The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller (12 page)

She nuzzles her face into his neck and I look away. It’s so surprising to me that in this day and age, an attractive, young, successful woman needs to turn to the Internet to find love.

Charlie, who has been looking at the menu for sometime, suddenly looks up.

‘Shall we order?’

‘I just don’t like him.’ I say. We are lying in our bed in our small hotel. ‘I don’t have to have a reason.’

‘Yes love, I think you do.’

‘Well, I don’t have one.’ Sitting up, I throw a pillow at him. ‘I don’t think he’s trustworthy, OK? He seems too good to be true. And what kind of job is that for a grown man? There must be something wrong with him.’

‘I thought he seemed decent enough.’ Charlie pulls his jeans down and throws them over the back of a chair.

‘You think everyone is decent, Charlie. I’m yet to meet a person you didn’t like. Fuck, if Hitler came to dinner, you’d probably like him too.’

Charlie hurls the pillow back at me.

‘I thought you loved that about me?’ He feigns hurt.

‘I do. You know I do.’ I blow him a kiss.

‘Just give the guy a chance, OK? Sophie seems happy. Maybe this one is a goodun.’

‘Maybe.’ But, I doubt it.

‘You’re so used to her boyfriends being shits, you’ve decided straightaway that this one is too, before even getting to know him. If you still feel that way by the end of the weekend, I’ll concede. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ I smile. ‘Now come and get into bed and service your wife.’

May 25th

The next morning, after a lazy walk along the pier and countless pounds wasted on slot machines, Charlie and I make our way towards Sophie’s flat. She lives in the fashionable Kemp Town area of Brighton, very close to the beach.

I press the doorbell and we wait to be buzzed in. Sophie has the penthouse apartment in a lovely Victorian building, which is home to two other flats.

We slog our way up the many stairs it takes to get to her front door and knock. Rory opens the door, a smile plastered across his smug face.

‘Welcome, folks. Looks like you made it just before the rain comes.’

‘Hello again, Rory. Bloody awful weather for the time of year.’ The men exchange a warm handshake.

As I step in, I’m hit by the delicious smell of lamb roasting.

‘Josie, lovely to see you.’ Rory gives me a hug.

‘Likewise.’ I answer, flashing a look at Charlie.

‘Sophie’s in the kitchen.’ Rory takes a step back and gestures for us to go through. ‘Can I take your coat?’

‘No thanks, I’ll wait till I’ve warmed up a bit.’ I try not to sound curt as Charlie’s words whirl around my head.

‘Something smells good.’ Charlie looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

‘I hope you both like lamb.’ Rory looks like a puppy waiting for praise.

We follow him into a vast, open-plan room.

‘Doll! Right on time.’ Sophie slides out from behind the workstation at the kitchen end. She is dressed impeccably as always. Her dark hair is piled on her head and large silver earrings dancing from her lobes. We share a hug before I slide onto one of the sleek black leather bar stools.

‘Rory is cooking for us. He’s a great cook.’

‘Great.’ Charlie gives Sophie a kiss on the cheek. ‘I love lamb.’

‘You love all food.’ I say poking fun at my husband, who is handed a beer by Rory
.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ Rory asks turning to me. He looks much better today without that stupid hat on.

‘I’ll have a beer, please.’ I start to unwind my chunky knit orange scarf from my neck. Sophie stands, leaning against the white wall,
sipping a large glass of chardonnay.

‘I’ve got some nibbles in the fridge. Anyone peckish?’ Sophie saunters towards the large chrome American style fridge, her hips swinging in her fitted grey denims. She is curvy, unlike me. I’m a ginger twig. She has breasts and hips. I’ve always envied her figure.

‘Starving.’ I sip on the bottle of beer.

‘Tuck in.’ Sophie produces humus, pitta, olives and nuts.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Charlie gets up from the large, black, leather sofa and makes a beeline towards the snacks.

The room is an all-in-one kitchen, diner and living room. At one end is the modern kitchen, with white cupboards and chrome fittings. One work surface juts out slightly separating it from the rest of the room. Four expensive bar stools are lined up against it, perfect for entertaining.

The room is bright and has two huge windows that look out over the rooftops of Brighton. The floor has stripped oak floorboards.

Near the kitchen area is a rectangular, elm wood dining table with a glass top that seats six. In its centre sits a large vase of white lilies, pride of place.

At the other end of the room are two black Le Corbusier sofas, with cream sheepskin cushions, a large flat screen television, and a solid oak coffee table. Against one of the clean white walls, a bookshelf contains law reference books and novels.

Her home, like her appearance is classic and chic. There is none of the clutter that sits about in my house. No sign of dust and no stains anywhere. Despite the length of time I’ve known her, I still find it slightly difficult to relax in her place. It’s not that it isn’t comfortable, it’s just that I worry I might break something. Her taste is expensive.

Charlie is sitting back on the sofa now, glued to his mobile. I know exactly what he’s up to. Checking the Liverpool score.

‘Soph, would you mind terribly if Charlie turned the football on? It’s just that it’s a really big game. It’ll be over by the time we eat.’

Charlie’s head bobs up and he flashes a look at me that is a mixture of embarrassment and hope.

‘Not at all. Rory, would you get the channel up for him?’

Rory is poking about in the oven with a meat thermometer.

‘Be with you in a tick, mate.’ Rory calls out, closing the oven door. ‘Who’s your team?’

‘Liverpool. You a footie fan?’ Charlie is anticipating the moment the television will be switched on.

‘West ham, born and bred.’ Rory throws the oven glove over his shoulder and marches towards the TV.

The men sit down, both holding beers and we watch as they lose themselves instantly in the game.

‘They seem to have hit it off.’ Sophie sits down on a stool next to me.

‘Uh-huh.’ I sip my beer. ‘He’s very at home here.’ I feel her tense slightly.

‘We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. That’s how it should be.’

I watch the men watching the television.

      
‘Going well, is it?’

      
'Brilliantly. He’s wonderful. I think at last I might have found my Charlie.’

‘Wow. So it’s serious, then?’ I swallow hard.

‘Very.’ Sophie puts her wine glass down and turns to me.

‘Soph, what’s up?’

‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

‘Well, I …’ I trip over my words, ‘…I hardly know him.’

‘You can’t bullshit me, Jose.’ She looks me in the eye.

‘I’m not trying to.’ I feel defensive.

‘Look, I know better than anyone what bloody disasters my previous relationships have been. I know you all think I can’t tell a diamond from a dog poo. But this time, it’s different. I love him, I really do and I think this might be it.’ She picks up her glass and drains the contents. ‘We are living together.’

‘Already? Here?’ I can’t hide my disapproval.

‘Yes. He moved in a month ago. We’ve been discussing marriage.’

‘Bloody hell! You don’t hang about.’ I’m speechless. She’s never kept secrets from me before. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ I turn to face her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Suddenly, I feel hurt.

‘Jose,’ she says taking my hand, ‘you have had so much to deal with over the last few months. So much pain. I guess I felt guilty for feeling happy. It didn’t seem right that I was so happy when you have been so, so sad.’

‘But you can tell me anything, you know that.’ I’m talking to Sophie but looking at Rory and wondering just how quickly he managed to get his feet under her expensive table.

‘I wanted you to meet him but you couldn’t get to Brighton until now. Things just progressed and I wanted to tell you face to face. Besides, I knew you’d be protective and I thought if I told you on the phone you’d only worry. But now you’ve met him, you can see everything is just fine. He’s lovely. Really he is. He would never hurt me.’

There is a long silence between us.

‘You’re like a sister to me. The sister I never had. If you say he’s good enough then I accept it.’

In an unusual show of affection, she wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a huge squeeze.

‘Oh Jose. You’re a star. I accept that you can’t trust him straight away but at least trust me.’

We smile and I see tears gather in the corners of her eyes.

      
‘I trust you with my life, you silly cow. But look, if he steps even a millimetre out of line, I’ll break his fucking balls. Got it?’

‘Break his balls?’ Sophie cackles. ‘Got it. But he won’t.’ She seems so sure; her certainty is infectious.

      
‘How are your folks? And your brother?’ I ask.

      
‘Very well. Pa is having a new knee in a couple of weeks. Other than that they are fine. Will is very well. He and Verity are expecting their second child in October.’

‘They don’t hang about, do they? How old is little Bella?’

‘Nearly one.’ Sophie puts her finger in her drink and pushes the ice cubes around.

Will, Sophie’s older brother and only sibling lives miles away in Worcestershire. He’s a farmer with acres of land and a nice, if not slightly dull, wife. They have bucket-loads of money and live a very comfortable life.

Sophie’s parents, Annie and Marcus, also live in that part of the world. They are lovely people who were always very kind to me. I used to envy their family and wish I had one like it.

‘Got anything else to drink?’ I ask, finishing my beer.

‘Plenty. What’s your poison?’ She hops off the stool, her boots echoing on the wooden floor as she moves into the kitchen.

‘Got any of that Polish vodka you had last time I was here?’

‘Absolutely. Double, is it?’

‘You know me.’

‘Have there been any developments with the case?’

The sudden change of conversation comes as shock to me. I don’t want to talk about this now. I came to Brighton to forget.

‘Nothing.’ I say and stiffen in my seat.

‘You know you won’t be able to bury them until someone is arrested and there has been a court case? The police have to give the defence an opportunity to do their own examination of the bodies. It could be some time.’ She’s back to being a lawyer.

‘Yes, I know.’ I fold my arms across my chest and look out of the window. Sophie notes my reaction and backs off.

‘Double, it is.’

June 3rd

We’ve been back in London for over a week. Our time away in Brighton did us the world of good. Seeing Sophie was like having an injection of fresh air, despite the tepid addition of Rory.

Now, I am sucked back into the real world. Yesterday, I received a call from the executor of the will. Since I am the sole beneficiary, everything has to come through me. Mr Potts, my parents’ stuffy old lawyer, suggested that I thought about packing up and selling the estate. He said the sooner it was done, the quicker he could get the ball rolling. I had to agree to do it but hate having the responsibility on my shoulders. I just want to crawl under my duvet and die. The last thing I want to do is return to that house. There are too many bad memories and far too many ghosts.

I talked to Charlie about it two nights ago. He offered to come with me, to take more time off work, but I told him to stay. I’m sure it is going to take at least a week to work my way through every room. He can join me there at the weekend. There is no point in antagonising his arsehole boss any further. He had a good idea, which was to rope in Margaret to help me. She’d be grateful for the extra cash, no doubt, plus she has insider knowledge of the place and, also, that way, I wouldn’t be alone. I love how Charlie’s mind works. Sometimes he can be so practical.

I called her yesterday morning and put forward the offer. She jumped at the chance to earn some money. She’s a nice lady, who ‘did’ for them for as long as I can remember but I suspect the idea of going through their personal belongings also appealed to her. The world the rich live in is somewhat of a mystery to most people.

I will definitely get her to go through my father’s stuff. The idea of handling his clothes or anything that smells of him repulses me. At some point, I will have to choose the outfits they are to be buried in, but not yet.

So today, on this bright Monday morning, I am driving back to the house I grew up in. But, unlike most people, I don’t enjoy the prospect of returning home. It fills me with dread and I felt this way long before it was the scene of a murder. I used to feel the walls were watching what my father did to me. As if, in some way, the house itself was complicit. Silly I know, but because of the size and age of the place, I was sure it was haunted when I was little and convinced the ghosts witnessed my abuse.

Now, I have to return to those ghosts again. Only now, there are two more who haunt the corridors. I shudder behind the wheel and turn the radio on, determined to drown out my ghoulish thoughts.

It takes three hours to drive from East London to the house, situated just outside of the small village of Bisley, tucked in the hills between Stroud and Gloucester. The region is well known for its Cotswold stone buildings and

the countryside is littered with chocolate box villages and crumbling stonewalls that separate the fields of grazing cows and sheep. The rolling hills are the backdrop to some magnificent views. It’s no wonder so many of the rich favour this part of the England.

Once I had grown up and flown the nest, I had been able to see the beauty of it all. It is not a place that keeps you down, it is the people that live there. Returning to Gloucestershire at the end of every term, knowing I would have to spend the holiday holed up in that house, forever dreading the next time my father crept into my room, used to put the fear of God into me.