Читать книгу The Perfect Neighbours: A gripping psychological thriller with an ending you won’t see coming - Rachel Sargeant, Rachel Sargeant - Страница 12

Sunday, 2 May

Mel’s heart raced when the Barton couple at number 1 stepped out of their front door with their pack of yapping spaniels. But they turned left onto the main street, the dogs pulling against their leads to sniff the grass verge. Mel sighed with relief and knelt by Chris’s car to continue cleaning the tyres.

“Guten Tag,” a voice said, hard and guttural.

The young man was gaunt, scruffy-looking. He must have come from the copse that ran between their cul-de-sac and the one behind. She’d seen him once before, hanging around the edge of the wood, and she’d stayed indoors until he’d walked off. Now he squatted beside her and said something in German.

She didn’t know what he said, but she could smell him, taste him, tobacco. She leapt to her feet and felt her skin draw bone-white. Black dots floated in front of her eyes.

He stood up and put his hand in his jacket. She flinched. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, opened it and offered her one. She stepped further away, her eyes darting between the man and the packet. She wished Chris was here; he’d know what to do.

The man shrugged, lit a cigarette for himself and pocketed the pack.

What now? She was working a cotton bud between her fingers. Her fists were tensed in front of her although she knew she’d be no match if he got nasty.

He pointed at the cotton bud. “You British won’t get your wheels dirty.”

A deep heat rose up her throat and she felt dizzy. Hearing him speak English made him more threatening.

He ran his fingernails over the bonnet, not quite hard enough to leave a scratch. “Expensive car,” he said. “You like driving it?”

He stared at her. The cold intensity of his eyes pushed her into answering. “It’s my husband’s car.”

But she wished she hadn’t; her response only made him ask something else. “Where does he drive you?” He drummed his fingers on the bonnet and turned them into a fist when she didn’t answer. “To the Rhineland?”

She watched his fist and shook her head.

“Or the Mosel or the Sauerland? Or the Black Forest or the Ahr Valley?” He fired off the place names like bullets.

She carried on shaking her head. When would this end?

“You must go somewhere.”

“I …” she faltered.

His eyes narrowed and he snarled: “Or is only England good enough?”

She flushed crimson, panic rising. The man looked unstable; she’d have to say something. How was she going to get away? She couldn’t run into the house; he’d see where she lived. Maybe if she’d accepted the cigarette, he’d have stalked back to the copse and left her alone. Her refusal had made him angry.

“We go to Austria, to the Grossglockner, in spring. The Whitsun holidays.” She held her breath. Why had she said all that?

His eyes pierced her, made her shake. It was better when he spoke. Why was he silent?

“The neighbours. We go with the neighbours,” she blurted out.

A dog barked up the street, the couple returning with the spaniels. The man darted into the trees and disappeared.