All Fall Down: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist that will take your breath away (9 page)

T
hat evening Rob arrived home
, not to the cold beer and relaxing night in front of the TV that he’d anticipated, but to a heated discussion about body odour.

‘I’m not trying to be difficult,’ he said yet again. ‘I just can’t smell it.’

‘That’s because it’s faded by now,’ said Wendy, but Georgia sniffed and said, ‘It’s still there, just about.’

Wendy looked grateful for the support. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ she asked Rob.

‘Of course I do. The question is, how did it get here?’

They were standing in the hall. Rob had driven home, nervously awaiting another confrontation like the one last night –
Are you hiding something from me
? – and instead he’d listened to a confusing account of an unwanted visitor, followed by various strange noises and then the discovery of a sour meaty smell that might or might not have been body odour.

‘Are you sure no one’s cooked anything unpleasant?’ he asked. ‘Evan would boil up a rat if he was hungry enough.’

‘No, I checked with him.’

‘And this girl, Lara?’

‘He’s fairly sure he doesn’t know her, and neither of them met anyone like that at Misha’s party.’

‘So how did she know all about it?’

‘Maybe she was there, but just watching him from afar.’

‘Or Facebook,’ Georgia muttered, and they both turned to look at her. ‘Not everyone bothers with their privacy settings. There’ll be loads of pictures, and if people are tagged it’s easy to find out more about them.’

Wendy shuddered. ‘That makes a lot of sense.’

‘All right, let’s accept that she came here under false pretences. What did it achieve?’ Rob winced. ‘Hold on – was Livvy with Evan when you called him?’

‘I expect so,’ Wendy said. ‘They’ve spent the day painting.’

‘What I’m wondering. . .’ His gaze flicked from Wendy to Georgia and back. ‘Well, maybe Evan
does
know her, but couldn’t say so in front of. . .’

‘Two-timing Livvy?’ Wendy sounded incredulous, while Georgia looked appalled.

‘Evan wouldn’t cheat on her. That’s. . .
ugh
, no! He just wouldn’t.’

Rob was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just trying to find something that explains this. . . weirdness.’

T
here
was
another possibility
, which Rob kept to himself until Georgia had gone upstairs and he and Wendy were in the kitchen, making coffee. First, though, Wendy admitted that his suggestion made sense.

‘Evan’s only human – and he’s a man. I think sometimes we expect him to be a saint, if only because. . .’

‘Josh isn’t,’ Rob finished for her. ‘So maybe this Lara bumped into Evan at the party. They have a chat, then he forgets all about it, but she doesn’t. After all, he has inherited his dad’s animal magnetism. . .’

Wendy’s laughter contained a strong note of ridicule. Rob poured fresh coffee from the cafetiere, glad of an aroma to savour rather than worry about, then said, ‘My other theory is a lot less amusing. Could the girl have been a decoy?’

‘A decoy?’ Wendy looked baffled.

‘So that someone else could get in.’

‘Oh, God!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘The doors were unlocked, so maybe that was the noise?’

‘I’m thinking, that might explain the smell – though it’s just a theory, remember.’

‘Should we call DS Husein?’ Wendy seemed to direct the question at herself. ‘But what do I say? He’ll just think I’m neurotic.’

‘No, he won’t,’ said Rob, but he was thinking:
Actually, he might
.

Wendy put her coffee mug down. ‘We ought to see if there’s anything missing, at least.’

I
t took
them only a minute to go through the ground floor rooms. All their electronic devices were accounted for, and there was nothing absent from any of their shelves or cupboards. Thinking of the impact Wendy had heard, Rob examined the carpet in front of the French windows and pointed to some smudges of dirt.

‘That could easily have been me,’ Wendy said. ‘I didn’t take my shoes off.’

‘Let’s hope this is just our overactive imagination, eh?’

Rob was making for the stairs when Wendy called him back. ‘I don’t think anyone could have got up there. I was either here in the hall, or up in the spare room.’

Above them, a door opened; Wendy ushered Rob back to the kitchen, and they were innocently drinking coffee when Georgia slouched in. ‘Evan’s shoes,’ she said.

‘Sorry, darling?’ Wendy said.

‘This morning, he was looking under the stairs for an old pair of trainers, to wear for painting. Maybe that caused the smell?’

Rob nodded, and once she was gone he said, ‘Sounds plausible to me.’

‘Oh, I hope that’s it.’ Wendy ran a hand through her hair. ‘Otherwise, the thought of leaving the house empty for ten days. . .’

‘We’ll hide the valuables, set the alarm. And we can give Dawn a key.’

‘You know she’s bound to have a snoop around?’

‘So what? My porn collection is long gone.’ He winked. ‘And as far as I know, we don’t have any heroin stashed behind the bath!’

But he didn’t feel quite so light-hearted when he went up for a shower. He had a niggling feeling that there was a bigger picture here, something which he and Wendy were simply failing to see, perhaps because they couldn’t step back far enough.

He took the opportunity to check the floor safe in the bathroom. It was concealed beneath a removable tile, and contained their passports, various legal documents, Wendy’s best jewellery and a couple of thousand pounds, saved up from the occasional cash jobs that he did for close friends and family.

It was a quiet evening. As a thank-you for the painting, Livvy’s parents were taking her and Evan out to dinner, and then they were staying over. Georgia only toyed with her meal, vanishing to her room as soon as she was allowed. Wendy had a pile of ironing, and Rob said he needed to sort out some paperwork.

In truth, it amounted to little more than half a dozen quotes to review and send off; a couple of orders to approve. Once that was done he searched online for news stories about Sunday, but found nothing in any of today’s papers – at least not in their electronic form.

The story was dying down, it seemed, for lack of fuel. He considered telling Wendy, but decided it was better not to raise the subject at all. He didn’t want another interrogation like last night’s, though on the question of Jason he was beginning to feel a little more reassured. Sunday’s incident was completely random, he had decided, and the notes were from some local troll.

Before bed they played a couple of card games – speed and piquet – to get into the holiday mood. The house in Norfolk was well stocked with cards, board games and even a table tennis table. In past years they’d organised family competitions across a range of activities, complete with homemade medals for the winners.

This year’s victors might as well be crowned all-time champions, Rob reflected, for it was unlikely they would ever hold such competitions again.

‘I’m going to enjoy subjecting Josh to the torture of physical exercise,’ he joked to Wendy, but it prompted only a wan smile.

‘I keep wondering if we should make more effort to get in touch, find out why he needs to delay. . .’

‘He’ll be terminally vague, like he always is. Look at that party for your mum’s seventieth. He knew all the details, swore blind he’d be there on time, and what happened?’

‘That was four years ago—’

‘He’d have missed my dad’s funeral if I hadn’t driven like a maniac to fetch him. I still find that hard to forgive.’ Conscious that he sounded too aggressive, Rob lifted a hand in conciliation. ‘All I’m saying is that “reliability” is not his middle name.’

‘Then perhaps we ought to accept that.’

‘Let him stay in Canterbury, you mean?’

‘We should go and see him. But if he’s adamant that he doesn’t want to come, I don’t think we should pressure him.’

‘But what about. . . our news?’

She shook her head, as if unwilling to be plagued with minor details. ‘We’ll have to tell him separately, or something. I can’t think about that now.’

‘We don’t have to do it at all,’ he reminded her, as gently as he could. But she had picked up a book and was staring at it with fierce concentration: the discussion was at an end, and he could only recall, sadly, what she had said to him last night.
You’re never really here, Rob
.

He couldn’t completely dispute that, of course. But maybe she just didn’t notice him the way she used to.

B
az was
with us for weeks. He was our pet, our plaything. It was fascinating to observe your interaction with him. I made note of your contrasts, your strengths and weaknesses; I assessed your loyalty and your potential use to me.

The time for his death was drawing close when he escaped. My plans were left in disarray, thanks to the carelessness of one of you.

As a result, there was punishment; that was only right. Order has to be maintained within the Brood, you all accept that.

In truth, the escape served us well. I could see you were tiring of him. You needed the kill, and then a greater challenge.

Inadvertently, Baz led us directly to that challenge.

Our next victims.

A family.

W
endy had planned
out her Friday in advance: finish packing, a bit of baking for Norfolk, then a thorough round of housework, indulging her irrational belief that she would relish the holiday all the more if she left the house clean and tidy.

‘By the time we come back it’ll be dusty again,’ Evan pointed out, when he caught her polishing the dining room table at eight in the morning. He and Livvy had called in on their way to Portsmouth for a day of shopping. Although she’d been invited to Norfolk, Livvy had received the counter offer of a week in Cyprus with three female friends.

‘No contest, eh? Holed up with me in rainy Norfolk, or sun-worshipping with her mates in Ayia Napa. . .’ Evan joked about it, but Wendy knew how much he was going to miss her.

He also had a reasonable point about the dust, though that wasn’t why Wendy had already decided to forego most of the housework. She’d said nothing to Rob, either, partly because her decision had been prompted by a dream – a vivid and particularly unpleasant dream – that had woken her in a panic in the early hours. As she lay and recovered, she decided that yesterday’s unwelcome theory had to be tested out, one way or the other. And that meant a trip to Lyndhurst.

She was ready to depart by nine, but Georgia was still fast asleep. Wendy stood by her bed, reluctant to disturb her but also concerned about the girl waking to find her gone. She knew that teenage biorhythms meant Georgia favoured late nights and later mornings, and her justification for lying in bed was that she’d finished her GCSEs but couldn’t get a part-time job until her sixteenth birthday, another month away.

‘Georgia,’ she whispered. ‘Darling?’

There was a spasm of movement and a disgruntled face appeared. ‘Uh?’

‘I’ve just got to pop out for a couple of hours, okay?’

‘Gnth.’

‘Try not to waste the whole day. Is there anyone you can meet up with?’

‘
No
.’

Wendy frowned. ‘All right, don’t bite my head off.’ She gestured at the room. ‘Make sure you clear up in here, at least. I’ve been asking you all week.’

‘I’ll do it later. Go away!’ Georgia turned over and pulled the covers up, leaving Wendy standing there, frustrated.

I’m doing this for you
, she wanted to snap. She was still fretting over Georgia’s slightly cold reaction to the death on Sunday. She hadn’t mentioned it to Rob, as he might see it as confirmation of his worst fears about the effects of the trauma she’d suffered in her childhood.

And did Rob truly regret the adoption? Wendy couldn’t bear to believe that, even though, right now, she had to agree that Georgia didn’t always make it easy for them.

T
he girl had been born
into a chaotic household in Portsmouth to an unknown father, a mother addicted to heroin and a violent drug dealer for a stepfather. Having heard of the case via a colleague, Wendy and Rob had fostered the girl a couple of times until her mother successfully kicked the habit. This period of stability ended in tragedy when Georgia was ten. A new partner, Mark Burroughs, stabbed her mother to death in a drunken fight, only to realise there was a witness to his crime. In a psychotic rage he’d chased the girl upstairs, slashing at her legs, and Georgia only escaped by leaping from a first floor window.

By this time the twins were into their teens. Wendy and Rob had long since given up on having more children, but Wendy, after nearly two decades in adult social care, had come to despair of her ability to provide genuine, constructive help. The daily battle against budgetary constraints and political pressure – not to mention the constant criticism and belittling of the profession in the media – had left her feeling burned out. As she’d exclaimed to Rob: ‘If everyone who feels like I do reached out to just one person, we’d hardly need social services any more.’

His response was simple enough: ‘Well, let’s do that, then.’ And who better to help than the girl they’d already fostered?

Little had they realised that they were on the brink of disaster themselves, courtesy of Iain Kelly. Soon Rob was working eighteen-hour days to keep the business afloat, the house was mortgaged to the hilt once more, and Wendy, who’d gone part-time in order to be at home for Georgia, was forced to return to full-time work.

From the outset, Wendy had been careful to ensure that Rob understood the range of emotional issues that the girl was facing as she dealt with her grief, and the difficulty she would have in forming attachments to her new parents – while also navigating a way through all the normal challenges of adolescence.

Nevertheless, Wendy was proud of the stability they’d been able to provide, which was why she feared that Sunday’s incident could set Georgia back years. And even though she knew it was completely wrong to regard an adopted child in such terms – as though she were a project to be completed – Wendy found it hard to shake off a correlation between Georgia’s happiness and her own success or failure as a mother.

Hence her decision to drive across Hampshire on the basis of an instinct that she hoped, fervently, was wrong.

T
he journey took
a little over an hour, heading south-west into the heart of the New Forest – a wild and often beautiful landscape that was neither new nor entirely forested. Unlike Rob, she was a calm, patient driver, and as much as possible she tried to focus on nothing more than the road ahead. She didn’t want to dwell on yesterday’s visitor, or the mess she was making of her thirty-year relationship.

The place she sought was a pub, The Britannia, a couple of miles south of Lyndhurst. Unlike many of the establishments she’d passed, it wasn’t quaint or rustic, with hanging baskets and Tudor beams. Set back from the road in an area of scrubby heathland, it was a 1960s single-storey, flat-roofed timber-clad box, a strange and undesirable blend of log cabin and transport café, plastered with VOTE LEAVE posters and the flag of St George.

There was a generous car park, empty but for two cars. One was a battered old Jaguar with cherished plates, which Wendy noted with a grim smile.

She parked alongside it, checked her appearance in the mirror and then took a moment to compose herself. This was something she’d done throughout her career, a way of assuming the right persona for a potentially difficult encounter. She had to be friendly but professional, sympathetic but practical: crucially, she had to be authoritative.
They don’t have to like you, but they
must
respect you
. That was the maxim, and it would apply here as much as it ever did at work.

She shut her eyes, but flashbacks from the dream intruded on her meditation. She was at home when someone knocked on the door. It was Mark Burroughs, released early from prison. He shouldered past her, yelling out Georgia’s name. A DNA test had established that he was her natural father, and now he was taking custody of what was his. ‘You can’t stop me, bitch,’ he snarled at Wendy. ‘She ain’t safe here, in this madhouse. You’ve failed her.’

That, Wendy felt, was clearly her own subconscious talking. She doubted whether Mark Burroughs regarded Georgia with anything other than resentment or hatred, and he was certainly in no position to judge Wendy’s abilities as a parent.

All the same, she had a battle to convince herself that there was no truth to the allegation.