Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

isn’t working. I rap on the door instead and listen to the sound of someone stirring within. A few seconds later, a flabby-looking middle-aged man with a shock of wild grey hair and a prominent, round belly emerges from the gloom, blinking at me as if he hasn’t seen daylight in years.

I plaster a smile on my face. ‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘Are you Mr Foster?’

‘That’s right, Doug Foster,’ he nods slowly and my heart leaps to my mouth. My knees start trembling and I steady myself by leaning against the doorjamb. I was right. Daisy Foster lived in this house. This must be her father. He is the right age – in his late fifties, at a rough guess.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m Amanda Potter, from Cooper estate agents.’ I hold out my hand. It’s only shaking a little. I’m getting used to lying.

‘Oh yeah?’ he picks at his teeth and stares at me. There’s something not entirely friendly in that look, but there’s no sign of recognition, nothing but a faint, generalised hostility. I take a deep, shaky breath. It’s okay, I think. He has no idea who you are.

‘We’re doing free valuations of properties in the area and I was just wondering if you would like to take advantage of the opportunity,’ I continue. I’m breezy and professional. My voice sounds alien to me.

‘Not really, thank you very much.’ He starts to close the door.

‘The market is really hot just now,’ I continue glibly. ‘Did you know, for example, that a house in this area, similar to yours, sold for over five hundred thousand pounds just last month?’

That’s it. I’ve got him. I can see the glimmer of greed in his eyes.

‘Five hundred thousand?’ he says slowly. He hesitates only for a second. Then he stands back. ‘You’d better come in.’

Entering the house is like disturbing the dank, dark underside of a rock. The curtains are drawn in the living room and it smells strongly of cigarette smoke, damp and something else, something pungent and foul – maybe cat pee. I’m guessing that no one has cleaned in here properly for a while. There’s a thick layer of dust on everything and there are overflowing ashtrays and unwashed dishes and mugs strewn around the place. I fight a desperate urge to pull back the curtains and open a window to let in some air.

‘How long have you lived here exactly?’ I ask, looking around pretending to examine the fireplace and running my fingers over the grimy tiles.

He gives a loud hacking cough – the cough of a lifelong smoker. ‘Oh, a long time. I moved here when I married. So about twenty-five years.’

I look around. There’s no sign of anyone else. Everything about the place speaks of a drab, lonely existence. ‘And your wife? Is she here today?’

His eyes cloud over. ‘Nope. There was an accident. She’s gone. Gone to a better place . . .’ he tails off.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say inadequately. How much bad luck can one family have?

He shrugs.

‘This fireplace is really a nice feature,’ I say, stooping over to move a dead plant out of the way. I wonder when his wife died. It’s no surprise he seems so bitter. Who wouldn’t be, having to deal with so much loss?

I wipe at some of the dirt. ‘These tiles are gorgeous. Is there a reason why you’ve never moved?’

‘Not really.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I suppose there are a lot of memories here. I’ve grown attached to the place.’

I inhale sharply, stifling a gasp, because at that moment, I notice a dusty photograph in a frame on the mantelpiece. It’s of three children in the garden; two girls and a boy. The eldest, a boy of about nine or ten, is holding a football, while two small girls are in the paddling pool in their swimming costumes. It’s the youngest, lying on her belly holding on to the edge of the paddling pool that catches my eye. She’s smiling up at the camera. Her blonde hair is wet and sticking to her head. Two of her front teeth are missing. She looks shy and sweet.

Daisy Foster.

The photo must have been taken not long before she died – just before I killed her.

‘My kids,’ he says, following the direction of my gaze. His eyes glaze over. ‘One of them died when she was just a baby, and I hardly ever see the other two. They grew up and they don’t come and see me any more. Think they’re too good for their old dad.’

I can’t speak. I feel as if the room is folding in on itself, like a bad trip. I try to think of an appropriate response.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say inadequately.

‘Yeah, well, that’s life.’

‘Mm,’ I agree vaguely. ‘How many bedrooms have you got?’ I ask, trying to turn the conversation around. If he starts talking about Daisy, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it. I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself. I might just throw myself at his feet and beg his forgiveness.

‘Three,’ he answers. ‘Do you want to see them?’

‘Sure.’

I follow him upstairs. I don’t feel afraid of him any more. Just desperately sad and guilty. This man has every reason to hate me, but I’m almost certain he doesn’t know who I am. And if he wanted to hurt me, he would have done something by now. Anyway, noticing his slight limp and the way he wheezes and coughs as he climbs the stairs, I’m sure if it came to it, I could take him in a fight.

The first bedroom is being used as a storage room and the small bunk bed is hidden under a pile of boxes. On the dresser there’s a collection of semi-precious stones and shells, a shabby-looking dolls’ house and an unopened box of Sylvanian Families. This must have been the bedroom Daisy shared with her sister. I close the door quickly. I don’t want to look at the small, sad evidence of her short existence. The second room, I’m