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‘No, not at all,’ she says. ‘I guess that makes sense why he’s selling it. How long ago was this?’
‘February the first, two years back. I remember the date because Man U were losing 5-2 to Man City. Gutted, absolutely gutted. Anyway, it’s a shame, because before she died, he was right in the middle of renovating it for her. I don’t know if he ever finished it though. Were there pictures of it on Rightmove, then?’
‘Just a few. He’s lucky to have you keeping an eye on it.’
‘I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Probably back on the rigs again. But you can come in and have a look around in mine if you like. It’s got the same layout, same lounge. Same bedroom.’ I flash her a smile. She knows what I’m saying and I can tell she’s interested, but with the worst possible timing, I feel a warm liquid trickling down the inside of my T-shirt. Ruben’s vommed again, cockblocking me.
‘Another time,’ she says, ‘when your hands aren’t so full.’
CHAPTER 40
CONNIE
I reach into the canvas backpack and fumble my way around until my fingers find the bolt cutters. Soon after, the shank of the padlock attached to Paul’s gate snaps in two and falls to the cobbled floor below me.
I scan the alleyway to make sure, as best I can, that nobody’s watching me through the darkness. Terraced houses overlook me, and while it’s still dark out here, I can’t be certain I’ve not been spotted by an early riser. When nothing rouses my suspicion, I make my move. Opening the gate, I slip into the paved courtyard of Paul’s garden, closing it quickly and using the torch on my phone to light my way.
It was two days ago when I was last here and Paul’s lecherous prick of a neighbour told me about Sue, the woman before Gwen, who Paul pretended to be the son of. She also died following a fall down a staircase. I wonder how Paul met her, because she wasn’t listed in Help for Homes’ records. The more I learn of him, the more he repels but fascinates me. Help for Homes believes he’s a charity worker who assists in drought-plagued African countries.His neighbours think he works on the oil rigs, and he told me he works on train line repairs. He spins stories like an end-of-the-pier entertainer spins plates.
I checked online with the Land Registry and discovered that Paul Fernsby owns this house. This Sue woman must have left it to him in her will. My mind whirrs with questions. Why hasn’t he sold it, when she’s been dead for two years? He couldn’t wait to put Gwen’s place on the market. And why did he pretend to be Sue’s son? Was it less effort than marrying her? Maybe that’s how he saw through my relationship with Gwen, because he’d done exactly the same thing two years earlier with Sue.
Since the pub closed, I’ve spent much of the night wandering the streets and returning often to pass Paul’s house and triple-check he’s not returned. Now that I’m sure he hasn’t, I get to work. His rear door is one of those modern, composite designs and way beyond my skill set to break into. But Lady Luck must be smiling upon me because the windows are not. He has yet to replace the single-pane aluminium windows that were popular in the eighties before uPVC fell into favour. I’m back to rooting around in my backpack until I locate the screwdriver. I use it to prise off the metal strip and beading around the window. Next I slip on a pair of latex gloves so I don’t leave any fingerprints. Then, with light force, I insert the screwdriver between the glass and the frame. I gently lever the glass from its mounting. It weighs little and is only about half a metre square, so I place it on the ground. If Rosella could see me now, she’d be proud.
She was a girlfriend my mother had briefly back in the day: a tough-nut traveller who’d been cast out of her disapproving family, and later found herself behind bars and sharing a cell with Caz. I was thirteen when she came into my life. We bonded as she taught me how to burgle people’s homes with her. Now, almost thirty years later, I have reason to again use those skills. I clockthe houses around me one last time before I climb inside, reach a kitchen worktop and lower myself to the floor. I close the blind and illuminate the room with my phone. I’m in the belly of the beast.
The kitchen is small but with modern cupboards and appliances. The fridge is empty but the freezer contains a quarter-full bottle of vodka and a plastic box with four thick slices of unidentifiable pink meat. The cupboards contain only tinned foods. I assume he doesn’t stay here much.
The kitchen leads into a dining room and lounge that have been knocked into one open-plan room. Both are in a state of flux. The dining room has been fitted with a modern, plain carpet but the one in the lounge is patterned and unfashionable. There’s an old, 1970s-style gas fire in the lounge, but a log burner in the dining room. I shine the light against the walls. Half have been wallpapered and the rest are a dated pinky-peach emulsion. He’s basically replicating everything he did at Gwen’s house, here. Or maybe it’s the other way round.
I begin the task in hand, to learn everything I can about the enemy before I bring him down. There’s nothing in the cupboards built on either side of the chimney breast save for one framed photograph. In it, and sitting next to Paul, is an elderly woman I assume to be Sue. Her expression vacant, her eyes milky. She reminds me in part of Gwen. Neither is smiling and I wonder why he has gone to the trouble of framing it.
Next, a door under the staircase leads to a cellar. I gingerly venture partway down the stairs, shining my light to find it’s empty, apart from a few paint pots, brushes and a ladder.
I head upstairs, and in the smallest of the three bedrooms I find at least a dozen cardboard boxes and files packed with paperwork. This is more like it.
The sun’s early morning rays begin to light up the room so I turn off the torch. I’m still wearing my gloves and I’m carefulto keep everything in order so Paul remains unaware that I’ve breached his privacy. But a good hour passes before anything of interest appears. It’s a box crammed with handwritten letters, notes and poems. They’re in envelopes and addressed to names I recognise of women Paul was paired with by Help for Homes. One by one I read them and find they fall into a rigid pattern. He tells each woman how much he has been thinking about them and how he’s developing feelings for them, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He tells them that he can’t wait to see them again, how he loves the time they spend together, that their age difference doesn’t matter and how he only wants to be with them. Three of the letters are word-for-word identical, but addressed to different names.
I assume the written word is more powerful to these women than if he just told them how he felt. A conversation can be forgotten, particularly with their conditions. But a letter can be read, re-read and pored over. It helps Paul to remain inside their heads even when they’re apart, be it for a night or a few days. And the way he coos over them, it’s not hard to understand why they fall for the attention. Most have likely been widowed for years and miss being the object of someone’s affection. And in their vulnerable, confused state, they truly believe that in Paul, they have a second chance at love. I only realise I’m crying for them when a tear lands on a page and blurs the ink. I wonder why he’s kept these letters. Does he re-read them? Are they his version of trophies? Or is it out of a twisted sentimentality?
There are more names here than the four women I think he killed before Gwen. I cross-check them again with a photo I took of the document with the names of all the women he was paired with by the charity over the years. They’re all on here. Some are still alive and others died of natural causes. But these documents prove he tried to edge his way into their lives. I can only guess that theydidn’t fall for his charms, or they had family who stopped him in his tracks. However, I can’t find any letters to or from Sue.
A brown padded envelope contains more paperwork. Inside are three marriage certificates for Eliza Holmes, Lucy Holden and Alice McKenzie. The envelope also contains different passports and driving licences using different surnames along with receipts for deed-poll name changes.
The contents of a shoebox slide about when I pick it up. I open the lid and scowl at three transparent tubs, each containing false teeth. The name of each woman is written on a lid in marker pen. The box also contains five old mobile phones. Two won’t turn on but three do; in fact their batteries are almost full, which suggests Paul still uses them. None require a code to access the contents.
Each phone only contains images of him and the woman he gave that particular device to. Some are selfies taken on days out to the countryside or for lunch somewhere; others were taken in what I assume to be their gardens or houses. And what’s this? Huh. He’s only gone and taken every woman to Clacton-on-Sea, hasn’t he? There are photos of him with Eliza on the beach and others with Lucy, eating fish and chips on the pier. I bet he planted the seed of that trip in Gwen’s head.
There’s something else that all these women have in common, I realise. They are all wearing the same gold band around their wedding ring finger. Among Paul’s stuff I spot a small, crushed velvet ring box. I open it up and guess what I find? One after the other, each woman wore her predecessor’s band. I snap the box shut.
Buried under a pile of clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe are two boxes of medication, both in plain packaging without a name attached to them. However, the tablets themselves have the word ‘Omixinol’ embossed on the back. A quick online search reveals it’s a psychoactive substance that’s illegal to possess without a licence. I’m as sure as God made little apples that Paul doesn’t haveone of those. And according to the Royal College of Pathologists’ website, ‘It is not part of routine screening so would only be identified in a toxicology report if the compound used to create it was specifically targeted.’
I press my back against the wall as I slot the pieces together. These meds explain Gwen’s sudden psychotic episodes, her attack on me, and perhaps even why she ‘fell’ down the stairs the night she died. Paul had been drugging her like he had the wives before her. And this medication wouldn’t have appeared in toxicology reports because there was no reason to look for it.
A yawn catches me unawares but I plough on. There’s very little of interest for the next hour or so until the contents of another envelope raise my eyebrows. Inside are receipts from a nursing home in Oxfordshire. The account is registered in Paul Fernsby’s name, but it’s the name of the patient he is paying for that takes my attention.
Sue Fernsby.
Didn’t Paul’s creepy neighbour tell me she’d died? Yes, he was sure of it, in fact he remembered the date clearly – 1 February, two years ago – because it was the night he watched a memorable football match. This invoice says Paul was charged for the use of a private ambulance to take her to an Oxfordshire nursing home in the early hours of the next morning. And according to others, including one issued last month, he is still paying for a room for her there.
