She’d ignored DS Doom and bought 5 Mariner’s Cottages in June 2018. The estate agent had bigged up the view. “It’s breathtaking,” she’d said, ignoring the fact that it was a wonky two-up two-down with a small kitchen extension, a patch of garden overlooking the sea, and a front door onto the pavement.
“Cute,” Caro had said on her first visit. “If you like that kind of thing. But promise me you won’t put anchors and lighthouses everywhere. And where are the cupboards? Where will you store your Christmas decorations?”
“Sod off, Brennan. I don’t do Christmas, as you well know.” She and Hugh had liked to go somewhere hot and all-inclusive. Before.
Caro had been round a few times since Elise had gone on sick leave. But she’d told her to stop—“You’ve got a kid—you can’t spend your precious days off with me. I’ll ring you. And I’ll be back at work before you know it.”
She wasn’t short of company, anyway. A bit overblessed, if she was honest, what with Ronnie popping in and out.
The first time Ronnie had appeared at the door, on the day Elise had moved in, she had been knee-deep in packing cases and bad memories but Ronnie hadn’t let that stop her. She was small, sixtyish, with a beaky nose and a lot of mascara, and she was wearing a T-shirt that read Old Age Is for Sissies. Ronnie had brought a welcome cake—a shop one （“I don’t bake”）—and stayed for an hour, probing like a pro. Elise had managed to keep Hugh to a footnote, where he belonged.
She pushed back against her neighbor’s interrogation on that first visit and took the lead in the questioning, quickly learning that Ronnie had a daughter in Australia who didn’t phone often enough, and used to work in the local library three days a week, manning the desk and taking a keen interest in other people’s business.
“People have time to talk in a library,” Ronnie said as she rifled uninvited through Elise’s books. “It starts with ‘Have you got the latest Lee Child?’ and ends with them telling me about their fibroids. It was where I heard it all. . . . I love other people’s stories, don’t you?”
And Elise nodded. She did.
Ronnie had been beyond thrilled to discover Elise’s job on the Major Crime Team. “That’s the murder squad, isn’t it? I’m working my way through every detective novel on the shelves,” she said as if that made her a sister-in-arms. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Killing people . . .”
There was a pause before Ronnie added: “I might take it up myself.”
It turned out her recently retired husband, Ted, was about to be murdered.
“He’s turned into an old man. . . . He’s building a model railway for God’s sake!” Ronnie ranted. “And now he wants to join a bowls club. He’s bought a white trilby. . . . I said to him, ‘You’re sixty-five, not eighty-five.’ I’ll put weed killer in his porridge if this carries on. I suppose I shouldn’t be saying that to a detective inspector. . . . Oh, I’m so glad you’ve moved in. Shall I pop in tomorrow? I can give you a hand putting things away.”
“That’s very kind but I’m fine, Ronnie,” Elise said. She didn’t want to be anyone’s project. I should have had it made into a sign for the front door, she thought. “Elise Is Fine.”
“Well, you know where I am. Just shout—it’s only single brick in the extension and I can hear you through it.”
While she’d still been working, Elise had chatted to Ronnie as they’d wheeled the bins round, but they’d been neighbors, not friends, until February and the cancer diagnosis. Ronnie had somehow become part of Elise’s recovery. “In charge of morale,” she’d said.
* * *
—
Elise had let her mind wander—fatal—and was back at Friday night. But not thinking about the kids she’d run to help. It was Charlie Perry. His pale, sweaty face. She’d dealt with hundreds of drunks in distress and forgotten them immediately—why couldn’t she let Charlie go? Was it because he’d made her tear up that day in her sitting room? They’d shared a moment.
She suddenly wondered if he’d said anything to Ronnie while they flailed about.
Elise knocked three times on the kitchen wall and Ronnie knocked back. The signal had been her friend’s idea—something to do with a hit song when she’d been young.
Five minutes later she was sitting on the other kitchen chair.
“Nice jimjams,” Ronnie said. “But you were dressed when I last saw you. . . .”