Safe and Sound Read online

  PHILIPPA EAST grew up in Scotland and originally studied Psychology and Philosophy at the University of Oxford. After graduating, she moved to London to train as a Clinical Psychologist and worked in NHS mental health services for over ten years.

  Philippa now lives in the Lincolnshire countryside with her husband and cat. Alongside her writing, she continues to work as a psychologist and therapist. Philippa’s prize-winning short stories have been published in various literary journals. Her first novel Little White Lies was published in 2020 and was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger. Safe and Sound is her second novel.

  Also by Philippa East

  Little White Lies

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Philippa East 2021

  Philippa East 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 © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008344054

  Version 2020-12-26

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008344047

  For my sister, Katherine

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Chapter 1

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Last night, I began to worry about Charlie again.

  An appointment letter arrived yesterday, blue and white logo at the top. Maybe it was because of that letter that I lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him. Replaying every one of his actions and movements from the week, checking them in the slow motion of my mind. Did his speech ever slur, did his thinking seem confused or slow, did his emotions wander out of control? I went over it again and again, trying to assess him, and myself, feeling the tightness take hold of my ribs.

  This morning, though, in the bright light of day, Charlie seemed absolutely fine. His chatter over breakfast was so clear and clever, and when I got him to reel off everything I’d packed into his schoolbag – my own tiny, reassuring test – he didn’t miss a single thing. I kissed him well done, feeling ridiculous for worrying.

  But even now, as I hurry down the hill from his primary school, I can’t quite seem to make the thoughts go away.

  When I reach the office, Emma is at her desk, her pretty face smiling up at me.

  ‘Morning!’ she says, and then a beat later: ‘Good weekend?’

  It’s like throwing a switch. I feel my back straighten; I automatically lift my chin up. I smile back at Emma, though my lips still feel numb from the February cold. Arriving at work each morning, it’s like another version of myself that I shift into: my professional role, my competent self. Even my speech comes out a little bit different.

  ‘Oh yes. It was, thank you,’ I reply. Even though it was just me and Charlie, the way it always is; the way I tend to keep it. Even though nothing happened but my worries. ‘How was yours?’ My tone is polite, clipped.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she says, glancing down at her smartphone and up again. ‘Busy! I always feel like I need Mondays off, just to recover.’ She gives a little laugh.

  I nod, as though I know what she means.

  ‘I made you tea,’ Emma adds, pointing to my desk. A full mug sits there, still steaming despite the cold; it takes a while for the heating to warm up in this old building.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’ When I get this way – worries in the night – I try to avoid caffeine, but Emma isn’t to know that, how could she? I sit down at my desk and wrap my hands round the mug at least, enjoying the heat of it. The room is still chilly and I keep my smart wool coat on while I switch on my computer and open up the files, the allocation that it’s my job every day to check.

  My list of tasks for this week is clearly set out, little tabs with my name against each one; such a sense of order it brings. A whole framework to contain the day, predictable tasks that fill my head with to-do lists and give so little room for other thoughts. The radiator behind me clicks and gurgles as I pull out my notebook to write out a plan, following the careful system I have, my way of doing each little thing. The Housing Association I work for is a big organization now. We took over from the local authority last year; maybe took on more than we could handle. I’ve learned the hard way how chaotic this job can potentially get, with all the situations that can arise and the million ways that things can go wrong. But I know I’m good at keeping things running. Most of the time. Ninety-nine per cent of the time.

  Outside, on the main staircase, there’s the clatter of feet on the laminate flooring and snippets of voices: other people from other offices arriving for their own jobs on other floors, co-workers I rarely see and almost never interact with. Emma pushes herself back from her desk, and drains the last mouthful of tea from her mug. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Well, I’m off out – electrician at Trinity Court.’ She leaves her desk covered with bits of paper and open files; it’s always like that, even over the weekend. I have to fight the urge to tidy. I feel a little more at ease once she’s gone. It’s harder when she’s here; I feel more conscious of how I speak, how I look, keeping up the good impression. I suppose I sh
ould be able to let my guard down by now, and maybe I would if she and I were closer. We’re a similar age so there’s no real reason we shouldn’t be friends; she’s worked here with me for six months at least. It just isn’t like that though.

  I look again at my notes for today, unable this time to ignore the unpleasant task that I tried not to think about all weekend, ever since I booked the bailiffs last week. I flip through the folders in my drawer and find the right file, then pull the corresponding notes up on the computer. I triple-check to make absolutely sure there isn’t a step we’ve missed, a reason to allow just a little more leeway, but there isn’t. So I’ll just have to go ahead.

  It isn’t an unusual occurrence, a tenant falling behind with their rent or some other payment. We get such a mix of people in the block. I push my chair back over the scuffed carpet – a faded shade of green – and head through to where my boss Abayomi sits next door. I heard him talking on the phone when I came in, his low voice with its rolling accent floating into the corridor.

  Now I knock neatly on his half-open door. My door is always open, he tells us. He looks up from his desk, with its usual collection of used coffee mugs, his face so open, so non-judgemental that it’s almost expressionless.

  ‘Morning, Jenn.’ His cheeks lever upwards as he smiles. ‘All set for the day?’

  I’ve always liked that about him. We don’t talk about emotional or personal topics; we stay focused on the work and the tasks at hand. He is very practical, very pragmatic. I wouldn’t like to have a boss who was always asking how I am, wanting to get to know about me outside of work, always considering the ways I might feel. Abayomi keeps things simple. Tight and professional. It feels much safer to me that way.

  ‘I’m going to meet the bailiffs at nine thirty,’ I remind him. ‘Flat sixteen, Munroe House. Emma is out on visits too, so there won’t be anyone in the office to answer the phone.’

  ‘Okay, no problem, I can keep an ear out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Hopefully, I won’t be long.’

  Abayomi rubs at the stubble on his chin. He always looks a bit weary when he first gets in; I think maybe he does a school run, like me, or he has a complicated commute, or maybe he’s just not much of a morning person. I’ve never asked him about it. He certainly drinks a lot of coffee.

  ‘How many months in arrears is the tenant?’ he asks.

  I check the summary that I printed out towards the end of last week, when I realized we were going to have to do something. We had already sent plenty of warning letters. ‘Three months,’ I tell him.

  The printout has all the details – quite precise evidence. Abayomi nods when I hold it out to him, his sign of approval, and even though it’s silly really, a bit pathetic, it gives me a warm feeling just seeing that. There was a period a little while back when I was having some problems with Charlie, and I know I got behind and became disorganized, and since then I’ve tried harder than ever to be careful and on top of things. My relationship with Abayomi – our working relationship – means a lot to me. I know he thinks highly of me professionally, and I often have to hold on to that at times when I’m not so sure of myself; I suppose quite a lot of my self-esteem, self-worth, whatever you might call it, is tied up with it. Even last year, I never let him see me slip up. I still managed to come in every day, turn up on time, be smartly dressed, make the switch. Abayomi never knew how bad it got; I didn’t tell him and he didn’t ask, and I’m on top of it now so there’s no need to mention anything.

  I check the clock above his head. ‘I’d better head off.’

  ‘Good luck,’ he says, his cheeks lifting again as he smiles. ‘I’ve every faith in you.’

  It’s 9.20 a.m. now, and back in my own office I check that I have everything I need: the file and its printout, my work mobile that has only work numbers on it, and the master key which will open up the flat, if we need. I even have my coat on already, and yet I somehow don’t feel able to head straight out. Instead I duck into the staff toilets to check myself in the mirror. It’s me in the glass, of course it is, but this morning, the lines of my reflection seem a fraction out of place; when I move, I have the sense that my reflection moves a millisecond too late. It’s fatigue, I tell myself, all that worrying that kept you up and the fact that it was all such a rush this morning. I run the tap, and bend to splash water round my eyes and cool the pouched, raw feeling of lack of sleep. In my handbag I have make-up, things I can use to tidy myself back up. My tube of mascara is running low – I have to push the brush down hard to the bottom – but I get enough to stiffen my lashes and my eyes look brighter after that. I check myself in the mirror again, catching the stray hairs that came loose in the wind and pushing them back into the tight elastic band at the crown of my head. Once that’s done, I look all right, I think. Smart and meticulous. My normal professional self.

  Even so, my stomach tightens as I head out of the office. I don’t like this part of my job, I never have: stepping in when people’s lives have gone so wrong, seeing all the mess and muddle that they’ve made. I want to help. In my job, all I’m trying to do is make people safe: getting a roof over their heads; space, security, warmth. I suppose, in a way, it scares me a bit, knowing how easily things can go wrong. How everything might fall apart without you being able to do anything about it.

  Outside, I head up the road that rises towards Streatham. Our offices are above a row of shops on Brixton High Street, and the block that we manage is at the bottom of Brixton Hill. Brixton is loud and bright and chaotic: trains on the bridge, buses pushing along the wide road and the pedestrian traffic lights blipping and beeping. The shapes and sounds jangle together, and there’s a smell in the air, like scorched tyres. In the street behind me, someone is shouting and I can’t tell whether it’s in excitement or anger, but I don’t look. Most times, it’s best not to get involved.

  It’s better once I get up to the Ritzy Cinema; the space outside here is open and welcoming, with that tree that makes a little canopy with its branches. I’d like to sit down in one of the friendly outdoor seats for a moment and wait until my stomach doesn’t feel so tight, but of course there isn’t time and anyway the green man at the crossing is flashing so instead I just hurry across the road.

  Brixton has got a lot fancier since I came here four years ago, gentrifying in the way people have been predicting for ages. There are more white people now in these neighbourhoods, the kind who eat brunch in Brixton Market and drink flat whites in Café F. I live in a flat halfway up Brixton Hill, ex-local authority and still only affordable because of the deposits that arrive in my bank account every three months. I don’t think I could keep living in London otherwise.

  When I reach the block, I have to double-check my notes to recall which staircase flat sixteen is on: bottom of staircase B. These flats near the bottom of Brixton Hill aren’t the only ones we manage. There’s another block on Effra Road, and another one that we’ve just taken on from the council on the road that runs from Brixton to Stockwell. The more buildings we take on, the more tenants we have, to the point where there’s a danger of them becoming anonymous, less like individuals and more just another number on a spreadsheet.

  Outside Munroe House, there are pigeons scuffling around and loose feathers are stuck to the paving slabs leading up to the door. It doesn’t matter how often we get bits repaired and the paintwork redone on this block, it always seems to look more run-down than I want it to. At the main doors to staircase B, I let myself in with the security code, punching it into the brand-new system we got installed at the end of last year. It’s one of the most secure I’ve ever seen. There is a back entrance to the block too which leads out onto a little grassy area, and you can get to it from the street via an alleyway that runs up the side of the block. Flat sixteen, if I remember rightly, faces out towards the back.

  It’s 9.29 now. I close my eyes and take a few careful breaths while I wait in the cramped lobby for the bailiffs to arrive. The handful of other times I’ve
done this, the bailiffs were always punctual, and when I open my eyes a few seconds later, I see them, pushing through the wind. I open the entrance door for them, from the inside, and let them into the building.

  They are both quite a bit bigger than me. The thick-set, bald one I recognize. His partner looks younger and has a plain, kind face. Not for the first time I wonder how they ended up in this job. And how it feels to do this kind of work, day in, day out.

  I introduce myself – I’m Jennifer Arden – and shake hands with them both. I’m careful to make good eye contact, use a firm grip, something I’ve perfected, over time.

  ‘Flat sixteen is right here,’ I say as we head into the building proper. My speech is perfectly articulated, every word pronounced properly. There are three staircases in the whole block: A, B and C, with fifteen flats off each. Except here, in staircase B, there’s a funny extra flat, tucked away on the ground floor, number sixteen. The door to it is sort of hidden under the stairs so you could quite easily miss it.

  The bailiff with the kind face takes a deep breath and knocks hard on the door. ‘Ms Jones? Ms Jones, we are here about your unpaid rent.’

  Before I started in this job, I used to picture bailiffs bashing in people’s doors and dragging furniture out into the street. Of course, it isn’t like that. We’ve sent this tenant a letter to let her know we’re coming. All we want today is to ensure Ms Jones knows about her debts. That’s why I’m here. Hopefully, I can agree a payment plan with her, something to bring her out of this mess.

  The bailiff knocks again, thump thump.

  I think I can make out voices coming from inside, but as I lean closer I hear someone saying Capital FM!, and I realize it’s just the radio playing. A song comes on a moment later: ‘Everywhere’ by Fleetwood Mac. If the radio is on though, I can be pretty sure she’s in there. We’ll keep knocking and hope that eventually she will come to the door, even if she doesn’t open it. She has a right not to open it to us, but I really hope we can speak to her today. That way I have a chance to help. We can let things go for a while – the longest I can remember was four months – but we can’t just let it go on for ever. Ms Jones is already three months behind. We’ve sent half a dozen letters, but she didn’t reply to any of them, so now it’s come to this. If we can’t arrange some kind of payment schedule today, the next step is an eviction notice and I would really hate it to come to that.