Behind a Closed Door (The Estate, Book 2) (3 page)

Josie smiled. ‘That’s my USP,’ she said, leading the way to the newly refurbished room.

‘Your what?’

Josie grinned, feeling awkward. ‘My unique selling point. It’s just had a makeover. You’ll be the first one to pee in the toilet – unless the workmen beat you to it.’

As Josie made her short trip home at the end of the day, she couldn’t get Kelly Winterton out of her head. It seemed a peculiar set-up, Kelly and Scott. Most couples on the Mitchell Estate who committed benefit fraud claimed they were living at separate addresses so that they could each get their hands on a single parent allowance. 41 Patrick Street had been set up as if Kelly didn’t exist and it seemed intentional. But Kelly did exist. And she said Scott loved her. It didn’t ring true to Josie.

She sat in the small queue of cars waiting for the traffic lights to turn green, all the time thinking that Kelly didn’t seem right for the girlfriend of a thief. It was as if she’d given in to life at an early age. Yet she certainly seemed to love Scott, so did he owe her in some way? Josie made a mental note to find out more background information about the couple.

The outside light shone brightly when she pulled into the driveway. Home for Mr and Mrs Mellor was a semi-detached house in a quiet, leafy cul-de-sac that Josie had been left in her mother’s will. Inside, the pampas bathroom suite and drab, wooden kitchen units had been swapped for white enamels, chrome fittings and natural woods. Oppressive, worn carpets had been replaced with wooden flooring and rugs
.
Curtains that had hung at the single-glazed windows for years had been ripped down and, in their place, coloured-blinds and tag-topped linen had been put up, now in front of double-glazed units.

It still hadn’t made the house into a home though.

‘Finally, you’re back.’ Stewart’s voice came booming from the kitchen as she walked through the front door.

Josie’s heart sank at his tone. She pulled off her coat and decided to ignore it.

‘Have you had anything to eat yet?’ she asked him.

Stewart came from out of the shadows, his eyes as dark as his mood. ‘Thought I’d wait for you. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back.’

Josie moved past him and into the kitchen, sighing loudly as she looked around the worktops. A knife stood erect in the butter tub, a dirty plate next to it and the bread by its side, fallen slices left out in the air. On the kitchen table, three mugs congregated around an empty crisp packet.

‘You must realise how time flies when you’re in all afternoon,’ she replied as she set about tidying the room. ‘Couldn’t you at least clean up after yourself?’

Stewart gathered together the dishes and dumped them into the kitchen sink. ‘It’s not worth washing three mugs and a plate. You can do them after tea. What are we having, by the way?’

‘It’ll have to be something from the freezer, I suppose. I didn’t have time to do any shopping today.’

Josie had planned to go to the supermarket to stock up during her lunch break, but an alleged complaint about a dangerous dog had come in that had taken an age to sort out. The tenant had insisted she call the police, which she wouldn’t do before investigating further. Josie had to take both sides into consideration before she made a decision as to who was in the wrong. She’d arranged to see the dog’s owner tomorrow to get their account. It was something she wasn’t looking forward to: the owner’s bark was far worse than the dog’s.

‘Not again.’ Stewart sounded in pain. ‘Why can’t you come home earlier and cook something interesting? Like shepherd’s pie or roast chicken and all the trimmings. You used to cook all the time.’

‘All the time was when you would have been appreciative of it. Don’t you realise that I work long hours, too?’ Josie ferociously squeezed washing up liquid into the bowl and ran the hot water. ‘Oh yeah, of course you do. You’re always quick to rub that in my face.’

Almost sullenly, Stewart pushed past her. ‘I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll be on my computer. Shout me when it’s ready.’

‘Stewart! Wait!’ Josie called out, the compassionate side of her refusing to give up. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s
wrong
?’ he repeated her question with a sneer. ‘As soon as you get home, you start moaning at me. The minute you walk through the door, it’s ‘why haven’t you done this, Stewart’ or ‘did you remember to do that, Stewart’. I can’t understand why though because you never do anything for me. You can’t even cook something for me! Instead I have to make do with supermarket ready-meal garbage.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Josie retaliated. ‘You finished work at half past two; you could have gone to the shops this afternoon. You could have prepared some vegetables. You could have put a chicken in to roast so that I could finish off when I got in.’ She pointed to the worktop. ‘And you could have tidied this mess up, so that I don’t have to. There are two of us in this marriage.’

‘You’re always coming home later than you say,’ Stewart added, ignoring her jibes. ‘You seem to think that job of yours is far more important than me.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ Josie snapped. ‘You know I like to come home as soon as I can.’

‘To your house, not to me.’

‘No, I –’

With him scuttling out of the room after slamming the door, things suddenly became brighter again. Josie rummaged in the cupboards for something to lessen his bad mood. At the same time, she couldn’t help thinking that surely some women must be welcomed home with a meal on the table, a bottle of wine chilling and good conversation every night. Why did she always feel as though she’d be coming home and treading on eggshells? It seemed worse than being at work sometimes.

Half an hour later, Stewart emerged in the doorway again, smelling clean and fresh. At five-foot ten, he stood eight inches taller than Josie, but she often felt like it was eighteen as he towered over her. Thin build, with the beginnings of a paunch on his stomach, his fair hair hung down in waves and always looked as if it could do with a good styling. But then who was she to criticize? Josie’s brown hair was two different colours due to the blonde dye that she had fatefully tried out last year. It may tumble down below her shoulders but she hadn’t the heart to get it dyed again. Neither was it worth hearing Stewart moaning about her wasting yet more money stripping it back to its natural colour professionally. Still, she supposed it didn’t look too bad when it was tied up.

‘I’m going out,’ he informed her, grabbing his jacket from off the chair.

‘But I’ve put some pasta on to cook! I remembered I bought some mince the other day. I’m making spaghetti bolognaise.’

‘Can’t be bothered to wait.’

‘But… where are you going?’

‘I told you – out.’

‘Don’t go, Stewart!’ Josie cried. ‘Please wait.’

The door slammed shut behind him.

‘Piss off, then!’ she shouted in frustration. ‘See if I care.’

CHAPTER THREE

The following morning, Josie picked up her folder, fastened the zip on her work coat and stepped out of her car into Clarence Avenue. The January weather was continuing its cold snap and she pulled the collar in close to her neck, praying that Amy Cartwright would be in this time. Even though the appointment was pre-arranged, Amy often forgot she was coming.

The young girl that came to the door didn’t look any older than thirteen, but in reality she was nineteen. Unfortunately, her mental age was still that of a thirteen-year-old when she’d been taken advantage of.

By the state of her appearance, it didn’t look like she was coping very well this week. The heavily-built teenager’s face was fraught, her dark hair was unkempt, her eyes downcast. Most of her six-month-old son’s breakfast had found its way down the front of her pyjamas.

‘Hi, Amy.’ Josie changed her worried face to a cheery one. ‘Had a late start this morning?’

‘Reece kept me awake all night,’ Amy explained tearfully. ‘He won’t stop crying.’

‘Let me take a look, see if I can figure out what’s bothering him.’

Josie followed her through into the lounge. Her shoulders sagged at the state of it. Amy and the baby didn’t have much in the way of clothing, but every piece of it seemed to be littering the floor. A disgruntled Reece was propped up on the settee, with a cushion under his arm to stop him falling.

‘You need to put some of your clothes away,’ Josie said matter-of-factly. ‘Can you fold them up into a neat pile on the armchair for me first, please?’ Amy obliged and Josie picked up the baby. ‘Hey, little man,’ she soothed. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’ve fed him this morning,’ Amy spoke out, defensively. ‘And I’ve changed him twice because he had a really stinky nappy.’

‘He’s probably cutting a tooth. I’m sure there’s nothing else wrong with him.’

‘But why doesn’t he stop crying?’

Josie played teacher again. ‘Have you ever had a bad tooth, Amy?’

‘Yeah, loads. My dad said I ate too many toffees when I was a baby.’

Josie nodded. Baby Reece seemed fine to her. Although she didn’t profess to be a midwife, she suspected he was just being a bit grouchy because he’d missed his sleep. His cheeks were tinged with red, he didn’t feel exceedingly warm to the touch, he was dry and he’d been fed. She laid him back down on the settee and reached for his rattle.

‘He’s tired because he’s been kept awake by the pain of his teeth coming through. Why don’t you try him with a bit of teething gel and see if he settles then?’

Amy went through to the kitchen and Josie followed her. Apart from a small pile of dishes in the sink, the room was cluttered but clean. Josie opened the larder door and checked its contents; it was full of mostly canned foods, but there were lots of them, so there was no need to make a shopping list yet.

‘How are you feeling this week? What did the doctor say about your asthma?’

‘He gave me another inhaler.’ Amy pulled it from her pyjama pocket. ‘It’s purple.’

Josie smiled at her innocence. Amy was still a child, looking after her own. Because she wouldn’t tell her parents who Reece’s father was, let alone Josie, Amy’s father had thrown her out onto the streets. Josie had tried to talk him round but to no avail, and Amy had been put into a small flat in Clarence Avenue, on the opposite side of the estate from everyone she knew. Her mum, afraid of what her husband would do to her, visited on the quiet every now and then, but other than her, Amy had no one to turn to. What a position to be in – nineteen, no family contact, no partner to help her, no future to look forward to. Still, if Josie made a difference to one young mum on the estate, it was something. Job satisfaction, she would call it.

Once Reece had been placated, Josie pulled out a blank to-do list and started to fill it in. Amy needed to pay an instalment on her electricity bill, sort her dirty washing into two piles ready to load, and take Reece to the clinic. She also wanted her to join in with the mothers’ and toddlers’ group on Friday over at the community house, a neighbourhood one-stop shop run by volunteers from the estate. Surprisingly, Amy was willing to give it a go this week. Shyness usually stopped her.

Confident that everything was in hand, Josie made her way to her next call. Charlotte Hatfield was twenty-three and had four children under the age of five. She also had a violent partner she’d fled from several times, and was currently hiding out on the estate. Josie had seen Charlotte twice already but was finding it hard to break down the barriers.

Charlotte came to the door, cigarette in one hand, baby held firmly in the other. Like Amy, she was wearing pyjamas. Her greasy hair hung limp, the bags under her eyes as dark as liquorice. The skin from her bottom lip was peeling off.

Charlotte didn’t speak, just left the door open for Josie to follow her. The living room they went into was sparsely furnished, with a tatty settee, chair and coffee table that Josie had managed to find for her, and bare plastered walls that had yet to be decorated. Two large windows were at either end of the room, but only one set of curtains had been pulled apart. In the middle of the floor, the twins – four-year-old boys – raced cars along the bare floorboards. Two-year-old Joshua sat at his mum’s feet.

‘Shift out of my way, Callum,’ said Charlotte. ‘Jake, stop screeching at the top of your bloody voice, will you?’

‘How are things?’ Josie sat down on a stripy deckchair that would be better placed outside in the garden. She gathered together her paperwork and opened Charlotte’s file. As she looked up, she noticed the remainder of a black eye. Charlotte’s hair hid most of the bruising, but it could clearly be seen when she turned to face her more.

‘Okay,’ Charlotte answered. She sat down on the worn settee, resting the baby to the side of her chest.

‘Has Nathan been in touch?’

‘No!’

‘Then how did you get that bruise?’

‘I fell.’

Josie raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’

Charlotte glared at her. ‘I told you, didn’t I? Don’t you believe me?’

‘Well –’

‘He’s not been here, okay? But he’ll find me eventually. He always does.’

‘Then how did you get the injury?’ Josie knew she was pressing things but refused to back down. Sometimes it worked and people opened up to her, sometimes it didn’t and she’d be sent packing, but it was always worth a try.