No One I Knew A McDine (top 10 novels to read txt) 📖

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my inbox, quickly finding what I was looking for. Sheila had emailed on Sunday evening, apologising that she hadn’t been able to drop off the accounts that afternoon because ‘Mother had another tumble’. According to Sheila, they’d ended up in the minor injuries unit. I’d had no reason to doubt her, because I thought ‘Mother’ was alive and well, not dead and buried. I shivered. It was all too reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho for my liking. But why would Sheila lie? I hadn’t asked her to drop off the accounts - she’d offered, probably because it was the perfect excuse to see Bill. Bill, who she idolised so much she’d named her cat after him. The more I thought about it, the creepier it seemed.

I told myself not to be so overdramatic. Sheila was a sad, lonely woman who was probably still mourning the death of her mum when Bill offered her a job at FoodWrapped. Having switched her affections from her mother to Bill, it must have been the final straw to lose him, too. That, I reminded myself, was why I was forcing my way through her jungle-like garden. I wanted to make sure she was OK. I didn’t want another death on my conscience.

I was passing the crab apple tree when my phone rang. A glance at the screen revealed it was Stuart.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘I’m checking you’re all right to pick Nate up.’

I held the phone at arm’s length and checked the time. It was almost three o’clock.

‘Can you?’ I said. ‘I’m in the middle of something.’

Stuart huffed down the phone. ‘I suppose I’ll have to. What’ll I tell him about Bill?’

A movement in one of the bungalow’s windows caught my eye, and I stopped in my tracks. ‘Why are you asking me?’ I said. ‘I told you, I don’t have all the answers. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at home later, all right?’

‘I don’t believe it. Are you at work?’ he groused.

Shaking my head, I ended the call.

The brown paint on Sheila’s front door was cracked and flaky and the grouting around the two stained glass panels was black with mould. The brass knocker, shaped like a lion’s head, seemed over the top for such a modest bungalow. I rapped it smartly. As I waited for Sheila to come to the door, I rehearsed what I was going to say. Part of me wanted to go in all guns blazing. To demand why she’d lied about her mother, and to inform her I was within my rights to call the police to have her arrested for fraud and theft. But the voice of my conscience won over. I came here to check Sheila was all right, and that’s what I would do. The bollocking could wait.

I rapped the knocker again, then flipped open the letter plate. ‘Sheila? It’s me, Cleo,’ I called. ‘I wanted to check you’re OK.’ I crouched down and stared through the letterbox into the hallway, half expecting to see Sheila walking primly towards me, her mouth pursed and her hands clasped in front of her.

But the hallway was empty. Correction. It was empty of people. Because it certainly wasn’t empty of stuff. Cardboard boxes were piled precariously on top of each other, their contents spewing out of them. Old newspapers jostled with bulging plastic carrier bags filled with rags. Other bags were overflowing with old food packaging. An ancient-looking iron with a blackened soleplate had been abandoned on the floor, the lead coiled around its base, and next to it a three-legged pine chair was almost hidden under a jumble of clothes.

‘Christ,’ I muttered. Because the place was in a worse state than Tracey’s Chatham squat. How could a woman who was so fastidious about her own appearance live in such squalor? Sheila’s desk at work was freakishly neat. Files were colour-coordinated, pencils were always sharpened, reference books were lined up in height order. Sheila’s face had been thunderous when I’d once put a business directory in the wrong place. It was almost impossible to reconcile the rubbish-strewn house with the prim, finicky woman I knew.

A crash from inside jerked me back to the present, and I stared into the hallway, looking for the source of the noise.

‘Sheila,’ I called. My voice sounded scratchy, as if I was suffering from a severe case of laryngitis. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Sheila!’

One of the piles of boxes wobbled ominously and Sheila’s tabby cat jumped down and began cleaning itself, nonchalant as you like. I stood and massaged the base of my back as I wondered what to do. Either Sheila wasn’t here, and I was on a wild goose chase, or she was, but was too embarrassed to open the door to me. In either case, I was wasting my time. I was turning to go when an image pushed its way into my head. An image of Sheila lying spread-eagled on her bed, little white pills scattered over the duvet, an empty bottle of gin on the messy bedside table. What if she’d decided life wasn’t worth living? I couldn’t leave without checking.

I made my way around the bungalow, peering into each window. The lounge, kitchen and dining room were as cluttered as the hallway, with piles of newspapers and magazines and boxes of rubbish everywhere you looked. A small window at the back of the bungalow had been covered with newspapers. I checked the date, surprised to see they were only a couple of weeks old. People did that when they decorated, didn’t they? Perhaps Sheila was giving the bungalow a makeover, although it seemed unlikely.

The next room was a small double bedroom, and it was almost as untidy as the rest of the house. A white blouse with a fussy collar that I recognised as Sheila’s hung from the wardrobe door. Relieved she wasn’t laying prone on the bed, I tramped over to