The Girl Next Door: a gripping and twisty psychological thriller you don’t want to miss!

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‘Have you heard anything more today?’ she asks me. ‘Tricia was telling me that the police think someone hit her on the back of her head, must have come up to her from behind. Can you imagine?’ I shiver, and clutch Finn’s hand a little tighter. The buttons on my blouse feel tight around my neck. I always dress conservatively these days. The doctor’s wife.

‘Have the police been round to yours yet?’ Sandra asks. ‘They must be going to. I bet they’ll ask you all about it. Doesn’t your kitchen window look into theirs?’

She knows it does. I almost want to laugh at how transparent she is.

‘I’ve been in the shop,’ I say, nodding my head in the direction of it. Everything in this town is so close together; it’s a claustrophobic’s nightmare.

‘Tricia says they’re sending DS Shaw round,’ Sandra says, ‘you know, going door to door. To see if anyone saw anything. And they’ve questioned Nathan Warren – well you’d have to, wouldn’t you? I still think there’s something not right about him. I mean, what was he doing, out walking at that time?’ She sniffs and exhales, her breath misty in the cold air. ‘They’ve already searched the Edwards’ house apparently, one of the mums saw them coming out yesterday. Did you? You didn’t say.’ She goes on without waiting for an answer. ‘Imagine someone riffling through all your things like that.’ She makes a face. ‘I wonder if they found anything. Rachel’s so beautiful, of course, but you just never know, do you? I wonder what DS Shaw makes of her. Chalk and cheese, those two.’

DS Madeline Shaw – Ashdon’s resident detective. She’s lived here for the past couple of years, in a little house just up the hill, past the schools. We don’t have much to do with each other – she’s not exactly the book club and wine type. How strange it must be for her, having this kind of crime happen right on her doorstep. Or fortuitous, I suppose.

Ahead of me, Sophie’s backpack bounces. Her hair glows in the sunlight and I feel a wave of sickness. Sandra must see the look on my face because she sighs, makes a tutting noise. I look down at the floor, my eyes scanning the pavement, the tap, tap, tap of our feet. Sandra’s wearing those hideous Birkenstock boots; I’ve got my little black ones on, Russell and Bromley, last year.

‘I know,’ she says, ‘the thought of it happening again… of it being one of our girls this time. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? I can’t abide violence.’

The shudder moves up my spine. Yellow flowers glisten behind my eyelids. The memory of the stairs in our old house, the way he pushed me, the pain in my ribs.

‘No,’ I tell her, ‘neither can I.’

Chapter Nine (#ulink_37660f32-7db1-5c67-8f10-d95a5510028b)

DS Madeline Shaw

Wednesday 6th February

‘Madeline?’

The DCI is in front of her, his eyebrows raised. He’s impatient; the story has been picked up by the tabloids, and the calls are beginning to come in thick and fast. Some journalist has dug out an old picture of Clare from her Facebook page: her posing on a beach in Barbados. The inset is Rachel and Ian, him in an England football shirt, grinning at the camera. The grieving parents? the caption says. And so it begins, he thinks.

‘Have you got the pathology report in yet?’

‘Yep. Fast-tracked it,’ Madeline says, handing him the email that has just finished printing, ‘just in from Christina.’

He scans it, his eyes moving so fast that he could be skim-reading.

‘Cause of death identified as internal bleeding on the brain following a wound to the back of the head,’ Madeline says, ‘just what we thought at the time. Bruising to the shoulders, which makes sense if someone grabbed her. No signs of sexual assault. They’ve tested.’ It was the first thing they’d looked at; without it, one obvious motivation is gone.

The DCI sighs. ‘Well, at least that’s something. Though we’d have stood more of a chance of getting the perpetrator’s DNA if he’d fiddled with her. No obvious motivation, if you rule out rape.’ He runs a hand through his hair, wincing as the phone begins to ring again. This always happens when there is a crime of this nature – people coming forward with false leads, psychics, nutters wanting their five minutes of fame. The media make things worse; he wishes they didn’t need them so much.

‘We’re testing her clothing for DNA; should be in in a few days. The only thing I’m sure of at the moment is that this wasn’t an accident.’ Madeline stands up, looks over Rob’s shoulder and points to the pictures of the body, scanned in by Christina, the pathologist. ‘Look at this. Someone had a hold of her – my bet is they slammed her head against the floor, or hit her from behind and then flipped her round onto her front. It wasn’t done by an expert.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘not exactly methodical.’ The pair of them stare at the photos. There’s another bruise too, further down Clare’s arm, blossoming purple, edged with green.

‘Where does the name come from?’ Rob says suddenly, ‘Sorrow’s Meadow. Unusual.’

Madeline shakes her head. ‘No one knows really. Ruby Walker the newsagent always insists it’s to do with the river. The sorrow collects in one place and then the water flows it away, some rubbish like that.’

Rob grunts, stares back down at Clare’s bruises. ‘Right. And where are we with the door to doors? The neighbours?’

‘I’m about to get going now with Lorna.’

‘Make sure you speak to everyone,’ he tells her, ‘anyone who saw anything that night at all. Unusual cars, out-of-towners, anyone else out “walking”.’ He snorts derisively as he says this, still annoyed that he can’t get more out of Nathan Warren. ‘And Madeline,’ he says, ‘find out what people think of the parents.’

‘Their alibis checked out to a point, sir,’ she tells him. ‘We’ve CCTV of Ian leaving Liverpool Street Station on the early train, and arriving into Audley End a little later, but we don’t have anything placing him back home. In Rachel’s case, the estate agency confirmed her viewing in Little Chesterford, but again, no way of telling exactly what she did afterwards.’

‘So there’s a pocket of time?’ the DCI asks, frowning at her.

‘Well, technically,’ Madeline says, nodding. ‘The time during which they say they were waiting for Clare to come home, leading into the time when Ian was supposedly out looking for her.’ She shrugs. ‘We’ve no reason to suspect that that’s not true, though, have we?’

Rob is still staring at the photographs of Clare, his face unreadable. ‘Get a sense from the neighbours anyway,’ he says. ‘Find out what they – Rachel and Ian – are really like. Little town like this, people might talk.’

DS Lorna Campbell keeps up a steady stream of chatter as she and Madeline drive towards Ashdon, telling Madeline about how she’s just moved in with her boyfriend, how he worries about her working in the police.

‘He thinks I’ll get shot or something,’ she tells her, laughing nervously. She can only be in her late twenties, must be at least ten years younger than her superior. She’s got a slight overbite and the movement is awkward, unattractive.

‘You won’t get shot in Ashdon,’ Madeline says to Lorna, trying to reassure her, but then again none of them ever thought they’d find a dead body in Ashdon either, did they? They cannot be sure of anything at this stage. The DCI’s words ring in her head as they drive. So there’s a pocket of time, she thinks.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_e9b5fc9c-82d4-5d2d-972c-c99735b01ccd)

Jane

Wednesday 6th February

We’re having dinner all together tonight – I’ve just set the table when Jack walks in, shrugging off his jacket, earlier than expected. Our eyes lock for a second and I know he’s heard the news about the door to door enquiries, probably ten different versions from every patient he’s seen today. The doctor’s surgery is a great place for gossip; there’s nothing people love more than offloading their woes in a quiet little room. I’ve been a tiny bit tense all evening, waiting to see if they knock on our door. I’ve got long sleeves on, just in case, although I know that’s not what Madeline Shaw will be looking for. Domestics don’t seem to concern the constabulary these days. If they ever really did.

Finn wraps his arms around Jack’s leg, hangs there like a small monkey, his feet suspended just above our shiny dining-room floor. His socks don’t match: tiny elephants wave at red and blue stripes. Harry emerges as I’m plating up, blinking as though he’s just made his way from a dark cave, which judging by the state of his bedroom last time I popped my head in, he probably has.

‘How was your day, darling?’ I ask Jack, keeping my voice light with an edge of warning: yes, I’ve heard too, don’t bring anything up right now. We’re trying not to talk about Clare Edwards in front of Sophie and Finn. They know now, of course – the school told them all this morning, the kiddie version, one classroom at a time, but they don’t really understand. We all got a text message about it; the new way of communicating with parents, or so it seems. Your child’s well-being is of the utmost importance to us, it said. Well that’s good to know, I thought.

Sophie is mainly sad about the buttercup field, as she calls Sorrow’s Meadow – we used to go there a lot on Saturdays, especially when she was younger. She liked to test us all, hold the flowers underneath our chins, reveal our culinary appetites. I’ve got a photograph of her with a buttercup crown twisted into her hair, smiling up at the camera – it used to be on the mantelpiece but I took it down before I went to bed last night. She looked too vulnerable, it made my head spin. Clare was someone’s daughter too. Well, she was Rachel’s. Beautiful Rachel Edwards. Perfect Rachel who thinks too highly of herself to ever attend our book clubs or wine evenings. The thought pops into my head before I can stop it, and I chastise myself. That happens sometimes.

‘It was fine,’ Jack says, going to the fridge. His eyes flick to the window, but the Edwards’ curtains are closed tonight, the wine bottles hidden from view. I watch as he takes a brown bottle of beer from the side door, flicks off the top. It skitters across the work surface and I close my fingers around it before he can.

‘Can I have—’ Harry says, and I shake my head before he can finish the sentence.

‘Not tonight, Harry,’ I say, ‘it’s a school night.’ We – or rather Jack – lets him have a beer sometimes, on special occasions only. I’m keen to keep it that way.

‘How many people did you make better today, Daddy?’ Finn asks, back in his seat at the table, head tilted back, trying to balance his dessert spoon on his nose. He fails; it clatters onto the table, clanging against his plate. Harry rolls his eyes.

Jack laughs, but it’s mechanical, practised; it’s not the warm chuckle he had when we met. It makes my stomach churn. ‘Ooh, about five today. Careful with that spoon, buddy. You don’t want to end up with bogeys in your pudding, do you?’ He sniffs the air. ‘Smells like Mummy’s made apple pie.’

Of course I’ve made apple pie: it’s Wednesday. God forbid I went off-piste.

Jack smiles at me. I smile back.

Sophie slides into the room, her socked feet skidding on the wooden floor. White with frills, matching. At least something’s gone right. Her hands grab my waist and I lay my palm on her curly head.

‘Careful, missy. We don’t want any accidents. Have you washed your hands for dinner?’

Jack is religious about hygiene – we wash hands before and after eating, anti-bacterial gels dot the house. I flout the rules occasionally, but he’s right about the children.

Sophie runs her hands under the tap as I finish serving up our meal – shepherd’s pie with a side of green beans. Finn makes a face. Jack swigs his beer. The bottle’s half empty already; I catch Harry eyeing it longingly.

‘Beans are good for you,’ Jack says, pre-empting Finn’s complaint, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I am too tired to take this one on today. I need to save my energy for later, for when the children have gone to bed.

I want to ask Harry what they’ve said at the secondary school, how they’re dealing with Clare’s death, how he is dealing with it, but he’s eating his dinner in near silence, one eye on his phone which sits on the table alongside us all.

‘Shall I set a place for your iPhone next time?’ I ask him when it vibrates yet again, the words coming out more snappily than I meant them. Jack frowns but Harry barely reacts, and somehow, it’s worse than a retort. Since when have I become invisible?

‘Harry,’ Jack says, and finally our son looks up. ‘Do as your mother says – no phones at the table please, mate.’

He slips it into the pocket of his trousers, but not before I see another eye roll. I feel a little bubble of frustration, then remember that Rachel Edwards will never see her daughter roll her eyes at her again. The thought silences me, and for a moment I lose myself, thinking of next door.

The food tastes funny in my mouth; no matter how hard I try, I’m not a good cook. Forks scrape rhythmically across the plates, white china from our wedding. I don’t believe in saving things for special occasions, everything gets lumped in together in this house. Besides, I’m not sure our wedding is really something to celebrate any more. It doesn’t feel much like it to me.

‘Jane?’ Jack is looking at me strangely, his eyes narrowed. ‘Did you hear what Sophie said?’

‘Hmm?’

Looking across at my daughter, I see her blue eyes are milky with tears. My heart drops.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’

Sophie whispers something, so soft that I can’t hear it. Her head is bowed now, the ends of her curls dangerously close to the whipped peaks of mashed potato. I frown.

‘Sophie?’

‘A boy at school said there’s a monster in the buttercup field,’ she says, louder this time. Her little voice breaks, turns into a sob. ‘He said he’s been let out and he’s coming back to get me.’

It’s at that moment that the doorbell rings.

Jack and I go together, a united front, leaving Harry to put the television on for Sophie and Finn. I gesture to him to go into the back lounge, away from the front door. My heart’s racing; I didn’t even hear the car pull up.

DS Madeline Shaw has dark blonde hair that looks like it might grey soon, and lines on her face that suggest she doesn’t bother with the rituals I subject my own skin to every night. Cleanse, tone, moisturise. Repeat ad infinitum, Mrs Goodwin. There’s a younger woman with her, someone I’ve never seen before.

‘Mr and Mrs Goodwin,’ Madeline says, ‘sorry to disturb your evening. This is DS Lorna Campbell from Chelmsford Police.’ She gestures to her colleague and I extend my hand, careful to keep my arms covered. The latest bruises aren’t a pretty sight. I can see Jack watching me, and I want to scream at him that the police have got bigger things to worry about than a less-than-perfect couple. They’ve got a dead girl, and that trumps us, doesn’t it?

‘I expect you’ve heard the news, Jane,’ Madeline says, and I nod, bite my lip.

‘Can I offer you some tea, officers? Would you like to come in?’ I ask, but Madeline shakes her head, her ponytail flicking from side to side.

‘We just need to check a couple of things with you both, please,’ the other woman says, and Jack turns to her, all smiles, his handsome face shining in the half light spilling from our house. If I look right I can see the pile of flowers and teddies outside the Edwards’ – it’s doubled in size. Rachel and Ian have left it all in the cold. I wonder if it’ll rain. There are more cars on the road now, their headlights highlighting the pavement; I can’t see whether there are figures inside. Suddenly, I’m overcome by the desire to shut the front door, drag the curtains across the windows, hide us all away from the glare of the events unfolding next door.

‘Of course,’ Jack says to the policewoman, ‘anything you need. Jane and I were so devastated to hear the news. I think the whole town is still in shock. We’ve been looking out for Rachel and Ian, of course, but – well, we didn’t want to pry.’

If they’ve clocked how good-looking my husband is, neither of them show it yet.

‘Did either of you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary on the night of Monday the 4th?’ Madeline asks, her face serious. I wonder whether this is her first really big case here, whether she’s out to prove herself. God knows she doesn’t seem to have much of a personal life, from what I can gather. No kids. No partner. Maybe this is her chance to shine.

I shake my head, thinking back to that night, pushing away the more painful parts, Jack’s words. The way he looked at me, the disgust. He didn’t really mean it.

‘I didn’t, I’m afraid. My friend Sandra did the school run, took the kids to hers for an hour or two while I made dinner. Jack got home from the surgery just after five. I went to get Sophie and Finn. Then we were here all night.’ Arguing.

‘I’m a doctor,’ Jack interjects, mainly for Lorna’s benefit I think, but to her credit, her face doesn’t change at all. Most women go weak at the knees for a handsome doctor. I should know – I was one of them.

‘And your eldest son, Mrs Goodwin?’ Madeline asks, her face turned towards me. ‘Was he in all night with you both too?’

She’s smiling at me, her face open, calm. She may as well have You can trust me tattooed on her forehead.

‘Yes,’ I say quickly, ‘Harry was upstairs. He went out with some friends from the football team after school, but he was back early on.’ The image comes to my mind: a flash of blonde hair, my son’s eyes watching her from the window. I’m talking too fast.

The policewoman nods, makes a note in her pad. I don’t look at Jack.

‘And did you see Clare that day, Mr and Mrs Goodwin? Monday morning, around 8 a.m.? Her parents say she left for school after breakfast.’

‘I think I saw her leave at the usual time,’ I say slowly, ‘but she was in a hurry, going to school I suppose, like you say. I was busy with the children’s breakfast. You know how it is.’ Madeline nods at me and I look away; she obviously doesn’t. I see again the swing of Clare’s black rucksack as she walked down the front path, not knowing it would be the last time she ever would.

The younger woman is nodding along. I wonder how she sees me. A boring mother? A rich wife? Do I have the life she wants to emulate?

‘No unusual cars round here? No one hanging around the school that morning? You’re usually there, aren’t you Jane?’ Madeline asks, smiling at me. I try to think, although I know Sophie and Finn will be wanting a bedtime story round about now; I can almost feel their pull dragging me back inside the house. Jack’s presence beside me hums.

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ I say. ‘My eldest son took the little ones to school that day, as a favour to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for her poor parents.’

‘Do you know them well?’ Madeline asks, focusing her gaze on me. ‘Ian and Rachel, I mean. Would you say you were friends?’

I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t say we were close,’ I say, ‘I mean—’ I pause, glance next door. ‘I would have liked to be,’ I say at last, ‘but it never really happened.’

Beside me, Jack nods. ‘My wife’s pretty involved with the town,’ he says, with a little laugh. ‘PTA, book club, you name it. But some people don’t join in in quite the same way, I suppose.’ He looks down at me and I smile at him as he puts an arm around my waist.

The younger detective, Lorna, makes a note on her pad.

‘And did either of you see Mr or Mrs Edwards that afternoon?’

I frown, Jack’s arm still tight around me.

‘I didn’t notice,’ I admit. ‘I wouldn’t normally pay attention – like I said, we weren’t close or anything. Their cars came and went all the time, and their garage is around the other side – well, you’ll have seen.’

Lorna nods. ‘Thank you, Jane. And don’t worry. We knew it was a long shot, coming down this end of the town, but we wanted to make sure we covered all bases, spoke to all the neighbours. We’re hoping someone a bit closer to Sorrow’s Meadow saw something.’

‘Don’t you live up near there?’ Jack asks Madeline, and she nods, the ponytail bobbing again. Her face is pale, tired-looking. I wonder who looks after her, if anyone does. I want to ask her if they’ve got any leads, but I don’t want to sound hysterical. I don’t want Jack to laugh at me when we get behind closed doors.

‘Yep. First major crime I’ve ever had on my doorstep. And yours, too.’ She smiles grimly.

‘We had word just now from your receptionist, Dr Goodwin,’ Lorna says, clearing her throat before looking down at a notepad in her hand. ‘Danielle Andrews. Saying she thinks she might’ve seen Nathan Warren that night, on her way home from work. He was the one who reported the body.’ She pauses. ‘Did you leave at a similar time? The meadow’s not far from the surgery, is it?’