This isn’t a noise complaint.
This isn’t a wellness check.
This isn’t nothing.
A chill climbs the length of my spine and wraps itself around my ribs.
‘What the hell?’ Nate mutters, pulling out his phone. ‘I’m messaging Jonny.’ I watch his fingers fly across the screen before he taps send, and I read his message.
Everything all right, mate?
We wait for the blue tick or the notification that Jonny is typing, but neither come.
My gaze moves back to Magnolia Close. The usual tranquillity and peace looks ugly in the flashing blue of the silent sirens.
A minute passes. Nothing happens. No movement inside Jonny’s house. No blue tick on Nate’s screen.
‘Do you think—?’ I start to say, falling silent again as two officers step from the front door, their expressions grave. They’re followed by a woman in leggings and a loose T-shirt. Hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her hand keeps moving to her neck, rubbing it as though she’s in pain.
‘Do you know who that woman is?’ I ask Nate as one of the officers kills the blue strobe of the silent sirens, one after the other.
‘It’s his cleaner,’ Nate replies without missing a beat.
Of course Nate knows. He misses nothing when it comes to Magnolia Close. Who’s coming and going. He’s not a gossip. He just…observes. Details. Movements. Patterns. It’s why he’s so good at his job in compliance – running the whistle-blower programme at the investment bank in the city, investigating internal misconduct, piecing together scraps of information until he’s built a case strong enough to take someone down. He would’ve made a brilliant detective – patient, methodical, asking gentle questions that make people tell him things. But there’s far more money in corporate investigations, and Nate has always been pragmatic like that.
It’s how we met. Eleven years ago, I was working at the same investment bank. I’d climbed my way up from the post room then reception, answering calls, fetching coffee, and eventuallylanded a job as personal assistant to three high-level fund managers. One of them was Reggie Chamberlain.
One morning, just as I was stepping into the office, Nate introduced himself. He was running an internal investigation into Reggie, looking at irregular trades and offshore accounts. Nate was calm and polite. He wanted to know everything. What time Reggie usually arrived? Who did he meet with? What he did between meetings? Where he went for lunch? Did I know anything about his nights out? Nate made it seem like I held the key to something big. And, in the end, I did. Two months later, Reggie and his junior were fired. Nate emailed to thank me. Then he asked me to dinner.
Nate made me laugh, and I made him soften, stripping back that hard shell and one-track mind. We clicked, and it was easy in a way that things rarely are. He grew up never having to think about how much things cost, thinking everyone had a ski holiday in winter and two weeks in a nice hotel by the beach in the summer.
When I told him what Christmas was like for us – second-hand board games and books from the charity shop, the cheapest frozen turkey, Mum and Dad not buying each other gifts, Nate couldn’t believe it.
A week later, in the middle of July, he threw me a surprise Christmas Day. Decorations and a mountain of presents piled beneath a tree. A full turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Christmas music on repeat. It was ridiculous and perfect and the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for me.
We fell madly in love. The dream couple. At least, that’s how it started. As soon as we were married, we bought our home in Magnolia Close. The first thing Nate did was choose his study. The room on the top floor at the front with a clear view of all the other houses. The perfect view to watch the comings and goings of our neighbours.
Nate checks his phone again. Still no reply from Jonny. ‘The cleaner must’ve found something and called the police,’ he says.
‘What do you think it was?’ I ask.
Before Nate can answer, another car pulls in – a grey unmarked Ford that parks beside the first police car. A navy van follows closely behind. No writing on the side.
‘Whatever it is, it’s not good,’ Nate replies.
We watch in silence for a while, then Nate suggests a glass of wine, and I smile and hurry to the kitchen. ‘Bill thinks it could be a break-in,’ I say when I return with two glasses and hand one to Nate.
He nods. ‘Jonny has a lot of recording equipment, although there’s no way someone got it out of there without any of us seeing. More likely they’ve found something. Maybe Jonny was a secret drug mule?’
‘Not the drug boss then?’ I smile, and even though we’re standing in our living room, in the dark, pondering the terrible fate of our neighbour, I take a moment to step out of myself and think how nice it is to be sharing something with Nate. I rest my hand on his arm and close the gap between us.
There’s movement outside Jonny’s house, and Nate shifts away from me. I tell myself it’s to get a better look at the woman in a dark suit as she gathers the officers, gesturing at the other houses. A moment later, they’re spreading out, walking quickly. The first officer to move makes their way to Beth and Alistair’s house. Somehow, I can’t imagine them standing at the window like we are.
More officers fan out, and although I track the movement of an officer beelining straight for us, I still jump when three hard knocks rattle the door. We set our wine glasses down, and I step into the hall and open the door, Nate a second behind me.
The officer is younger than I first thought, with an angry shaving rash on his neck. His uniform is stiff, his expression neutral – but there’s a flicker of energy in his eyes.
‘Good evening,’ he says. ‘My name is PC Henshaw. I’m with Essex Police. Do you mind if I ask your names please?’
