Louise Candlish - Those People

BERKLEY

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Copyright 2019 by Louise Candlish

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Candlish, Louise, author.

Title: Those people / Louise Candlish.

Description: First edition. | New York Berkley, 2019.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018059466 | ISBN 9780451489142 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451489159 (ebook)

Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PR6103.A63 T47 2019 | DDC 823/.92--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018059466

First Edition: June 2019

Jacket photographs: house by plainpicture/Arcaid/Peter Durant; male silhouette by Michal Sanca/Shutterstock; female silhouette by EyeEm/Getty Images

Jacket design by Katie Anderson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

To my editors, Jo and Danielle, with gratitude

CHAPTER

Yes, were aware that someones been killed; of course we are. What a terrible way to die, absolutely horrific. My wife was one of the first on the scene. Shes over the road right now at number 2, Sissy Watkinss houseNaomi Morgan, shes called. Youve probably spoken to her already?

I personally wasnt here, no. I was playing tennis at the club on the other side of the high street. I mustve left here at about eight.

Yeah, it all looked normal on the corner when I left. The usual scrap heap. Piles of rubble everywhere, cars wedged in like some crazy 3-D jigsaw. A total disaster zone. Listen, I dont mean to do your job for you, but youll save yourself a whole lot of legwork if you forget the rest of us and go ask him how this happened.

Darren Booth, of course. Who do you think I mean? The man responsible for this tragedy! And while youre at it, maybe you should find out from the council where theyve been while all of this has been going on, eh? If you ask me, theyve been completely negligent these last few months. These budget cuts have gone way too far and all it takes is one character like him and suddenly were living in the Wild West.

My relationship with him? Mutual hatred, I would say. I recognized his type straightaway. Doesnt give a shit what anyone else thinks. Uncivilized, basically. I remember the first conversation we hadif you can call it thatthe weekend he moved in. He almost came at me with a hammer....

MR. RALPH MORGAN, 7 LOWLAND WAY, HOUSE-TO-HOUSE INQUIRIES BY THE METROPOLITAN POLICE, AUGUST 11, 2018

Eight weeks earlier

The first clue that something was amiss that Friday evening was that the parking space outside his house was occupied by a filthy white Toyota so decrepit it was bordering on scrap. Certainly not the vehicle of choice of anyone he knew on Lowland Way.

If you entered the street from the park end, as Ralph generally did when he drove home from his warehouse in Bermondsey, you proceeded along a sliding scale of house sizesand pricesfrom pretty workmens cottages through narrow three-story terraces to the large detached Victorians at the Portsmouth Avenue end. These were indisputably the best properties, their old brick glowing furnace red in spectacular contrast to the green of the elms that lined the road.

Ralph and his family had occupied number 7 for more than fifteen years, while, right next door at number 5, his brother, Finn, and his family had been in residence for twelve. It was as good as it got, the brothers agreed, and for half the price youd pay in some parts of London.

Parking was the big compromise. The front gardens were too shallow for off-street parking and the street bays were unrestricted by the council, which effectively meant a free-for-all. Hence the occasional intruder.

Nosing past the Toyota, he became aware of his windscreen blurring. It took him a second or two to register that the wall of number 1 was being smashed to smithereens by some barbarian workman, a dust cloud drifting into the road. Nearby, a white panel van hogged the spaces of two cars, which explained the parking disruption.

What the hell... ? Ralph pulled over, wound down his window and called to the builder: Excuse mewhats going on here?

The guy didnt hear him. Under his gray overalls, his physique was unexpectedly slight given the dirt tornado hed produced single-handedly.

Ralph raised his voice: Hey! Can you please stop!

This time, the worker halted, remaining for a second or two with his back to the street, to Ralphs car, with a stillness that struck Ralph as a little sinister. Then he turned and approached, lump hammer in hand. His face was smeared with dirt, its expression casually defiant.

Can I ask who hired you to knock down this wall? Ralph said.

You can ask what you like, mate. The accent was standard South London, not Eastern European as Ralph had naturally expected, and the mild tone made Ralphs own sound peremptory, officious.

Was it the council? Because theyve got no right to demolish it. This wall is one hundred percent the property of number 1. Ive seen the documents with my own eyes.

Occupying a generous plot next to Finns house, semidetached numbers 1 and 3 were the only pair of postwar houses on the street and, set back far enough to allow a short shared drive, the only ones with private parking. The high wall on the corner, all that remained of the original Victorian villa that had been flattened in the Blitz, had in recent years been under threat by the council, who wanted to widen the left turn from Portsmouth Avenue, basically turning Lowland Way into a rat run. Supported by the owner of number 1, Old Jean, the Morgans had led the campaign against demolitionand won.

Since late December, when Jean had passed away, the house had stood empty, the wall forgotten. Ralph had taken his eye off the ball, evidently.

A new thought struck him. Unless... Wait. Is there a new owner? Is that who hired you?

There is a new owner, yeah. There was a malevolent swagger to the way this guy gripped his hammer, Ralphs open window just swinging distance away. How easily he could bludgeon Ralphs skull if he chose!

Ralphs fingers hovered over the window controls. He was experiencing a primitive antipathy toward this person, as if encountering a member of a rival tribe whod entered his settlement without permission. He jerked his gaze back to the mans face, tried to size him up. He must be... how old? Mid-fifties? He had a large bald patch, pink from sun or exertion, and deep facial lines mortared with dirtolder than Ralph, certainly.