Today is my stop on the blogtour for The Woman Downstairs by Elizabeth Carpenter, thank you to Tracy at Compulsive Readers for organising it.
Synopsis: Can you ever really know your neighbours?
When human remains are found in a ground floor flat, the residents of Nelson Heights are shocked to learn that there was a dead body in their building for over three years.
Sarah lives at the flat above and after the remains are found, she feels threatened by a stranger hanging around the building.
Laura has lived in the building for as long as she can remember, caring for her elderly father, though there is more to her story than she is letting on.
As the investigation starts to heat up, and the two women become more involved, it’s clear that someone isn’t telling the truth about what went on all those years ago…
Extract: Prologue
She knocks on the door three times, but there’s no reply.
That’s not unusual; it’s just before six in the morning.
This is the best time to catch people at home – not yet
awake, not at work, not off their faces on drink or drugs
(not generally, anyway).
Her colleague taps the window with the knuckle of
his index finger. There’s a glow from the television in
the gap between the curtains, but there’s no movement
or sound from inside.
‘Think we’d better get Doris to work,’ she says, picking
up the door enforcer.
It takes her two smacks of the battering ram for the
door to give way. There’s resistance from the other side.
He pushes the door harder. It doesn’t budge.
‘Want some help there?’ she says, laughing.
‘Fuck off,’ he says, as a droplet of sweat runs down
his left temple.
She puts both her hands on the door at waist height,
standing on tiptoes as she pushes.
Slowly, it opens.
The mountain of mail is almost a third of the height
of the door.
‘Shit,’ he says, treading over the pile. ‘It looks like no
one’s opened this door in years.’
‘Or someone’s made it look like that,’ she says, following
him inside.
‘How would they have done that? Jumped out of the
window afterwards?’
‘Just an idea.’ She shrugs. ‘But we’re not paid for our
ideas, are we?’
‘It’s only council tax arrears,’ he says. ‘It’s not like
we’re searching for drugs.’
She sniffs the air. ‘It’s a bit musty in here . . . a really
weird sweet smell . . . like a rubbish dump.’
‘Weird,’ he says, opening the door to one of the bedrooms.
‘It’s pretty tidy so far.’
There are photos on the hallway wall. Various framed
pictures of the same couple. In most of them, they’re
smiling.
She follows him into the kitchen.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, walking over to the sink.
There’s a bowl of unwashed dishes covered in cobwebs
– the mould has decayed into dust. A plastic milk
bottle stands on the counter. He picks it up, giving it a
shake; it sounds as though rocks are inside.
‘What’s the date on the bottle?’ she says, looking
around the tiny kitchen.
The clock has stopped on a quarter to twelve; the
shelves above the fridge are also draped in thick cobwebs.
‘Twenty-fourth of March,’ he says, leaning towards
the window for light. ‘Two thousand and seventeen.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘How could this place have
been empty for so long?’
He shrugs.
‘I’m going for a look around.’
She ducks her head around the door to a small bathroom.
There are bottles of shampoo and shower gel on
the window sill. The first bedroom is neat, tidy. The
double bed has a navy throw tucked in with hospital
corners. The second bedroom has shoes and women’s
clothes littered on the floor. A sparkly dress hangs on a
metal coat hanger from the curtain rail.
‘In here!’ he shouts from another room.
She recognises the panic in his voice – they’ve
worked together for three years.
‘Though I don’t think they’re going anywhere,’ he
says as she reaches the doorway to the living room.
Lying on the sofa, facing the television, is a body.
Not much of it is left. The face, arms and hands are little
more than skeletal remains. A shroud of black is stained
on the sofa around it.
She drops to the floor, her hand covering her nose
and her mouth.
‘Is it a man or a woman?’ she says, almost breathless.
She wants to be at home, shower the death from her
skin; breathe in the fresh air and be free from the decay
in this flat.
That’s what the smell was: decay.
‘I don’t know,’ he says quietly. ‘I can’t tell from the
clothes.’ He takes out his phone. ‘Police, please.’
She looks around the living room. On the coffee table
are two wine glasses stained red at the bottom. On the
floor, near the settee – inches from the corpse’s dangling
hand – are three wrapped presents.
She glances at the body again.
Its face is lit by the glow of the snow on the soundless
television.
A face that couldn’t be seen from the gap between
the curtains.
A face that nobody has missed for almost two years.
prdgreads 