Page 90 of The Psychopath Next Door

‘They’ve stalled it,’ she said aloud. ‘They’ve bloody stalled it!’

Of all the stupid drivers in south London, why did Fiona and Maisie have to get stuck behind this one? Why wasn’t the Land Rover moving? What the hell was the driver doing? The lights were about to change again. Fiona tried to pull out to the left, to manoeuvre her way past the bloody Chelsea tractor, squeeze through, but there was no room. A bus had pulled up beside them now, just two feet away, and a teenage boy stared at her through the window, so close she could see his zits.

She leaned on the horn, even though she knew this would only put more pressure on the person ahead, fluster them further and render them less likely to get the car started. The cars behind were hitting their horns too, and the police lights were still flashing, turning the raindrops on the windscreen blue, and then she saw it. As the traffic light turned red, she watched both front doors of each of the police cars open behind her, and a mix of uniformed and plainclothes police started making their way through the stationary traffic towards them.

She opened her door, ready to run, but Maisie didn’t move.

‘Let’s be dignified,’ Maisie said, and then a cop, a man with a patchy beard, was tapping on her window.

It was too late.

As they were arrested, standing in the street with the rain beating down on them, drivers rolling down their windows to stare, Fiona concentrated on the licence plate of the Land Rover. She still couldn’t see the driver properly, rain obscuring the reflection in the wing mirrors and making it too difficult to see clearly through the rear windscreen.

She memorised the number plate, repeating it over and over so it would be there the moment she got access to a pen and piece of paper.

She watched the traffic lights change as the cop read her rights. This time the Land Rover’s driver didn’t stall. This time they sailed through the lights and across the junction.

It made her even more enraged.

Even more determined to get revenge.

It wasn’t until three years later, when Maisie had been dead for a long time, and Fiona was on probation after being let out of Franklin Grange, that she was able to find out the name and address of the person who had owned the Land Rover, though it had changed hands since.

The owner in 2019 was Ethan Dove.

She got the information from the same friendly civilian member of staff at the police station who had tipped her off before they got arrested, Kia. Ethan Dove didn’t even know what he had done, might not have even followed the news story about these two women who had attempted to defraud and murder an elderly lady. But that didn’t make Fiona hate him any less.

Once she had the name and address, it was easy to keep track of Ethan Dove. She found his social media accounts, which led her to his shop. She went in a couple of times, browsing through the vinyl, the appeal of which she would never understand – well, apart from the monetary value. Through his social media accounts she learned the names of Ethan’s wife and kids. And she bided her time. She couldn’t afford to risk getting into any kind of trouble while she was on probation, and she kept having to check in with her probation officer, which restricted her movements.

By the time Fiona’s probationary period ended, the Doves had moved house; and, after trawling back through Ethan’s Twitter and Instagram accounts, she had found out some interesting, surprisingstuff – one or two facts that made a significant difference to her plan, in fact. Then something else happened: Fiona had followed Ethan home one day – he always left the record shop at the same time – and there, next to the new-build semi they had moved into, was another brand-new home with a ‘For Sale’ sign outside.

Fiona didn’t hesitate. She had the money Maisie had left her, enough to buy this house outright with some left over to keep her going for a couple of years. She had already come up with a new backstory. She was a single woman who had worked in banking and who was going to return to that industry soon. She was going to befriend the Dove family and figure out the best form of vengeance – something that would scratch the itch that had tormented her for years. Because the loathing she felt for the driver of that Land Rover was even greater than her hatred of Patrick and Max. It was the stupid randomness of it, the sheer incompetence which had led to Fiona’s arrest and Maisie’s death. They would have got away, she was sure of it.

There was something else, too, that made her decide to put more energy into this act of vengeance than the others. When she looked at them – Ethan and Emma and Dylan and Rose, plus their dog – she saw this happy, normal family, like the one she’d never been part of. They were the epitome of normal. And when she looked at their perfection, she wanted to destroy it.

It would be a fun, deeply satisfying project.

But what Fiona didn’t expect was Rose. The first time Fiona met the girl, it confused and excited her in equal measure. She didn’t believe in fate or destiny. It was luck, that was all. Great luck, for both Fiona and Rose. And bad luck for Ethan and Emma.

Now, she had tested Rose. She had educated her, trained her, made her understand what she was. She had seen how Rose reacted to pressure.

Rose had already smashed her way out of her chrysalis.

Now it was time for her to prove she could fly.

33

Wednesday morning and Rebel Records was heaving, the aisles crammed with the usual mix of middle-aged men purchasing deluxe reissues of albums they’d loved when they were young, and the new generation of record buyers, many of whom were buying classics too. Fleetwood Mac, The Cure, Marvin Gaye. It was the busiest we’d been since Record Store Day in the spring, almost as if everyone was doing their Christmas shopping three months early.

It didn’t matter that business was booming, though. My insides were still twisted with anxiety after our encounter with Tommy the night before. This morning I’d woken up to find that Emma was already in her sports kit and on her way out for a run. I’d asked her if we could talk and she said, ‘Tonight.’ Her tone was ominous, like it was going to be a serious conversation. Before I could say anything more, she headed out and I watched her run up the road, towards the footpath where Albie had come off his bike, and the fields beyond. Watching her go, I felt a surge of emotion. I had been convinced I was going to lose her, had done something stupid then compounded that mistake by not being honest about it. This evening, I decided, I would tell her everything.

As she’d vanished from sight, I had looked across the street to Iris’s place. She’d be on her way to Canada now, to see her son andgrandchildren. I was happy for her; it was just a shame she’d gone before remembering where she knew Fiona from.

I had just sold a copy of the new Madonna box set when I heard a male voice say, ‘Dad.’

The customer stepped out of the way and I saw my son standing there.

‘Dylan. I didn’t know you were in town.’

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