Those people next door, p.1
Those People Next Door, page 1
Praise for Kia Abdullah
‘With razor-sharp insight into the lives of her characters, Kia Abdullah gives readers much more than a courtroom thriller’
Christina Dalcher, Sunday Times bestselling author of VOX
‘Her writing style and tense courtroom descriptions are a masterpiece… This book landed unexpectedly on my desk, and I’m so grateful to have been introduced to Abdullah’s work. She writes with such intelligence, research and compassion that you feel safe in her hands as her words weave the story’
Daily Record
‘Brilliantly tense, this is another clever page-turner from Kia Abdullah. A nightmare scenario evolves into an engrossing human drama that I couldn’t put down. Just superb’
Louise Hare, This Lovely City
‘A stunning courtroom drama, taut, tantalising, deftly paced, with a denouement that will leave you reeling’
Saga magazine
‘Intense, shocking and so real you can literally feel its heartbeat… the best book I’ve read this year’
Lisa Hall, Between You and Me
‘An excellent and intelligent novel’
The Literary Review
‘The court scenes are pacy and atmospheric, and there is more than one unexpected twist’
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Also by Kia Abdullah
Next of Kin
Truth Be Told
Take It Back
KIA ABDULLAH is a bestselling author and travel writer. Her novels include Take It Back, a Guardian and Telegraph thriller of the year; Truth Be Told, which was shortlisted for the Diverse Book Awards; and Next of Kin, which was longlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger Award. Kia has also been selected for The Times Crime Club.
Kia has written for The New York Times, the Guardian, the Financial Times, The Times and the BBC, and is the founder of Asian Booklist, a non-profit that advocates for diversity in publishing and helps readers discover new books by British Asian authors.
For more information about Kia and her writing, visit her website at kiaabdullah.com, or follow her at @KiaAbdullah on Instagram and Twitter.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023
Copyright © Kia Abdullah 2023
Kia Abdullah asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2023 ISBN: 9780008433703
Version 2022-11-23
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008433680
For my big sis, Shopna, without whom
I would not be a writer
Contents
Cover
Praise
Booklist
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part II
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part III
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgements
Extract
Chapter One
About the Publisher
Part 1
Chapter 1
Salma had always sworn that she would never end up in a place like this. ‘It’s a bit like purgatory,’ she had joked when they first came to see the house in a harried half-hour before work one morning. The estate agent, a hawkish woman with a watchful gaze, had herded them from room to room and Salma had murmured politely, even commenting on this or that ‘lovely feature’ as she and Bilal locked eyes, amusement passing between them.
They had agreed to view it only because there was a gap between their other bookings and the agent had pushed this property. It was in a neat cul-de-sac on the eastern reaches of the Central line. It was built seven years ago, said the agent, and still had the bright, bland feel of a new development. There was a dizzying amount of brickwork and even its name, the mononymous ‘Blenheim’, felt like an artless attempt at class, like petrol stop perfume or ‘Guccci’ shades. Upstairs, out of the agent’s earshot, they had giggled about the perfect lawn.
‘Do you think Neighbourhood Watch will knock down your door if it grows above two inches?’ said Bilal.
Salma fought a smile. ‘We’re being snobby,’ she said but with laughter in her voice.
The agent walked in and the two of them sprang apart like children caught red-handed. She nodded at the window, her silver-brown bob swaying with the motion. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Lovely,’ Salma agreed.
That was six months ago and after close to forty viewings, they had both grown weary. Nothing else matched Blenheim for price, condition, space and safety and so they talked each other into it. Four double bedrooms, said Bilal. And it’s still on the Central line, said Salma. The neat streets and quiet neighbours. If they could set aside their vanity, they could be happy at Blenheim and so they had put in an offer – and here they were, their first week in their new home.
They hadn’t yet met their neighbours but, yesterday, a square of white card appeared on their doormat inviting them to a May Bank Holiday Barbecue. No need to RSVP. Just turn up! it said in jaunty letters. Salma had read it uneasily. She wasn’t an introvert by any means but did find parties tiring. She far preferred to meet new people on a one-to-one basis. Still, they were new here and had to make an effort. Salma had prepared some potato salad and told her son, Zain, that he had no choice but to join them. They approached 13 Blenheim like a trio of soldiers heading into battle. Outside, Salma paused and assessed her husband and son. As she straightened Bilal’s crooked collar, he caught her hand and kissed it.
‘Here goes,’ she said. She rang the bell but no one answered. Music bled from the garden and Salma counted to twenty before she rang again. Zain ventured to the side of the house and pointed at the open side gate. They walked through in single file and hovered at the edge of the gathering. There were about thirty people of varying ages, laughing and milling around. Two men were tending the barbecue, both of them wearing white polo shirts paired with khaki shorts. At first, Salma thought that they were hired staff but realised they were guests. Cheers went up around them as they dished up the first tranche of meat, filling the air with a pleasantly smoky smell.
A woman spotted them and her eyes lit up. ‘You must be the new arrivals!’ she called. She detached herself from the group and pulled Salma into a matronly hug. ‘I’m Linda Turner, the hostess.’
‘Oh hello! I’m Salma. Thank you so much for inviting us.’
‘Bilal,’ her husband introduced himself. He saw the crease of Linda’s brow and promptly added, ‘Call me Bil.’
She brightened. ‘Bill! How wonderful to meet our new neighbours.’ She turned to Zain. ‘And this must be your son. My, what a handsome boy!’
Zain smiled politely. ‘How do you do?’
She whooped with delight. ‘And such manners too!’ She saw the glass bowl in his hands. ‘You didn’t have to bring anything! But thank you.’ She took the bowl and ushered them into the party. ‘What can I get you to drink? We have wine, beer, cider.’ She paused. ‘Or we have fresh lemonade and fruit juice.’
Bil smiled. ‘A lemonade would be lovely – thank you.’
‘Make that three,’ said Salma.
She beamed. ‘Wonderful!’ She smoothly introduced them to their next-door neighbour. ‘This is Tom Hutton. He can give you the lowdown on everyone here.’
Tom greeted them warmly. He was in his mid-forties, muscular beneath a navy polo shirt, and with thick dark hair splayed beneath an orange cap. As he spoke, a young bull terrier bounded up to him. ‘Her name is Lola,’ he said, bending down to pet her. He looked up at Salma . ‘She was a showgirl,’ he deadpanned.
Salma broke into laughter. Tom nodded in approval as if she had passed a test. Lola snuffed at Salma’s feet.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ said Tom.
‘No, not at all. We have a dog too, a lab called Molly.’
‘Oh, that’s great. This is such a dog-friendly neighbourhood. You’re going to love it.’
Linda cut in to hand out drinks. Bil volunteered to help with the barbecue and she happily whisked him away. Zain took his drink to a corner of the garden and busied himself on his phone.
‘So what do you do?’ asked Tom.
‘I’m a teacher,’ said Salma. ‘Geography at a secondary school,’ she added, pre-empting his follow-up question. ‘What about you?’
‘I work in advertising. At Sartre & Sartre.’
‘Oh wow. That must be glamorous.’
‘It can be,’ he said with a grin, enjoying the compliment. ‘And what about Bil?’
Salma felt herself tense. ‘He’s a restaurateur,’ she said, despite the fact that his restaurant, Jakoni’s, had shut down earlier that year.
‘Restaurateur?’ Tom puckered his lips in a show of approval. ‘You must be doing all right then, no?’
Salma looked bemused. ‘I mean, we’re doing okay.’
‘Sorry if that’s rude. I was just wondering how come you got this place then?’ He nodded in the direction of their house.
Salma relaxed, relieved to find that he too was sceptical of Blenheim. She smiled playfully. ‘It’s not so bad, is it? Where else would I find such a pristine collection of lawns?’
Tom frowned. ‘It’s just that I would’ve thought you were above the threshold.’
‘Threshold?’ Salma was confused.
‘For social housing,’ he said.
It dawned on Salma what Tom had really meant: not you’re wealthy so why would you choose to live here but you’re wealthy so why did you get social housing? She shifted awkwardly. ‘We actually bought it privately.’
‘Oh!’ Tom looked mortified. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to assume. In fact, I wasn’t assuming. I was certain that the house next to us was part of the social housing.’ He cringed visibly. ‘I must have been mistaken.’
Salma waved in a show of nonchalance. ‘Ah, if only! It might have saved us a pretty penny.’ Her voice laboured with the effort to put him at ease. She groped for another topic.
‘So what school do you teach at?’ asked Tom.
‘Ilford Academy in Seven Kings.’
‘I see. Do you enjoy it?’
Salma could feel the conversation slipping away, but was keen to keep the momentum going. If they parted now, it would surely make things more awkward the next time they met. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s especially nice in August.’ She laughed at her joke but it came out forced and hollow. She didn’t understand why she was being this way. She was normally poised and confident, perfectly versed in small talk. She reached for a question but was interrupted by a woman who slid up next to Tom. Salma stared for a second. She was tall and willowy with white-blonde hair, delicate cheekbones and a tiny gap between her front teeth that seemed to only add to her charm. She held out an elegant hand.
‘Willa,’ she said. ‘Like the writer.’
Salma shook it and pretended to know which writer she meant.
‘Although pictures are more my trade,’ said Willa.
‘Oh. Are you a model?’
Willa made a snap of laughter. ‘You’re sweet but no. I paint sometimes. Mainly, I run our home.’
‘Oh, sorry. You look like you could be,’ said Salma. ‘You must get that all the time.’
Willa rolled her eyes. ‘Thank you, but it’s fucking embarrassing. I’m like an Aryan wet dream.’
Salma nearly spat out her lemonade. She couldn’t tell if Willa was simply outspoken or if she actually rather enjoyed Salma’s display of shock. She looked across at Tom, who didn’t react, only slid an arm around Willa’s waist. Salma cleared her throat. ‘How did you both meet?’ she asked, steering them into safer territory.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Tom. ‘How did a brute like me end up with a girl like her?’
‘Tom used to be a firefighter,’ Willa cut in. ‘Believe it or not, he ran into a burning building and saved me. I was twenty-one. He was twenty-seven and that was that.’
Salma looked from one to the other. ‘That can’t be true!’
Willa gazed at Tom adoringly. ‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Oh my god. That’s incredible.’
Willa burst out laughing. ‘I’m just fucking with you!’
Salma grew still. Then, she smiled and pretended to be in on the joke.
‘Of course that’s not what happened,’ said Willa, ‘but the real story is almost as cute.’
Salma waited but Willa was speaking to Tom now.
‘Do you remember how you chased me for months? Sending me flowers and chocolates. God, wasn’t there even that H. Samuel bracelet?’
Tom looked at Salma sheepishly. ‘Willa’s family are rich,’ he explained. ‘So here I am sending her Milk Tray and a five quid bunch of flowers while she’s used to’ – he looked over at her – ‘what’s that poncey brand you like?’
‘Charbonnel et Walker,’ she said smoothly, then turned back to Salma. ‘He wasn’t a firefighter but…’ She winked. ‘He did let me ride his pole.’
Salma chuckled politely. She, like most people, did a subconscious thing when she met someone new. She assessed whether they were part of her ‘tribe’. Tom and Willa with their strange, abrasive humour were far too different to her. Normally, Salma wouldn’t mind and simply get on with her day, but this was a new neighbourhood and she had to make an effort. ‘You mentioned that you run the home,’ she said to Willa. ‘Do you have kids?’
‘Yes. A son, Jamie. He’s sixteen.’ She must have caught Salma’s surprise because she added, ‘I had him young; at twenty-two.’
Salma calculated that Willa was thirty-eight, five years younger than her. ‘That works out well for me,’ she said. ‘My son, Zain, is eighteen and I’m sure he’d love to meet Jamie.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Willa. ‘Jamie needs to make a few friends.’
They talked for a while longer and Salma scanned the crowd for Bil. She saw that he was cornered by Linda and excused herself to join them.
‘What is that delicious nutty flavour in the potato salad?’ Linda was asking.
‘Fried pine nuts,’ said Salma.
‘Ah, well, thank you for indulging us. For reference, I can handle my spice so if you ever want to bring something with a bit more zing, you’d be more than welcome to.’
Salma smiled. ‘Of course. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Linda clapped her hands, twice like an excited child. ‘I look forward to it.’ She glanced over Salma’s shoulder. ‘Well, I should mingle. Please help yourself to the food and drink. There’s so much to get through.’ She beamed and then left in a cloud of activity.
Bil looked at Salma. ‘How long do you reckon before we can leave?’
‘Stop it,’ she chided. ‘We have to make an effort.’ She fixed on a fresh smile and led him back to the fray.
Salma felt herself uncoil, the tension leaving her muscles as soon as they left the barbecue. Blenheim looked uncanny without any streetlamps. The council insisted that lights would spoil the character of the local area, leaving it eerily dark. Bil caught her hand in his and they headed home in silence, needing total privacy before they could fully relax. Zain walked on ahead and left their front door open for them. Salma crossed the blue-black lawn, which was still a consistent one-inch tall. Their neighbour Tom had mowed it while the house was being sold. Salma kicked a few pebbles back onto the path and retrieved a palm-sized banner from the ground that Zain had stuck in a plant pot. She dug it back in place and followed Bil inside. She closed the door and sagged against it.
Bil laughed. ‘You okay?’
‘Do you think I should take Linda some naga next time?’ she asked archly.
‘Well, she did say she can handle her spice.’
Salma covered her face and groaned.
‘It’s okay,’ said Bil more seriously. ‘It was just a lot in one go.’
