a sly tabloid hack might employ.

She showed Lara to the toilet in the hallway, and caught a frown as the door shut. It must have seemed peculiar that Wendy was virtually standing guard outside.

‘I couldn’t have a glass of water, could I?’ she called.

Wendy said yes, but listened for the click of the lock as she went into the kitchen. She lingered awkwardly in the doorway until she heard the toilet flush, then moved out as Lara emerged. The girl took the water with a grateful smile but took only tiny sips, as if in no hurry to leave.

‘Sorry you had a wasted journey,’ Wendy said, reaching for the glass as soon as it was lowered.

‘Yes, such a shame. When’s Ev due back?’

‘Not till later tonight – if at all. He often stays over.’

‘At Livvy’s? Whereabouts is that again?’

‘Hambledon.’ Wendy narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t have the address.’

Lara shrugged, backing slowly along the hall. When she cast a fretful glance at the stairs, Wendy thought:
Does she think Evan’s hiding in his room?

But all the girl said was, ‘Thanks, Mrs Turner. I’ll message Evan, and hopefully we can meet up soon.’

‘Oh, we—’ In her relief, Wendy had been about to mention the holiday, but she stopped herself in time. ‘I will,’ she said, smiling inanely. She didn’t want this stranger knowing the house would be empty.

She opened the front door and Lara stepped out, gave her one more slightly quizzical look and then, mercifully, was gone. Wendy shut the door and almost laughed at her own foolishness. How could the presence of a young girl have made her feel so apprehensive? It was completely irrational.

She sniffed.
Pull yourself together!
Then she hurried into the study, curious to see if Lara got into a car, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Odd.

Wendy returned the water glass to the kitchen and was heading for the stairs when she sniffed again. There was a funny smell in the air. Not the girl’s perfume, but something else. Something sour and nasty.

She trudged up the stairs, unable to shake off a conviction that the girl had come here with an ulterior motive.

She stopped on the landing. The smell had drifted up here, too. But it wasn’t as bad in the spare room, so she was able to put it from her mind while she packed. It occurred to her that Lara could be both a genuine friend of Evan’s but
also
on the hunt for gossip. Well, she hadn’t succeeded, that was—

A loud clatter from downstairs made her cry out.

W
endy froze
. Her heart was in her throat. It sounded as though someone had thumped on one of the windows at the back.

She straightened up, her roving gaze unable to find what she was looking for. A phone was her first priority, but the bedroom extension had broken years ago, and they hadn’t bothered to replace it. No point, when everyone had mobiles.

But her phone was in the kitchen.

She was out of the room and hurtling down the stairs before it occurred to her that she’d made a dangerous assumption. She’d visualised the sound as coming from outside, but what if it wasn’t?

What if it was someone
inside
the house?

She dashed into the kitchen, registering on her way past that the living room seemed empty. Grabbing her phone, she keyed in three
9
s, thumb poised to hit the
Call
button while she lifted a long-bladed knife from the magnetic rack on the wall.

Then into the living room – and it
was
empty. The terrace doors were shut, and there was no sign of anyone in the garden. She let out a shuddering breath. Now she thought about it, the likeliest explanation was that a bird had flown into one of the doors. It had happened once before, and scared the life out of her on that occasion, too.

She took a closer look. No smears or marks on the glass, and no feathers on the terrace, but it was still a good theory.

To demonstrate that her nerves were under control, she went outside and made sure the gate at the bottom of the garden was bolted. There was a solitary crow on the roof, and she wanted to think it was nursing the mother of all headaches.

After checking the side gate, Wendy returned to the terrace and noticed that one of the doors was further open than she’d left it. Could it have blown open, when there was only the lightest of breezes to stir the soupy air?

Now the house loomed over her, the door waiting like an open mouth. Her
home
.

‘There’s no one in the garden.’ She said it aloud, to show how confident she was. Then she marched inside, and was almost at the hall when the front door slammed shut.

She had to choke back a scream. But it was only Georgia; at first scowling, then worried. ‘Mum?’

Wendy staggered backwards, laughing with relief. ‘Sorry, you gave me a fright. And
I
gave you a fright, probably.’

Georgia was still frowning, so Wendy said, ‘First time on my own here since Sunday, and I’ve been a bit jumpy. Haven’t you felt like that?’

‘Nope.’ As usual, Georgia’s body language was closed and defensive. But she didn’t turn away or run to her room, and for once Wendy was able to assess her properly.
She’s unhappy, so unhappy
.

Then came a memory of the theory that had struck her earlier, and she felt hollowed out with tenderness and concern. Moving closer, fearing rejection, she gingerly rested her hands on Georgia’s shoulders. ‘You know Dad and I are worried—’

‘You don’t have to be, I’ve told you.’

‘Not just about you, but Evan, Livvy, all of you. A man died in our home—’

‘Our garden.’

‘All right, but it’s still a terrible thing.’

‘Yeah.’ Georgia’s tone was flat, almost indifferent. ‘But we didn’t know him.’

Maybe she was trying to reassure Wendy that she wasn’t affected by the tragedy, but in doing so she seemed callous, which in itself was a cause for worry.

She can’t win
, Wendy thought,
and neither can I
.

‘Please, Georgia. We care so much about you.’ She realised she couldn’t explain herself; not without blubbing, at least.

‘I know.’ A sniff. ‘Gonna have some toast.’ Georgia eased free of the embrace, made for the kitchen but turned back, wrinkling her nose. ‘Who’s got BO?’