The bedroom window, p.1
The Bedroom Window, page 1
THE BEDROOM WINDOW
A COMPLETELY GRIPPING AND TWISTY PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER
K.L. SLATER
CONTENTS
Prologue
One Month Earlier
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Hear More from K.L. Slater
Books by K.L. Slater
A Letter from K.L. Slater
Acknowledgements
To Francesca Kim
‘By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness’
—Pablo Neruda
PROLOGUE
She squeezes the rust-coloured liquid from the mop and steps back from the bucket to survey her work. The floor shines beautifully under the weak rays of sunlight that arrow in through the expanse of glass in the ceiling atrium, illuminating the entire entrance hallway like a divine light. Glossy porcelain tiles like this are stunning but every smear shows, and they are a devil to clean. Especially today.
She empties the dirty water down the sink and refills the bucket with fresh lemon suds. It helps mask the metallic smell, although it’s impossible to eliminate it completely on a first clean. She carries the mop and full bucket through to the master bedroom and looks around at all the blood.
A symphony of claret patterns the arctic walls and floor. Initially, there seems to be a pleasing rhythm to it – like an abstract art installation – but, on closer inspection, the awful authenticity of the blood spray becomes all too apparent.
It’s those coagulated knots that stand proud of the smooth, white plaster. The jelly-like consistency that allows the viscous body fluid to cling to the vertical surfaces like glue. This is a horror that cannot be faked and it’s going to take a great deal of elbow grease to remove every speck.
She’s left the most taxing job until last. The master bedroom is the worst affected and it takes her over an hour to thoroughly clean it and change the bedding. Finally, she bags up all the stained and spoiled items and throws open the windows, allowing herself a moment to stand on the balcony and inhale the fresh, salty tang of sea air.
She strips off her soiled clothes and adds them to the disposal bag before heading for the rainforest shower in the family bathroom with its gold taps and immaculate marble surfaces. The scalding rush of water blasts all the filth from her skin and hair and she relishes the cleansing sight of it disappearing down the plughole. A fluffy bath sheet dries her skin quickly and she dresses in the freshly laundered clothes she brought with her.
The lounge and its panoramic glass wall showcase the North Sea in all its glory. She steps out onto the south-facing balcony and watches as the waves whip the sheer rock face, spewing forth in a flurry of hissing white spray.
She turns her face into a cutting gust of wind that blows straight in from the ocean. She relishes the sting, a balm to her devastating loss.
She’d always known something was wrong, here at Seaspray House. She’d known, almost from the very moment they’d arrived, that the day would come when everyone finally saw the truth. The day the terrible secret was revealed. She’d felt it building like a knotted rope slowly tightening around her neck. So in some ways, what happened was no surprise.
Still, never, not in a million years, had she expected it all to end like this.
ONE MONTH EARLIER
ONE
LOTTIE
SATURDAY
The old red Fiat’s engine strains as it trundles up the hill and I wind down the window to let a little cool sea air into the stuffy interior.
‘It’s freezing, Mum,’ Albie instantly complains. He still looks pale after a recent chest infection and so I roll it back up a couple of inches.
Neil twists round in the passenger seat, shivering for effect. ‘You’d better get used to the cold, buddy. Doesn’t look as if the wind and drizzle keep many people in around here.’
Albie stares down the hillside at the people milling around on Whitsend beach, a wide and long expanse of sand just a couple of miles from the more popular resort of Whitby, a seaside town situated at the mouth of the River Esk. I have memories of visiting there as a little girl from our modest little house about an hour’s drive inland from here.
‘Looks quite chilly today to say it’s the middle of May,’ Neil adds, eyeing the dog walkers wrapped up against the biting wind. Like a lot of people, we’d always fostered a dream of living at the coast. It was always sunny and warm in our imagination when we talked about it, though, in that way you made your dream life the best it could be.
Neil used to be someone who enjoyed being outside whatever the weather. Even after twelve-hour days in the summer, he’d get home and say, ‘It feels like I’m getting paid for doing something I love.’ Soon as he got a bit of spare time, he’d be off-road cycling around the woods and tracks surrounding our home.
It’s almost two years since Neil had a serious accident at work. An accident that changed the direction of our lives.
Neil had instantly lost the use of his legs and his left arm. Doctors had told him to prepare for the fact there was a real possibility there might be permanent paralysis. The shock had ricocheted through our small family unit. I’d allowed my temporary contract as part-time admin assistant to lapse at the local school. We’d decided to tell Albie the truth about his dad’s injuries to try and prepare him for the challenging, life-changing possibilities that might come our way.
When he’d started his recovery, Neil had spent a lot of time pottering around in the house looking for things to fix. He’d developed a penchant for restoration-type shows.
He had a slight limp for a while and the grip of his left hand is still weaker than it was, but if you didn’t know it, it’s not that obvious. He’s still a ruggedly handsome man who has the power to get my heart racing.
Everything we’ve been through in the last couple of years channels through my mind. Neil’s depression, the hopeless trapped feeling I often woke up to in the early hours. Not to mention our mounting debt. It’s all thankfully behind us now.
Yes, there are people back in Nottingham we’ll miss. I have a couple of friends I’ll be sorry to let go, but it’s been a long time since we’ve met up socially anyway because of Neil’s long period of recuperation.
Albie has had lots of problems at school during this past year and frankly, I’m relieved he’s got the chance of starting a new school.
‘According to Google, we’re almost there.’ Neil frowns at his phone screen and then the narrow road in front of us.
‘Can’t see a turning yet,’ I murmur. ‘Are you sure you put the right postcode in?’
Neil places the phone on his lap. ‘Yes, Lottie, I put the correct postcode in. Do I win a prize?’
I don’t dignify his easy sarcasm with an answer. He never used to be like this; it’s something I’ve noticed since the accident. I do worry sometimes about the effect it may have on Albie, who has witnessed the undercurrent of Neil’s frustration on a daily basis.
As we climb higher still, I grip the wheel and glance back down towards the swathe of pale sand with its scattering of dog walkers, runners and families. All of them undeterred by the weather and larking around in the surf. I can remember the feel of salt on my skin and the sand scratching between my toes after a day trip to the beach: a flashback of my mum peeling off a cold, damp cossie and roughly rubbing my skinny damp body with a towel before the long journey on the bus back home.
Just when I think the sputtering car is finally going to give up the ghost, the hillside mercifully flattens out and Neil silently directs me to turn left, onto an unmade road.
The track bends to the right and, suddenly, a small, dark building looms up out of nowhere. Here it is: the estate cottage, the accommodation that comes with the job. The stone is damp and dark, the windows small and crooked. It looks… different than in the advert where it had appeared cosier, more welcoming.
‘That’s the cottage?’ Albie pipes up in the back, clearly unimpressed. I’d shown him the photograph of the exterior and we’d i magined how his bedroom might look. Our vision was tidier and much brighter than the reality.
Albie has got a point. The cottage doesn’t look much bigger than one of those old-fashioned outdoor coal houses, but then as I manoeuvre the car out wider and come to a stop in front of it, I can see it’s actually a reasonable size.
I glance at Neil and turn off the engine, unclicking my seatbelt. He’s out of the car before I can ask him what his first impression is.
‘Can you let me out, Mum?’ Albie says, straining to see which direction his dad is walking off in.
I open the car door to release the broken child lock that’s permanently stuck on and Albie is out in an instant. ‘You’re going to need your jacket on,’ I call, but my cautionary words are carried away by the wind as he runs off at full pelt to join Neil.
As I get closer to our new home, my heart sinks. The once-white plaster on the walls is grubby and, in places, flaking off, exposing the brickwork beneath. The roof is coated with a layer of spongy, dark-green moss, several clumps of which have fallen off in messy splodges on the cracked, uneven path. The photos Neil had shown me had obviously been taken some years ago when the property was in better shape.
‘There was work being carried out on the cottage, so I didn’t get to see inside,’ he’d told me after his visit to Seaspray for a face-to-face interview. ‘But it looks great from a distance.’
I shove my hands into the pockets of my fleece and keep my head down against the wind. I don’t want to look at Neil. I can well imagine his internal dialogue right now, questioning why he’d ever thought this was a good idea. Why I’d encouraged him to go for a job he’d thought was too good for him.
After spending several months seeking work in Nottingham with no luck at all, I’d sensed Neil was fast losing faith that he was ever going to get a position. He’d run his own successful building business for years, but that didn’t translate to the kind of experience most people wanted in an employee. He posted his CV on various job sites and one day when he’d been especially grumpy and low, an agency that specialised in premium-end landscaping and gardening jobs in the North had spotted his details. They’d contacted him and told him they only recruited for qualified and highly experienced staff. Both boxes Neil ticked many times over.
When they’d told him about the rare opportunity that had become available at the Seaspray Estate in North Yorkshire, although there was no address given, the photograph of its stunning clifftop position soon gave its location away. Neil couldn’t believe his luck. If successful, he would have a full complement of staff and his role would be largely management duties.
I’d googled Seaspray Estate the day the agency approached Neil. The website had launched with sweeping drone footage of the extensive grounds. There didn’t look to be a blade of grass out of place and I’d felt a sense of pride that Neil would work tirelessly to keep the grounds looking fabulous.
I’d clicked through the various pages on the website including ‘About us’. The photographs showed some of the dazzling array of flowers in the summertime but, disappointingly, no photographs of people. Finally on the ‘Contact us’ page, I’d spotted a small, non-expandable photograph of an older man standing in the middle of a flower bed leaning on a spade. He wore a flat cap and held a mug of tea aloft as if he were saying ‘Cheers!’ I’d instinctively known this must be Tom, the retired head gardener Neil had been told about.
Neil had already said that Neeta and Ted, the owners of Seaspray House, seemed very private people, but I was surprised they didn’t appear at all on the website.
I’d googled ‘Ted and Neeta Williams’ and there were plenty of links to articles mentioning their charitable donations in the town. When I’d clicked on images, only a couple of photos came up. One was tagged as ‘Neeta and Ted Williams of Whitsend Bay’. In both, Neeta was looking down slightly with just a small smile on her face, and Ted had covered half his face with his hand. In one he pinched the top of his nose; in the other, coughing and covering his mouth at the exact moment the camera had clicked. It had seemed odd and yet… maybe it wasn’t odd. Maybe they just didn’t like their pictures being taken, which was fair enough.
Neil had applied and within days had secured an initial interview via Zoom with a recruitment consultant. It had given him a real boost of confidence. The interview had gone well, and, within a week, the consultant had called him back. ‘They want you to go up to Seaspray for a face-to-face interview, Neil,’ she’d told him. ‘Is that doable?’
Following a train journey to York where Neil had met with Ted Williams and been taken to the estate for his interview and tour, the job was offered to him. In the space of a week, he’d gone from little or no job prospects to landing the position of his dreams.
And now, here we are.
I can hear Albie talking excitably. My son looks over at me and beams and I’m gratified his pale face seems to have gained a little colour.
‘Dad says he’ll put up a basketball net for me at the side of the house, Mum!’
‘First impressions, I think the cottage could be really special.’ Neil sweeps an arm around. ‘Look at these views! With a bit of time and effort, I reckon I could transform this place. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for.’ When Albie runs to the bottom of the small garden, Neil moves closer to me, tucking a wisp of escaped hair behind my ear. His fingers linger there, tracing the soft skin beneath my jaw. His touch sends a little frisson of pleasure down my neck. It’s been so, so long since we’ve enjoyed the physical closeness I used to take for granted. Another consequence of his accident. ‘I feel like we can rebuild our lives here, Lottie. Do you feel it, too?’
I swallow and nod, my eyes pinned to his. It feels like such a mountain to climb, to get back what we had but… in this moment, it seems to me that Neil believes we can achieve it.
He pulls me closer to him, the warmth of his body enveloping mine. I glance over his shoulder at the cottage, taking in the cracked windowpanes, the missing roof tiles and the broken handle on the front door. I know Neil is very capable when it comes to DIY, there’s no doubt about that.
‘Wow, look!’ Albie’s shrill voice cuts through the air from the bottom of the garden and we pull apart to see. He’s peering through a sparse screen of conifers at the end of the garden, parting the ferny leaves to reveal an enormous property perched a little higher up on top of the hill. ‘That’s a really cool place, like in a movie or something.’
‘There she is,’ Neil murmurs, as they walk down to Albie. ‘Seaspray House.’
It looks so much more imposing in real life than on the Google searches I’ve done. I place my hands on my son’s shoulders from behind and take in the vast swathe of glass and metal that forms the property. It perches on the top of the hillside, brilliant, white and majestic. The front and upstairs of the house are sheer glass. The light is reflecting on it, obscuring our view. But I think it must look magnificent when it’s lit up at night.
‘That’s where your dad is going to be working,’ I tell Albie. ‘Impressive, eh?’
I see movement at an upstairs window. ‘Ooh look, there’s someone up there watching us.’ I point.
Neil squints. ‘I can’t see anyone.’
‘I definitely saw someone… I thought I did. Or a shadow of someone…’ We stand and watch for a moment.
