The Couple at No. 9(4)

When we eventually return on Sunday after lunch, with our bags at our feet, like visitors in our own home, my heart sinks. There are police cars and vans still parked on our driveway. Another uniformed officer – a middle-aged guy this time – informs us that they should be done excavating by the end of the day, and we’re allowed in the cottage but not the garden until they’ve finished. I wonder if they’ve searched inside. The thought makes me uneasy: I hate to think of the police rifling through our things. When I voice this to Tom he assures me that they would have said if they were going to do that.

Tom and I spend the rest of the afternoon hiding in the living room. ‘What must the neighbours be thinking?’ I say, standing at the window and sipping a decaf tea. I think of elderly Jack and Brenda next door. A hedge obscures their property from ours, but she’s definitely the curtain-twitcher type, and when Clive put in the plans for the kitchen extension they opposed them.

A small crowd has gathered at the end of our driveway, only partly hidden by the police vehicles.

‘I bet they’re journalists,’ says Tom, over my shoulder, his fingers clasping a mug. ‘You might want to ring your dad and get some advice.’

My dad is the chief reporter on one of the national tabloids. I nod grimly. I feel as exposed as if someone has ripped the roof right off our house. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I mutter. For once Tom doesn’t offer any assurance. Instead his face is grave, a muscle throbbing near his jawline as he stares out of the window, sipping his coffee in silence.

I ring Dad later to ask his advice. ‘You don’t fancy giving your old dad an exclusive,’ he deadpans.

I laugh. ‘I don’t know anything! It might turn out to be hundreds of years old yet.’

‘Well, if it’s not I should warn you, as soon as the police confirm a crime and have identified the body, you’ll be swamped by press.’

‘Should we move out?’ Although as I say this I have no idea where we’d actually go. We can’t afford a hotel. I wish Dad lived closer. Or Mum, but she’s even further away.

‘No. No, don’t do that. Just be prepared, that’s all. And if you need anything – information or advice – let me know.’ I can tell he’s in the newsroom by the sound of phones ringing in the background and the general hubbub of conversation and activity.

‘Will you be sending someone down here?’

‘I expect we’ll use a press agency for now. But if you’re going to talk to the press, remember me, yeah? Seriously, Saff, if you’re unsure about anything – whether it’s the police or the reporters – then come to me first.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, feeling reassured. My dad has always had the ability to make me feel safe.

The next morning the police take down the tent and crime tape and Tom and I stare in horror at the huge hole left in the garden. It’s four times bigger than it was when the builders left it. Tom asks his boss if he can work from home for a few days, and we spend them trying to avoid the smattering of journalists that still hover.

And then, on Wednesday – the day Tom returns to work – the police call.

‘I’m afraid it’s not good news,’ says the male detective with a gruff voice, whose name I instantly forget.

I stiffen, waiting.

‘Two bodies have been found.’

I nearly drop my phone. ‘Two bodies?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. All the bones were recovered and forensics could determine that one was a male and the other a female. We could also work out the ages of the victims based on the bone formation and maturing. Both victims were between thirty and forty-five.’

I can’t speak, nausea rising.

‘Unfortunately,’ he continues, ‘the female victim died of blunt trauma to the head. We’re still trying to ascertain how the man died. The decomposition of tissues makes this more difficult. With the female skeleton it was more obvious due to the fracture to the skull.’

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to imagine it.

‘That’s … that’s awful.’ I can barely take it in. ‘Are … are you sure there aren’t any more?’ I suddenly have visions of the whole garden being dug up to reveal a mass grave and shudder at the thought. Other ‘houses of horrors’ as the press luridly describe them, come to mind – 25 Cromwell Street and White House Farm. Will our cottage become as infamous? Will we be stuck here for ever, nobody ever wanting to buy it? My heart starts to beat faster and I swallow, trying to concentrate on what the detective is saying.

‘We had cadaver dogs at the site. We are confident there are no more bodies.’

‘How … long have the bodies been there?’

‘We can’t be sure for definite, not yet. The soil in your garden is more alkaline based and the conditions, therefore, have preserved some of the clothing and shoes, but we think no earlier than around 1970, and by the decomposition, no later than 1990.’

Goosebumps ripple over my skin. Two people were murdered in my house. In my idyllic cottage. Everything suddenly takes on a dark, surreal quality.

‘And, of course, we have to speak to everyone who occupied the house between 1970 and 1990,’ he continues. ‘I’m afraid, being the previous owner of the cottage, we will need to speak to Mrs Rose Grey.’