The Child in the Photo: An absolutely addictive and gripping psychological thriller by Kerry Wilkinson

Author:Kerry Wilkinson [Wilkinson, Kerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781800195035
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2021-06-13T23:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Seven

I park in the centre of Stoneridge, close to Via’s café from the other day, and then check Google Maps to see where I should go next.

There are soft scabs on my arm now – Angel’s handiwork – but I do what I’ve spent all this time attempting to do: ignore her. I’ve got bigger problems anyway.

Nikki’s house is on the very edge of Stoneridge – and, as I follow the route on foot, it quickly becomes clear that there is a separate part of this village that’s almost part of another place, perhaps another world. Away from the postcard High Street and Britain in Bloom signs, there’s a housing estate over the river and up a hill. From the High Street, it’s a glowing emerald mound of hillock and trees, except, hidden behind is a sprawl of red-brick two-storey flats.

There’s no way they’ve been built in this spot by accident and I can picture planning meetings where social housing had been demanded. Council busybodies worried about their house prices would have zoned a secluded spot well away from the village’s picturesque ideal. Those social houses could be built – with the proviso that nobody actually had to look at them.

The two-storey row of flats immediately behind the trees is ugly and blocky: all right angles and dirt-coated guttering. The hum of somebody’s god-awful music is being drowned out by someone else’s god-awful revving of an engine. A giant phallus has been graffitied on a garage door and then ‘cock’ written underneath, just in case it’s not clear what it is. I keep walking and it’s a world away from my own cosy existence a few miles along the road.

It’s another couple of minutes until I arrive at a row of squat terraced houses. They all share the same mucky double-glazing, plus tiny patches of land at the front, most of which have cars parked across.

And then I’m there.

I tell myself it’s only a front door. I’ve opened the one that leads into my house thousands of times. I’ve knocked on them, or rung their doorbells over and over. Except there’s hardly ever been a time when I was not sure what to expect from the other side.

Nikki’s front door used to be white. There’s a card stuck to the inside of the glass that reads ‘NO PAPERS’ and then a smaller one next to it with ‘NO SOLICITORS’. At first, I figure it’s somewhat specific but then I realise she probably means ‘no soliciting’. Or, perhaps, I was right the first time.

There’s no doorbell, so I knock hard on the glass and then wait. I eye the scab on my arm as I’m again very aware of my heartbeat. It’s as if it’s counting the moments that the door goes unanswered.

A minute passes, or at least that’s how it feels. There’s no answer and no movement and so I knock a second time. This brings an almost instant reaction as a woman growls a grumpy: ‘I’m not buying anything!’ from inside.

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