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

‘Listen, before you go, Clare – I’m – well, we’re sorry for what happened yesterday. Us rowing with you about the exams. Your mum and I talked and, well, we think we’ve probably been pushing you a bit too hard, love. It’s a stressful time, isn’t it, and we know you’re doing your best.’ He stops for a second, then opens his mouth as though about to say something else. I can see peanut butter clinging to his teeth.

‘We are sorry, Clare,’ Mum chips in, and I stare at them, surprised by this sudden show of togetherness. My tongue still feels weird, like sandpaper where the hot tea has burned it.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say at last, wanting the moment to be over. Ian looks visibly relieved, a smile breaking out on his large face.

‘That’s our girl,’ he says, and to my horror he pulls me towards him, gives me an awkward half hug, my face pressing up against his shirt, my gold necklace pushing into the dip in my neck as I’m crushed against him. He smells of Mum’s new shower gel that she got for Christmas, and too much Lynx. I want him off me.

‘Be good, Clare,’ Mum says, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Ian releases me and turns back to the fridge, his already-short attention span reduced even further by the lure of bacon.

Quietly, I let myself out of the front door, take a deep gulp of air. At least they’ve apologised. Sort of.

I close the garden gate behind me and shove my hands in my pockets, ignoring a WhatsApp from Lauren asking if I’ve done our English homework. She’ll be panicking, she always does, but I’ll just let her copy mine. I pull my hat down over my long blonde hair, hoping it won’t look too flattened by the time I get there, then set off down Ash Road towards school. It’s only a ten-minute walk. I can never decide whether I like the claustrophobia of this town – I’ve lived here ever since I can remember, since Mum and Dad left London for somewhere smaller, quieter, safer. You’ll love it here, Dad said. They certainly got what they wanted – nothing dangerous has ever happened in the history of this place. Other than what went on within the four walls of our house, of course, but no one talks about that. Especially not my mum.

Chapter Eight

Jane

Wednesday 6th February

‘Can we have porridge the way Dad makes it next time?’ Sophie, my daughter, is pouting, her spoon halfway to her mouth like Goldilocks caught in the act. The bowl I’ve made her for breakfast is almost untouched – I make it with water, Jack makes it with full-fat milk. You’d think a doctor would know the dangers of cholesterol, but there you go.

‘Next time,’ I say, using a damp J-cloth to blot the orange juice that Finn has spilled on the table. My eyes prick from tiredness, my mouth feels dry from last night’s wine with the PTA girls. I checked my phone every time I woke up in the night, shading it from Jack’s eyes, wanting to see if they’d made any arrests for Clare Edwards. The news is sparse, the details vague. I’ve set an alert for it on my phone, so that if anything new comes in I’ll see it straight away. I can’t bear the thought of being separated from my children today. Not when this has happened next door. I want to lock the front door, tuck them up in their beds and throw away the key.

I can’t stop myself from glancing at the window, at the painted cream walls of the Edwards house. When I had a shower this morning, I wiped the steam from the glass and looked across the gap that separates our houses. Their bedroom curtains were open, but neither of them were in bed. As I watched, I saw Ian enter the room, go over to the wardrobe. I shifted slightly, making sure he couldn’t see me. I only had a towel on. Water was dripping down my neck. He bent down, took something out and slipped it into his pocket. Then he left the room. I waited a few seconds, but he didn’t come back.

Downstairs, everything is silent. The family liaison officer is still there, or at least her car is. Their kitchen curtains are open too and I notice there are wine bottles on the windowsill. An oddly neat row of them, three empty, one half full. The recycling men come on Wednesdays. Theresa ought to have put them outside, really.

Behind me, I hear my husband coming down the stairs. I turn back to the hob, where the remainder of the porridge is bubbling over, waiting for Harry. He’s going to be late for school.

‘What’s that I hear about the best porridge in the world?’ Jack says, entering the room dressed for work: blue shirt, the cufflinks I bought him last Christmas. Little crossed ribbons; the silver glints in the light filtering through the kitchen window. He’s doing the false voice he uses for the kids. I look behind him for Harry, but there’s no sign of my elder son.

Jack kisses me on the cheek, takes a sip from the cup of coffee I proffer. The mug says: ‘Best hubby in the world.’ A cruel joke, courtesy of Hallmark. Sophie is beaming, and I reach out to touch her hair, feel the soft brown curls of it underneath my palm. The curls were a surprise when they came; my own hair hangs straight down my back, or it used to when I was younger. Now it sits on my shoulders, trimmed once a month at Trudie’s Salon in the town. The name makes me shudder every time I go in; the epitome of parochial.

The toaster pings and I flip the bread onto a plate for my husband, watch as he spreads it with too much butter. He won’t put on weight, he never does.

‘What are you up to today?’ Jack asks me, pulling a silly face at Finn, and I take a deep breath, steel myself.

‘The usual, Jack. You don’t need to worry.’

He doesn’t reply. We both know that second sentence is a lie. The only person who needs to worry is me, as long as I’m married to him.

‘Where’s Harry?’ I ask, and Jack shrugs.

‘Coming down, I guess.’

I go to the foot of the stairs, place my hand on the bannister. ‘Harry!’ As I stand there I think of how many times I have done this, the familiarity of it. Rachel will never call for Clare again, never feel the frustration that comes with having a teenager in the house, never sigh and look at her watch as the breakfast goes cold.

‘Harry!’

‘Coming, I’m coming.’ I hear him before I see him, and then he is there; my boy, his black hair hanging scruffily down towards his shirt collar, the smell of Lynx Africa emanating towards me. His school bag trails behind him, bumping on each stair until he’s in front of me. His skin is pale, his eyes look a little bloodshot.

‘Darling,’ I say, reaching out before I can stop myself, running my hand along his jaw and straightening his collar, ‘how are you feeling today?’ I can see the expression hidden beneath his features; I saw the way he used to look at Clare. He shifts away from me, just a little, the movement as hurtful as it always is. It’s not that we don’t get along, Harry and I, it’s that we’ve stopped knowing each other, somewhere along the way. But he’s my firstborn, my surprise baby, born years before the others, when Jack and I were young.

Tying us together.

‘I’m fine,’ he mutters, not meeting my eye.

‘Breakfast is ready,’ I say, for want of anything else, and he finally looks at me, nods.

‘Thanks, Mum.’ I watch as his school bag drops to the floor and he lopes into the kitchen, hear the squeal of Sophie as she sees him. He’s good with her, and with Finn. It’s us he’s grown distant from, me and Jack.

As he pulls out a chair at the table, I see his eyes flicker to the window, to where the Edwards house stands silently in the cold February light. He stares for one second, two, then his gaze moves away.

After breakfast, Harry leaves, headphones in as always, bag slung across his right shoulder. On the doorstep, I catch him, my hand on the sleeve of his blazer.

‘Harry,’ I say, ‘be careful, won’t you?’

My eyes lock onto his. The moment hangs between us, and suddenly I feel foolish. He is seventeen – but then I remind myself that Clare was sixteen, on the cusp of adulthood too. Age isn’t always a protection.

‘Of course,’ he says, ‘I’m always careful, Mum.’ A half smile, blink and you’d miss it. ‘Don’t worry.’

He closes the front door behind him and I watch him cross the street through the window, his cheeks immediately beginning to redden in the cold air. The sky is grey, giving nothing away. As I watch, a car pulls up beside him, then swings left, coming to a stop outside next door.

‘Mummy!’ Finn calls behind me, pulling my attention away, ‘I can’t find my shoes.’

Ten minutes later, and we are finally ready to go. Sophie and Finn are bundled up like two little snowmen, their reading folders clasped tightly in their hands. Jack is still sitting at the kitchen table; I glance at my watch. He should have left fifteen minutes ago.

‘Jack,’ I say, ‘you’ll be late.’

My husband’s gaze doesn’t move, his eyes focused on the now-congealing bowls of porridge that I’ve yet to clear up. Sophie is staring at me, confused. Quickly, I pull my face into a smile and blow a kiss at Jack, making a loud smacking sound which makes the children laugh.

‘Say bye bye to Daddy!’ I say, and we all wave at him, two snowmen and a wife.

Turning away from him, I step outside, a child in each hand, and that’s when I see them: the flowers. They’re on the ground outside the Edwards house, lining the front of their lawn. Pink flowers, red flowers, yellow flowers, wrapped in cellophane, handwritten notes damp in the morning chill. Overseeing them all is a large teddy bear, grotesque and unseeing. Glassy eyes stare blankly into mine.

Quickly, I pull the children across the road, just as a blue van slows down in front of us and pulls up alongside the car I saw. Both are emblazoned with the words ITV News. I swallow. It hasn’t taken long.

‘Mummy?’ Sophie says, catching the expression on my face, but I quickly bend down and wrap her scarf around her even more tightly, re-do her zipper so that it’s right up to the chin, blocking her view of the Edwards’ front lawn. Finn isn’t concentrating, he’s fiddling with something in his pocket. I hurry them down the road towards the school, trying desperately not to look back over my shoulder. Our feet slide a little on the pavements; they should have gritted the roads again, it’s cold enough.

For the next ten minutes, I listen to Sophie chatter about her art class, soaking up her innocence, her total obliviousness to the fact that a dead teenager has been found not five minutes from where we’re standing. She loves art, it’s her favourite subject. Like mother, like daughter. On Mondays I wash her uniform in a hot spin; there is always paint on her shirt. I’d complain to the teacher, but I don’t want to draw attention to us. Not anymore. I saw the way the headteacher looked at me when I had to cancel the PTA dinner last month; the concern in her eyes, the questions about life at home. I guess walking into a door doesn’t quite cut it these days.

‘Jane!’ Sandra grabs my arm after I’ve waved goodbye to the children. She’s wearing a thick woollen scarf and too much mascara, and her nose is red in the cold. She leans close to me. ‘Have you seen the news vans? One drove right past our house this morning. That’ll be it now, it’ll be everywhere.’ She shivers, stamps her feet on the ground in an attempt to warm them up. ‘God, imagine, Ashdon on TV. Well, we’ve all seen the way they cover cases like this, they’re like vultures, aren’t they?’ She eyes me beadily. ‘Your house might be on the news too. Or at least in the frame.’

‘Sandra,’ I say to her, ‘don’t tell me you’re jealous of that.’

She looks admonished. I put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t think about it, not for now anyway. News coverage might help the police, help them catch whoever did it.’

‘You’re right,’ she says, her face brightening, ‘you’re right, Jane. God, I hope they catch him soon. Has your Harry heard anything more? The older ones must be devastated.’

‘No,’ I say, ‘Harry didn’t really know Clare very well.’ My throat tightens, ever so slightly.

‘Book club this week?’ Sandra says, changing the subject, and I pause, then nod.

‘We ought to keep going, keep a sense of normality,’ she says, ‘perhaps we could do it at yours? I’ve almost finished the Zadie Smith.’

Before I can answer, she’s waving her gloved fingers at me, then turning to go. I stare after her for a moment, watching her slightly stocky frame make its way across the tarmac, stopping to talk to other mothers on the way. The book club invitation will have made its way through half the town by the time she’s finished. Sandra knows everything about everyone, or she thinks she does, anyway.

I move away from the school, tucking the strands of hair that have escaped from my scarf back inside the soft grey material. It’s cashmere; Jack bought it for me last Christmas. For the one I love, it said on the gift tag. I put the tag in my bedside drawer, along with the dried rose he gave me when we first started dating, and the faded yellow boarding pass from our honeymoon in Thailand. I look at them sometimes, my little mementoes, to remind myself of his love. Sometimes it’s hard to remember. I didn’t put the hospital tag in there; I cut it off my wrist the day after the incident on the stairs and buried it in an old handbag, stuffed at the very back of our wardrobe. Some mementoes aren’t worth looking at.

I pull out my phone as I walk back down the high street, send Jack a text. Off to work. See you tonight. A pause. Love you. I keep it on vibrate, in case he replies, but although the little tick tells me he’s read it, the phone stays resolutely silent and still.

When I get into work five minutes later, Karen, my boss-stroke-colleague, is on the phone. Her voice is sombre and her face looks serious, but despite that, I feel it – the wash of freedom that comes when I am here, in this light-filled shop, away from my husband, away from the house. We’re a tiny little place, selling ceramics and cards mainly; I only took the job part-time because it gave me something to do. I used to work in advertising, back when I lived in London, before the children and Jack, and part of me has always craved that creativity. Sometimes I think of myself, sitting in a London boardroom, MacBook in front of me, and I don’t recognise myself at all. They say marriage and kids don’t have to change you: whoever said that is a liar. I’d say a broken rib changes a lot of things.

It wasn’t always like this in the beginning, Jack and I. When I met him, I was won over. Jack, for me, presented a life I never thought I could have: money, stability, the house and kids, all in one fell swoop. And for a while, it was perfect. Better than perfect. We were obsessed with each other; I was his little project, the girl he took on and made good. And like any good subject, I rose to the challenge. Made myself into the woman he wanted. Before long, you couldn’t even see the divide between who I was and who I am now. And if it’s up to me, I’ll keep it that way. No matter what.

That’s all I’m trying to do.

‘Morning!’ Karen mouths at me, still on the phone, and I wave my fingers at her, unwrap my scarf from around my neck and hang it on the peg. There’s a small studio-cum-office at the back where Karen and I work, and everything we make is placed at the front of the shop. Art as therapy; I thought something like this would help me deal with life at home and it does, sometimes. The kettle bubbles happily and I tune the radio as I get my teacup down from the shelf: a painted ceramic mug Sophie and Jack made me for Mother’s Day last year. Wobbly hearts adorn the sides and my own heart stretches.

I make coffee. When I first met Jack, he warned me off it, well they all did there, told me about what it does to your heart rate, your nervous system, your cortisone levels. But he breaks his own rules now. I can break them too.

‘Sorry about that, Jane,’ Karen says when she hangs up the phone. The shop belongs to her, and we rub along together, although I find it hard to get as stressed out about ceramics as she does. Most of our income comes from Jack, these days. Good old Jack, Jack the doctor, Jack the breadwinner. The old rhyme goes through my head, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. There’s nothing fairy tale about our marriage. But it’s what I wanted, I remind myself. What I still want, even now.

I settle down next to Karen, power up my computer. The screensaver flickers on: Finn and Sophie on the beach, Harry pulling a silly face behind them; our holiday in Cornwall last year that ended in one of the worst fights Jack and I have ever had. I can’t even remember what started it now. In the photo, Sophie has ice cream around her mouth. Bright yellow; quickly, I click onto one of my latest designs, feel a bubble of relief as it replaces the image on the screen.

‘No worries,’ I say to Karen, taking a sip of caffeine – it’s too hot, it burns my tongue. Burning off the wine from last night. I feel it again: the impact of the glass, the hideous sadness when I saw the bruise this morning. Purple, the colour of heather. It’ll be green soon.

Karen tuts. ‘It was Beth again, calling from school. She didn’t want to leave the house this morning – well, who can blame her! After the news. She’s in the same year as Clare Edwards. That poor girl. It’s just so awful. It feels like the whole town is in shock.’ She frowns, rubs a hand across her eyes. I feel a stab of empathy, make a sympathetic noise in my throat. Beth is her daughter at the secondary school, sixteen last week. I helped decorate the birthday cake at work that afternoon, stabbing the little candles into the thick white icing.

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘they live next door to us.’

The reaction is immediate. Karen gasps, her hands flying to her mouth, the silver band on her wedding finger glinting in the light.

‘No! Jane! I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry. I—’

I wave my hand in the air. ‘No,’ I say, ‘really, it’s fine, well, it isn’t, but…’ I pause. ‘Obviously it’s horrible, having it happen so close to home.’

Karen shudders; I can actually see the shiver going up her spine, snaking its way through her thin stripy shirt, across her narrow shoulder blades. ‘I just can’t believe it Jane, next door to you! In our town! Right after Christmas, too, who would do a thing like that? Beth says she was a pretty girl, was she? One of the popular crowd. Well, you can tell that from the photo. I expect it won’t be long before it makes the nationals.’

She nods towards the town paper, splayed on the desk. Schoolgirl found dead in Ashdon field. Clare Edwards’ blonde hair shines like a halo, her white teeth grin out at us, frozen in a smile. My eyes fill, and I look back at my screen.

‘It’s terrible,’ I say, ‘it’s the very worst thing.’

I buy a paper of my own from Walker’s corner shop on the way to get the children from school. I don’t know why, but I want to read the details, pore over it all in my own home. I need to be alert, prepared – my children are the most important thing on the planet. I have to keep them safe. My heart thuds as I stare at the headlines – I can’t believe it, I can’t believe she’s dead. One of our own. It fills me with horror. Ruby Walker smiles grimly at me from behind the counter. Leader of the local girl guides, most miserable woman on the planet. I’ve seen her lips move in prayer before, when she thinks no one’s watching.

‘Anything else?’ she says, her face one of permanent despondency, and I grab two KitKats for Sophie and Finn, a Twix for Harry, and a bottle of wine for us. Jack likes Merlot; I like Sauvignon. The paper folds between my hands, hot with ink.

‘Dreadful,’ Ruby says, shaking her head at the figure on the front, and I nod, look away from her to the row of bright sweet wrappers. It is dreadful. We all know it is.

‘You knew her, didn’t you?’ she says, staring at me. ‘You and your husband. You must have.’

I clear my throat. There’s something weird about the way she says ‘husband’, or am I imagining it? Half the mothers in this town are in love with Jack. I don’t want to have to add miserable Ruby to the list. Although I suppose she’s not exactly competition.

‘Not very well,’ I say, ‘the Edwards family kept themselves to themselves.’ I’m exhausted with saying the same thing.

‘How was Ray-of-Ruby?’ Jack will say to me later, and I’ll smile in spite of myself. It’s been our name for her since we moved to the town; in all this time she’s been nothing but a misery. Sophie will be going to Brownies soon, but I’ve told her she’s exempt from Guides. Karen says Beth used to hate it – endless knot tying, constant prayers about the end of the world. Some people thrive on disaster. Ruby is loving all of this drama.

At the school gates, I stand with the other mums on the verge of grass between the primary and the secondary. Harry doesn’t get out until ten past four, but I pick Finn and Sophie up at three thirty. I love seeing their little faces as they toddle towards me, love the moment I can envelop them in my arms again. Especially now, when tragedy is so close.

Both the schools are Church of England, of course. There’s a noticeboard pinned to the gates, and a new poster flaps in the wind. I lean forward, stare at the black font. The priest is doing a special service tomorrow night, in memory of Clare. Please join us, it says, as Ashdon comes together in the face of adversity. It must be the most excitement Pastor Michael’s had for ages.

Normally, the mums and I would grin at each other at a missive from the church, but today, you can almost sense the nerves, feel the shockwaves radiating around us all. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Not in Ashdon. Not next door. Briefly, I close my eyes, think back to that morning, the very last time I saw Clare. I watched as she left for school, slamming the front door behind her, or did I imagine the slam? Harry wasn’t down yet, Finn and Sophie were still brushing their teeth. Clare was early, earlier than normal. Her blonde hair shone in the February sun, the ends catching the light. Jack appeared behind me at the window, and I moved away. I wonder if her stepdad was watching her too. Whether she was aware of how men looked at her. Whether she looked at anyone in the same way.

I crouch down when I see Finn coming towards me, jolting me back to the sharp February afternoon. I open my arms for his warm little body, eager to have him back. He’s always at his most loving just after school. A reassuring trait. Sophie bobbles towards us and Sandra appears as if by magic at my side, smiling at me. I’ve only had a few hours respite. This is how it is in this town. She’s gripping her own daughter Natasha tightly by the hand.

‘Oof. Think the wine from last night is catching up on me, I feel a bit dreadful now. Thanks for coming though. How was work?’ She doesn’t pause for breath. ‘The girls are best friends this week!’ she mutters to me, and I nod in response. Sophie and Natasha have a love–hate relationship, it seems. As much as seven-year-olds can, anyway. I can see Tricia heading this way but I pretend not to notice, in case she remembers my promise to bake for getting-a-divorce-Lindsay. Quickly, I hustle the children towards me, grabbing reading folders and lunch boxes between my fingers. Nobody is sticking around much to talk today, all of us wanting to get home, wrap our children up in cotton wool, protect them from whatever horrible fate met poor Clare.

There’s a gaggle of us who usually walk down the main street, but we’re the ones who can veer off first. Our house is only ten minutes from the school, set back just slightly from the road, alongside the Edwards’. It’s pink in contrast to their cream, your typical cottage pink, with a neat black roundel on the front denoting the name. Badger Sett. Horribly, achingly, twee. Sometimes, I wonder what on earth I was thinking coming here. Especially now this has happened. Not that Jack would want to leave; his practice is here. This is, after all, our fresh start.