The Missing Guest by Diana Wilkinson

Author:Diana Wilkinson [Wilkinson, Diana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

I check the Google map on the dashboard and enlarge the display. Alex lives on the south side of St Albans, about a mile from the M25 junction. ‘It’s perfect commuter belt,’ he bragged. ‘Twenty minutes to Kings Cross and less than five minutes to the motorway.’ The location of his house, with its speedy links to elsewhere, ticked his boxes. The pull of nature, rambling trails and peaceful countryside, a few miles further north, hadn’t appealed. ‘I can pop to country pubs at the weekend. Weekdays, it’s all about making money and keeping up.’ Chalk and cheese from Rihanna.

I manoeuvre across the main thoroughfare into the slip road which leads to a white-painted housing estate, 1970s with wooden facias, wooden fences and wooden residents. The road curves round and properties become grander, fancy worded plaques replacing rusting numbers on individual properties.

I slow to a crawl, nervy but alert in case Alex’s plans have changed. My suggestion last night when he called, to meet for lunch, has been pencilled in for Friday; he couldn’t do today as he’s due up in London with clients.

‘I’m sorry. I’d have loved to meet tomorrow but hope Friday works. I’m missing you.’

His husky voice schmoozes down the phone, like foreplay, teasing with promise. Alex’s patience and apparent acceptance to keep things platonic for a while longer are earning him brownie points, helping to bolster my slim belief that we might have a chance at something serious.

Alex lives at number fifty-four. I count along, desperately looking out for random numbers in place of name signs to let me know if I’m getting close. Trees, ancient, gnarled specimens whose trunks are encased by huge uneven paving slabs, line the street. The detached houses possess a medley of design; varying shapes, sizes and random extensions stamp individuality on the properties. A bungalow nestles alongside a gated mansion, and suddenly three identical timber-framed Swedish-style homes appear to break up the raggedy pattern.

A little further on I pull up outside a house with a gold-plated number 54 attached to a gatepost. The house reminds me of a child’s drawing. A regular square facade, four rectangular windows and a large white front door bang centre. The area to the front of the house is paved in criss-cross blockwork, and two large terracotta pots planted with enormous fir trees sit either side of the porch. Elisa probably strings fairy lights round them at Christmas time. I shiver.

There are no cars at the front, but the drive sweeps round the right-hand side of the house where the rear bumper of a blue car juts out. My eyes scan the house for clues, but of what I’m not sure.

The window frames look as if they’ve been recently painted, the blinding white gloss shining in the sunlight. I squint towards the upstairs window which is ajar. Actually, more than ajar; it’s pushed out a significant distance. My heart pumps, as I desperately try to restart the car, turning the key with sweaty fingers. The

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