The Therapist by B.A. Paris
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.
I want – need – to speak to Leo but when I call his number, it goes through to voicemail. I wait a few minutes, then try again, but he still doesn’t pick up. I want so much to get to the bottom of it that I decide to call the estate agents back and insist on having Ben’s mobile number. But something occurs to me. What if he wasn’t obliged to tell Leo about the murder? Bringing up my search engine again, I type Do estate agents have to disclose murder at a property? A helpful article came up but as I start to read it, my gratitude turns to dismay. It seems that although most estate agents would mention it, there’s no obligation to do so.
Stunned, I lean back against the bench. I can’t believe that Ben was so unscrupulous. Even if he wasn’t obliged by law to tell Leo, what about his moral obligation? He was recommended to us by Ginny and Mark, he and Mark have become friends. I need to warn them about him.
I send Ginny a message Can you talk? Ginny, being Ginny, is able to tell from those few words that something is wrong and phones straightaway.
‘Alice, what’s up? Are you alright, is Leo alright?’
‘Yes, we’re both fine. But Ginny, I need your advice. Actually, I need to speak to Ben. Do you have his mobile number, by any chance?’
‘Mark does. Why – is there a problem with the house or something?’
Surprise jolts through me. ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t.’ Ginny sounds puzzled. ‘But if you want Ben’s number, it must be to do with the house, because why else would you want to talk to him?’
‘Yes, it is about the house. I’ve just found out that a woman was murdered here, at number 6.’ Just saying it makes the horror come back and I grip the wooden bench with my free hand, grounding myself.
‘What?’ I can hear the shock in Ginny’s voice. ‘Did you say a woman was murdered in your house, the house Leo just bought?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I checked. Do you remember the Nina Maxwell murder? The woman who was killed by her husband?’
‘Didn’t he commit suicide?’
‘Yes, I think so. This was their house, Ginny, this is where it happened. I checked the news reports, they mention The Circle, they don’t say what number but it was here, I know it was.’
‘Alice, that’s awful, I’m so sorry!’
‘It must be why the house was empty for so long, why nobody wanted to buy it. I don’t blame them, I don’t want to stay here now, I can’t bear to be in the house. I’m sitting in the square and even that’s too close. Ben should have told Leo, but he didn’t.’
‘But – I don’t understand. Wouldn’t he have been obliged to?’
‘Apparently not, I checked.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t know.’
‘I think he must have.’
The gate clangs open and looking up, I see Geoff closing it behind him as he comes into the square. He’s wearing his usual outfit of shorts and a baggy shirt, except that he’s added a peaked cap to protect his balding head from the sun. He gives me a cheery smile and for a moment, I’m tempted to jump up and ask him if he knows anything about the murder. Instead, I smile back, keeping my head bent low over my phone so that he’ll realise I’m on a call.
‘I can’t believe Ben wouldn’t have told you,’ Ginny is saying. ‘I don’t know him that well – Mark knows him better than I do – but I can’t imagine he would be so dishonest.’
‘That’s why I need to speak to him,’ I say as Geoff walks past. ‘I phoned his office and they told me he’s away for a few days. But this is important. Could you get his number from Mark?’
‘I’ll phone him now. Do you want me to call Ben for you?’
‘Would you?’ My voice breaks. ‘It’s just that she was called Nina. If you could find out if he knew, I’ll take it from there.’
‘Of course.’ Ginny’s voice is full of sympathy. She never knew Nina but she understands why I’m extra upset. ‘I’ll call you back.’
It seems an eternity before my phone rings again, an eternity where I feel completely alone, because Geoff has long since gone and there’s no-one else around. Then, just as my phone starts ringing, I see Eve, Tamsin and Maria come through the gate at the other end of the square with a group of chattering children. About to take the call, I shift quickly on the bench, turning my back to them, hoping they won’t see me and decide to come over. But when I check the number, it’s not one that I know. I stare at the screen, hating the effect it’s having on me, the way it’s making my heart race. What if it’s the private investigator?
I press the green icon, accepting the call.
‘Ms Dawson?’ It’s a man’s voice and I’m about to cut him off when I realise it isn’t Thomas Grainger.
‘Yes,’ I say curtly, because it has to be Ben.
‘Ms Dawson, it’s Ben Forbes, from Redwoods. I’ve just had Ginny on the phone and I wanted to phone you myself. I hope that’s alright?’
‘Yes, it’s fine, I just want to get to the bottom of this, I want to know how we’ve ended up living in a house where a woman was murdered.’
‘I know it must have come as a shock to you,’ he says, echoing Thomas Grainger’s words.
‘You can say that again,’ I say fiercely, because it’s obvious he knew. ‘Surely you should have told Leo, even if you weren’t legally obliged to?’
‘Can I ask how you found out?’
‘A neighbour told me,’ I invent, because he doesn’t need to know about the private investigator. ‘Anyway, why does it matter how I found out? We should have found out from you.’
‘Can I ask – have you spoken to Mr Curtis?’
‘No, he’s at work. He’s going to be devastated, because there’s no way we can live here now. I hope you realise that.’
‘I think you should phone Mr Curtis, Ms Dawson.’
‘I will, once I know why you didn’t tell him about the murder.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Dawson, but Mr Curtis already has the facts. He knew the history of the house before he made his offer. He knew why it had stood empty for over a year, why it was cheaper than it should have been.’ He pauses, giving me time to absorb what he’s saying. ‘When he came back with his offer, I asked him if he was sure you were alright with it, because although we had a few couples who agreed to view the house, they said they wouldn’t feel comfortable living there. Mr Curtis assured me that you were fine with it, that you were willing to overlook its history because it meant you’d be able to keep your cottage – in Sussex, I believe?’ Another pause. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Dawson, but you really need to talk to Mr Curtis.’