Free The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller by Betsy Reavley Page B

grateful because that makes my job a whole lot easier.
    Lookin’ around me to make sure no one is about, I go up to one of the windows on the ground floor. I can see dirty plates in the sink and discarded takeaway pizza boxes and empty beer cans on the kitchen table. This is definitely not her place so I move on to the next window. The curtains are pulled but there is a gap enough for me to see a bed inside that has Spurs football sheets on it. Again, definitely not hers. I spit on the window and move on - Gunners all the way.
    I move to the other end of the buildin’ and start at the window there. It’s a kitchen again but very different to the first. It’s neat and tidy. There is a lace tablecloth on the table and a little vase of fake flowers sit in the middle. The sink is spotless and shinin’. Whoever lives here take pride in their surroundin’s. On the wall, I can see a calendar hangin’. Upon closer inspection, I can see her handwritin’ in the boxes. Bingo.
    I go back to the front of the buildin’ and approach the front door. It’s got a security code lock on the door. I kick the ground and curse. Gettin’ in isn’t going to be so easy, after all.
    The rain is comin’ down hard now, peltin’ the pavement with relentless force. Large puddles are formin’ on the ground and my feet inside my boots are startin’ to feel damp. Bloody weather.
    But then a flash of a memory of bein’ in Gloucestershire comes back to me, and I smile. Recollection of my vengeance gives me a rush and I feel a stirrin’ in my groin. With the rain comes bloody violence – the place where I exist, in between the shadows.
    It suddenly occurs to me that the rain might be my accomplice. The noise of the torrent could be enough to muffle the sound of breakin’ glass.
    I dash round to the back of the buildin’ and after havin’ a good look around, I push my elbow hard into the window crackin’ it in several places. Then I remove my crowbar from my rucksack and push the glass in. It shatters all over the work surface in her kitchen. I hope she cuts herself when she has to clean it up. Puttin’ on gloves, I reach in through the hole and open the window properly before jumpin’ up and climbin’ in.
    The kitchen smells strongly of bleach, a bit like a hospital. Sterile. I move quickly, openin’ all the drawers, rummagin’ through the cupboards. In one cupboard, I find cans of food ordered neatly next to flour and pasta. The one next to it holds plain white plates and bowls. Casually, I take them out and let them drop on the floor, crackin’.
    Next, I open the fridge and inspect what’s inside. It’s very bare. An iceberg lettuce sits lonely in the veg drawer. On the lower shelf is a box of eggs, a pint of milk and some cheese. The next shelf has a Tupperware box containin’ somethin’ that looks like cottage pie. I open it and taste a mouthful. The bitch can’t cook. It needs salt. I empty the contents onto the floor and push it around with my foot. I need this break in to look like dumb kids, or fools on crack.
    In the door of the fridge is a carton of orange juice. I take the lid off and drink the contents. It’s cold and sweet and tastes good. Throwin’ the empty carton onto the floor, I decide to go and explore the next room.
    Her livin’ room has as much personality as a wet flannel. Strangely enough, the smell reminds me of one. It’s damp in here. The sofa is a small two-seater covered in brown Draylon fabric. The sort of thing a Nanna might have. It’s ugly as fuck. An old fashion TV is in the corner of the room. It looks like it should be covered in dust but it isn’t. I wipe my finger along the top to check.
    The room is bare. The only decoration is a small vase of fake flowers in the netted window and a small wooden crucifix hangin’ on the wall. No dust on that neither.
    I go to the G-plan coffee table and pick up the sewin’ left lying there. She’s been doin’ some embroidery. Lots of different