The Therapist(17)

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, cutting him off, hating the way he’s making me feel. ‘You’ve made a mistake. Maybe Nina Maxwell did live somewhere in The Circle but it couldn’t have been here. We wouldn’t have bought the house if there’d been a murder here. And we would have known, because the estate agent would have told us.’

I begin to push the door shut but he holds my gaze.

‘I’m afraid there’s no mistake, Ms Dawson. This is where Nina Maxwell lived.’ He pauses. ‘And where she died.’





Nine


For the second time in the space of a few minutes, I slam the door in the man’s face. My legs shaking, I sit down on the stairs.

‘I’m sorry.’ I jump at the sound of his voice coming through the door. I thought he’d gone. ‘I know this must have come as a shock.’

‘Go away, or I really will call the police,’ I say angrily.

‘Alright, I’m leaving now. But could I ask you to do something? First of all, google the murder. And secondly, call your estate agent and ask him why he didn’t disclose details of it when you bought the house.’ There’s a sliding noise as his card is pushed through the letter box. ‘If you feel able to speak to me again, please contact me on this number. Both I, and my client, would be very grateful.’

His footsteps retreat down the path. Nailed to the stairs by a creeping dread, I can’t move. What if it’s true? I take my mobile from my pocket and type ‘Nina Maxwell murder’ into my search engine. I look at my screen, where several links to news reports have come up. I open the first one, dated 21st February 2018 and see a photo of a pretty, blond-haired woman with laughing brown eyes, a gold chain just visible around her neck. I recognise the photo; it was all over the media in the weeks following the murder. My heart in my mouth, I scroll to the article underneath.

A thirty-eight-year-old woman has been found murdered in London. Police were called to a house in The Circle, an exclusive residence in Finsbury Park, at approximately 9.30 p.m. last night, where they discovered the body of Nina Maxwell.



Nausea swirls in my stomach. I force myself to read the article again, my eyes sticking on the words ‘The Circle’, hoping that if I stare at them long enough, they’ll disappear. But they don’t, and although there’s no mention of the house number, the possibility that Nina Maxwell was murdered here, in the house where I’m living, is terrifying. A memory from the time of the murder comes to me – a cordoned-off house with bouquets of flowers placed respectfully on the pavement outside. Was it this one?

I push myself up from the stairs, grab my keys and open the front door, half afraid I’ll find the private investigator on the doorstep. Thankfully, there’s no sign of him. Or of anyone else. I step outside, feeling horribly exposed. But I can’t stay in the house, not now.

I cross over the road, push open the gate to the square and sink onto the nearest bench, my mind still reeling. I don’t know why I feel threatened. Thomas Grainger has been perfectly pleasant on the two occasions I’ve spoken to him. It’s not who he is that frightens me, I realise, but what he said. How come he knows a murder was committed in the house where Leo and I are living, and we don’t? How come Ben didn’t tell Leo?

I find the contact details of Redwoods, the estate agents, and call them.

‘Can I speak to Ben, please?’ I ask, when a woman answers, trying to hide my agitation.

‘I’m afraid he’s away for a few days.’ She sounds bored rather than sorry.

My heart sinks. ‘When will he be back?’

‘Monday. Can I help? I’m Becky, I work with Ben.’

I hesitate, tempted ask her if she knows anything about a murder in the house that Leo bought through them. Surely everyone who works in the agency would have to know its history, if it included a recent death?

‘My name is Alice Dawson,’ I say, deciding to go for it. ‘My partner, Leo Curtis, recently bought a house in Finsbury through Ben – number 6, The Circle. I was wondering – I heard a rumour that something happened in the house back in February last year. Someone said a woman died there?’ I can’t bring myself to say the word murdered.

There’s a long pause, which I don’t like. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to Ben, Ms Dawson.’

‘That’s exactly what I want to do. Can you give me his mobile number, please?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But I can ask him to call you as soon as he gets back on Monday.’

‘Yes, please do.’

I cut the call, feeling stupidly close to tears. I rub my eyes angrily, but I can’t stop my increasing horror at the thought of our house being the scene of a murder. Becky might not have confirmed it but she hadn’t denied it. Rage begins to build up inside me. How could Ben have kept it from us? He told Leo that the house was cheaper than its market price because it had been standing empty for over a year. Leo would have asked why, and Ben must have lied, or avoided giving him an answer. Leo is going to be devastated. If it’s true, we’re going to have to start house-hunting all over again.

My mind races ahead – Leo will put the house back on the market and we’ll move into temporary accommodation while we find somewhere else to live. Or, better still, move back to my cottage. I quickly extinguish the tiny spark of happiness that the thought of going back to Harlestone brings. It seems misplaced amongst the reality of the murder and anyway, my cottage is rented out for another five months.